"Maybe," Alfred agreed pleasantly. The idea of mounting another expedition was still such a distant dream that it seemed relatively harmless to put any sort of plan whatsoever out in that realm, attached to it. It wasn't as though they were making plans for next week, after all. There were a million things between this moment, sitting on the touch and narrating through his tattoos, and that moment, which may or may not ever happen.

A part of him sort of wanted to die there, he supposed — not any time in the future, of course, and it would hardly make sense if he went back just for that — but the traditions surrounding funerals there resonated with him more than the morose English affairs he'd been involved in, with everyone dressed in black. Maybe that was just a thought that had occurred to him since he was sitting here with her, though, and realizing that since he'd returned to England, it was quite likely that no one would be able to read his story out for him, the way it was intended to be read from his tattoos.

Best to keep that to himself, though; he didn't want to get morbid when they were otherwise having such an enjoyable time. Besides, he still had a whole third of his tattoos to tell her about — and plenty of time to waste with her before his flatmate got home.