He notices it, of course, the way that her answer comes back very nearly as snappish as his had been. He knows, too, what it means, even if it doesn't do his concern any good. Neither of them know quite what it is that's been running rampant through the station - even the medical staff don't entirely know, last he'd heard - and given their unique biologies this is something that is not particular comforting. Especially because it means that neither of them have any real idea if this is the sort of thing that will eventually burn itself out or the sort of thing that will linger until a swift death would be more merciful.

"Actually," he counters, "I don't."

He's splitting hairs, and he knows it, but it is the truth. He never really has needed as much sleep as any of the others, not since the Source Blood had awoken the genes that had lain dormant within him. But he does come to settle gently on the edge of the bed, although there's still a sort of restlessness about him. As if he might, at any moment, spring back to his feet and go right back to his hovering and never mind that doing so isn't bringing either of them any closer to figuring out the problem at hand, much less how to deal with how their Source Blood-altered genetics might react to anything they use to try and deal with.

"I haven't for centuries."