Again, Felix glances back at him, the crease between his brows deepening subtly along with his frown. Molly is weak, and Felix isn't sure why, but the answer hits him with a jolt of alarm when he reaches up to brush the hand from his shoulder and his fingers skim the tips of the other man's.

Cold. Felix pauses, and then—quicker than human reflexes would allow—he snags Molly's wrist and flips it over in his hand, pressing his thumb into the pulse point there.

"Do you really want to know the answer to that question?" Felix asks evenly. His face is turned down toward Molly's hand, but his eyes slide upward to his face—briefly, and then away. He doesn't like making eye contact for long.

"Try casting something small. If it works, it'll work poorly. If it doesn't... prepare for bad news."