If only because the line necessitates that they stand somewhat close beside each other, Gleb can't help but notice the way a chill runs through her, glancing over in mild concern. "Always shivering," he says, a little too quietly wry to really sound like a joke. It's hard to make light of what time they've spent together before, brief as those meetings may have been, if only because of how everything ended back there. It doesn't matter that she doesn't remember it, apparently didn't live it. He does and did, and he can't just disregard that, couldn't even if he hadn't told her about it. Some things are just more than a person should carry on their conscience.

That is not, however, why he instinctively slips off his suit jacket to rest it on her shoulders. The coat she's wearing is a beautiful thing, which he can't help but feel a little strangely about, but regardless, it doesn't exactly seem intended for weather like this. He can spare his if it means she'll be a little warmer.

The person in front of them steps aside, and both in response to her question and to the man behind the counter, he says, "Vodka soda," shrugging a moment later as he turns towards Anya as if to fend off any remark about it. It's predictable, probably, but he isn't going to stand around with a flute of champagne as so many of the people here seem to be doing tonight. It doesn't matter that he's in a different place and time; it wouldn't feel right. Fishing some money out of his pocket, he asks, "Are you getting anything?"