The noise he makes is agreeable enough, and he doesn't pull away from the brush of a leg against his own. Truth be told, the contact is kind of reassuring. Grounding, even. Nights like these he's always gone looking for company; only difference is, this time the company's found him. "Not many stars to see in London. Light pollution, you know," he answers in return. "But I've always enjoyed them all the same."

Tim reaches out for that hand, and his grip is firm enough to be polite, not so firm as to be a challenge. A friendly handshake. He's always been good at friendly. "Tim," he introduces himself. "Tell me-- d'you know Sarah Williams? Did they have her, where you're from? Nineteenth century English poet." A personal favorite, point of fact.