He does pause, at least, when she says she wants to talk.

"I could definitely do with a cup of tea," he says, and it's not even hyperbole - he's tired, and sore, and somehow both feverishly hot and freezing cold at the same time. He could use something grounding and familiar.

So he comes back to the front door, stabbing the shovel into the deep pile of snow still next to the stoop. "Could I ask you for one while we talk?"