In the wake of the Moon Warp, things are... uncomfortable. The silence in their shared room, their shared bed, grows oppressive. Jack sleeps elsewhere more than he had before, and those nights are the most starkly silent. John merely pretends not to notice: those long nights lying between the pair, listening to their breathing, gives him far too much time to think.

He doesn't know how much Serph confessed. How much Jack knows. Before, he'd been privately relieved, cruel though it may be, that Jack remembered nothing of the Moon Warp— nothing of John in the shape and flaring temper of the King.

Every shower unravels his form again to curling tentacles and the damned white mask. It sours his mood every time. Better to spend more of his days hiding from himself in Arthur's stolen skin, so he showers less often and lingers close to the Convoy far more. He would not deign to call it sulking. Brooding? Perhaps.

Perhaps that's why Jack offers him the new cloak: as a kind gesture, a peace offering. A gift. John has had so few gifts in his long life that each one remains a joy, and so here he is at Jack's van, waiting eagerly for the stew to be ready while Jack goes to fetch the finished cloak.

"It smells marvelous," he says grandly, and means it. "What did you put in it?" He has been learning about ingredients.