John blinks at him, then looks appropriately chagrined; he ducks his head with a huff.
"Fine, yes. Very well." Is Jack claiming that he smells? It's only been a few days. Arthur didn't bathe for months, and... well, yes, it was unpleasant. But they got used to it. It was— well, not fine, actually. God damn it. "I'm still not used to it! The showers. We didn't have those, back... back where I'm from."
He is usually careful not to speak of home except in the vaguest terms of agreement or allusion. He has leaned eagerly into implying a charmingly old-fashioned little town, or at least, his own vision of one. Better not to give specifics, since he made the mistake of saying 1934 to Akechi, who then started in about World War Two as though he ought to care. Better to be vague.
In reality, he has painted a picture of apocalyptic squalor. He knows how hospital corners ought to look, but can't fold a sheet; he regards their tiny bedroom as luxurious and has never seen a salad. At least neither Serph nor Jack ever seems to press at the gaps in his cover.
no subject
"Fine, yes. Very well." Is Jack claiming that he smells? It's only been a few days. Arthur didn't bathe for months, and... well, yes, it was unpleasant. But they got used to it. It was— well, not fine, actually. God damn it. "I'm still not used to it! The showers. We didn't have those, back... back where I'm from."
He is usually careful not to speak of home except in the vaguest terms of agreement or allusion. He has leaned eagerly into implying a charmingly old-fashioned little town, or at least, his own vision of one. Better not to give specifics, since he made the mistake of saying 1934 to Akechi, who then started in about World War Two as though he ought to care. Better to be vague.
In reality, he has painted a picture of apocalyptic squalor. He knows how hospital corners ought to look, but can't fold a sheet; he regards their tiny bedroom as luxurious and has never seen a salad. At least neither Serph nor Jack ever seems to press at the gaps in his cover.