Allergic to pity but not all of the physical acts that can come of it, Lucius does not dissuade or bristle at brief touch to his arm, a fleeting glancing to it before his attention is once again set forward.

If allowed, he is more content to lapse into silence that Lucius can pretend is companionable rather than sulky. Distracted is probably the better descriptor, as he has been given food for thought beyond simply getting through the hours, his stay in Baedal so far deviating between stressful, alarming, and boring. He is only as conscious of his wife's alternate beside him as he is of the ache in his shoulder -- it is there and niggling at him, but otherwise he removes his mind from it until it becomes necessary to pay attention to it once more.

Such as, when the townhouse comes into view, Lucius lifting his head to study it. It is nice. It is also smaller than the giant grey castle in Wiltshire that Lucius has called home all his life, but then, entirely portions of that building had gone unused in its excess.

He's also looking for something to complain about -- and finding nothing. Which somehow doesn't improve his mood anyway. The most he manages is a guttural 'mm' from the back of his throat.