He carries his coat with him, for the purposes of its contents, laying it carefully folded once onto the end of the bed inside the bare room. Only a sound of agreement at her instructions, a glance after her exeunt before he sets about undoing his shirt, black cotton tugged out of waistband and flopped over his coat.

Lucius spends the rest of his time to himself absently picking his fingertips over the staples of thread needled into his arm, back to the door. Besides the injury freshly tended to, he is relatively scarless, save for the obvious ex-tattoo and other traces of ink.