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Free as a bird. You fit enough to venture back out?
Alright. I'll see you there, Miss Spellman.
She's waiting up there near the door - hair and makeup back up to scratch, wearing a cardigan over her dress. She smiles at Arthur as he approaches.
"Hello, Arthur. After you?"
He gives her a nod and a tip of his hat. He's in a vest, like usual, with scuffed but fairly clean trousers, boots underneath. He's taken to leaving the whole arsenal at home, but he does still have a pistol and a few new rounds in his bag.
"Usually it's ladies first, ain't it?" He's got a smile for her, though, to take the sting out of his gruff tone.
"Oh, I've always been a terrible lady," she chuckles, but she goes ahead of him all the same. "You're looking well."
"You might wanna get your eyes checked out," he tells her, with some flair. He really doesn't look all that stellar, but she doesn't know him without the bags under his eyes, the paleness to his skin, the straw-like hair, and the raspy breath.
"But thank you."
The breath, she thinks she could probably diagnose, but she's aware that spiking people's drinks with healing potions is...bad practice? Inadvisable? Maybe?
"My pleasure. What have you been up to?" she wonders, picking up two trays and passing him one.
"Spending most of my time writing down what I remember from that breach," he tells her. "Somethin' to keep the mind occupied. Yourself?"
"Checking on my sister every now and then, getting back in the rhythm of shifts in the infirmary, knitting," Hilda says, almost apologetic. "Not exactly thrilling, I know."
And she should be checking on Entrapta, now she's feeling back up to it.
They pass the big canisters for hot water and coffee, and he asks her: "Coffee?"
"Please," Hilda says. "You've quite the turn of phrase, Arthur. You do a lot of writing?"
"Oh, that's smashing. Sketches from your travels?" she wonders.
He's okay at keeping it light, but there's always a heaviness to his shoulders. Typical of new arrivals, but still very visible.
And Hilda sees it, which makes her tone a little gentler.
"Must be quite the experience, hey? Travelling together, relying on each other."
"That it was. It taught me a great deal of things."
Hilda goes about serving herself some pasta, picks up her cutlery.
"Such as?" she asks, innocently curious.
He serves himself some of that pasta, too-- he'd never had it before coming here, but he can't fault Jack for having liked it, back then. Filling.
She goes to find them a table.
"I'll be honest with you, Arthur. Some of that will translate here, but some of it...mm, well. You'll see."
"Yeah, I got a feeling about that. It ain't all whores and thieves lookin' for a better life, here."
"Well - you might be onto something with the seeking better lives," Hilda has to concede. "The rest...well, we're a varied bunch here."
Thieves, yes, certainly. But even if she sells him on more contemporary language, nobody's going to know what a sex worker is when he goes home, are they?
"Sure. But I suppose if the Admiral brought me here, he believes I got something to bring to the table."
When you've lived as long as Hilda has, 'whores' is honestly pretty mild in the grander scheme of things.
"Absolutely! I mean, it doesn't seem to matter much who you were back home, and certainly not what side of the law you were on," she says cheerfully. "We've all got something to chip in regardless."
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