You know well what I mean. It is impolite to sneak up on someone. [It is near immediate his response and the withering patience that accompanies it. A conversation born of a dozen more like it carried throughout years of familiarity. And it is in that he finds such routine oddly out of place.

It is in his expression- first a blink, then a glance. A seeking gaze searching for something not made readily apparent in the dark.

Certainly he has met a Claude, just as he has met a Hilda and a Linhardt. And while he is well aware of the discrepancies of history between all of them, that there exists versions beyond simply what is before his eyes, he has yet to come face to face with that reality personally. At least, until this very moment.

It is not a certainty yet, merely an inkling. The Claude he knows of this place- distant, guarded, wary- lacks the cordiality of this Claude's voice. A trick of the imagination, perhaps? The day is, after all, far beyond normalcy.]

... Perhaps, someday, you will see fit to tell me what was so objectionable about my appearance. [A note of hesitation that slides into comfortable confidence. An unspoken question he has not even thought to give words.]