[His eyes. Right. Granted, bringing out their color – manufactured as it is – isn't exactly high up there on his list of concerns.
Adam looks away, as if by reflex.] Won't argue that I'm particular, no. But the color's only part of it.
[Not that he's kidding anyone with that understatement of the century – it's a damn huge part of it – and so his attempt to defend himself from Dorian's assertions is half-hearted at best. His gravitation towards the darker end of Dorian's spectrum of clothing here is anything but subtle. What can he say? Black just works.
Taking up the shirt – black (of course), with three-quarter sleeves and some sort of metallic detailing – he holds it up to himself appraisingly, with a gravity that almost loops right back around to being comical. His appearance is serious goddamn business.]
It's just that I probably appreciate custom tailoring a little more than the next person. Variety's... [A little shrug.] Less important. I like knowing that something was made for me.
[And he had, even before it'd become practically necessary for him and his machine limbs to have his clothes custom-made. Take it from him: no one ever wears a trenchcoat off the rack, day in and day out, and looks good in it. Much less something taken from... Wherever these natives were getting all this stuff. It's not as if they were wearing these themselves – do they just keep clothes around in the event that a bunch of human-shaped offworlders crash-land on their island?
It's a concerning train of thought (that he might eventually follow to its destination) but for now, something else occurs to him, as indicated by an almost visceral reaction. His attention snaps back up from the shirt to Dorian, and he fixes him with a stern look.]
Not that that's an invitation for you to get them back over here taking my measurements.
no subject
Adam looks away, as if by reflex.] Won't argue that I'm particular, no. But the color's only part of it.
[Not that he's kidding anyone with that understatement of the century – it's a damn huge part of it – and so his attempt to defend himself from Dorian's assertions is half-hearted at best. His gravitation towards the darker end of Dorian's spectrum of clothing here is anything but subtle. What can he say? Black just works.
Taking up the shirt – black (of course), with three-quarter sleeves and some sort of metallic detailing – he holds it up to himself appraisingly, with a gravity that almost loops right back around to being comical. His appearance is serious goddamn business.]
It's just that I probably appreciate custom tailoring a little more than the next person. Variety's... [A little shrug.] Less important. I like knowing that something was made for me.
[And he had, even before it'd become practically necessary for him and his machine limbs to have his clothes custom-made. Take it from him: no one ever wears a trenchcoat off the rack, day in and day out, and looks good in it. Much less something taken from... Wherever these natives were getting all this stuff. It's not as if they were wearing these themselves – do they just keep clothes around in the event that a bunch of human-shaped offworlders crash-land on their island?
It's a concerning train of thought (that he might eventually follow to its destination) but for now, something else occurs to him, as indicated by an almost visceral reaction. His attention snaps back up from the shirt to Dorian, and he fixes him with a stern look.]
Not that that's an invitation for you to get them back over here taking my measurements.