He knows that look, the way Arthur's eyes are coming over his clothing as if they were offending him just by sight alone. A deep sigh leaves the general before motioning for him to speak. "I take it you have something to say, Arthur."
“Oh, come now, James. I always have something to say.”
Emerald eyes spark with an almost mischievous light, before the gaze drops back to the general’s attire. His eyes fall to half-mast, mouth pulling into a faint frown under his mustache, as long fingers rise to stroke his facial hair thoughtfully.
After a moment, Arthur’s voice comes again, with a dry exasperation weighted heavily towards the mildly irritated side of his standard vocal expressions. He never has been particularly fond of hiding his thoughts and opinions when he doesn’t have to…and the general’s fashion sense leaves quite a bit to be desired, all things considered.
“What - by the moon’s fairest light - is that waistcoat? A waste of fabric and buttons, yes, but what is the purpose of the horrid thing, beyond perhaps caressing those wonderful pectorals of yours, and nothing else? It’s atrocious. And is that a sweater being worn with a tie? Honestly, I can’t even begin to imagine how you found a sweater with a firm enough collar, but the tailor who designed such an abomination should be shot. Silvered stars, my dear, but your attachment to white is frankly horrifying: do you intend to blend into the tundra, or blind your enemies with the contrast between your overcoat and that tie?”
The doctor folds his arms across his slender chest, shaking his head as his small tirade comes to a close.
“And you haven’t even the excuse of a uniform, like most of your men. Tragic.”
