He listens to the lull of Ginshu's voice with a quiet smile, letting most of the mirth and excitement drain from his expression once he's out of sight. It's exhausting, at times, to maintain such tight strings over his outer appearance, even if age has made it easier.

So when he has quiet moments to discard them, he allows himself the reprieve, stripping away the painted porcelain of his face to leave behind the truth.

For this moment, this smile is true, tired and weak as it may be.

Books gathered from different shelves, he returns a few moments later, mask firmly returned and eye brightening as he laughs warmly at Ginshu's commentary. "I can judge him harshly," he says, though he's still mostly hidden beneath a tower of expertly balanced tomes, "That's just poorly written."

Carefully lowering the books down to the table, he considers the comment about the warrant with a touch of occupational paranoia, glancing at his arm. No RAC patch--the weight (or rather lack thereof) at his thigh confirms there's no gun, either..

Best not to open that line of questioning, he decides, 'lest he reveal too much about himself in the process.

"So I've heard," he chuckles, "We have a similar creed. History is all. Great travel. Long hours. Low turnover. Unless you count dying, of course."

Eager to get the topic onto something else, he takes his seat again with a sigh, opening the first book off his pile with tender care. "Well go on--read me another, Uncle."