[A sharp gaze so quickly upon waking reminds him more of days spent on the trail of a target, little cat-naps in lulls as they chase their quarry... and, more recently, these little flashes of this other side of Lavi's persona.
The ruthless pragmatist watching from behind the fool's mask.
There and gone, before the pleasant joker settles back into place, and all Kanda can do is shake his head as he drapes the jacket over his forearm. Following the monk and the scholar, he tries not to lose his hard won calm of moments before.
And yet.
He still isn't sure what Lavi had told these people about his 'problem', doesn't know what to expect.
Frowning faintly to himself, he busies both mind and hands with the task of simply rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he follows them through the labyrinth of corridors, up stairs, until that question. At the sight of the only scars on him, however, he hesitates. Two large crosses cut deep into his forearms, not even something the nanites flowing in his veins have ever tried to heal. They're not something he, strangely enough, wants to reveal to these people, doesn't want them to misconstrue the meaning of his scars (even if he, himself, doesn't know what that meaning even is) and then begins to roll the sleeves back down just enough to cover them. As he does so, he cuts Lavi a sidelong glance, the frown deepens as their guide slows to a stop before a door.]
...Why would I care about a da--some stupid color?
[Granted, the monks he seems throughout the J wore yellowish robes, but they aren't usually what he would classify as gold, necessarily...]
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The ruthless pragmatist watching from behind the fool's mask.
There and gone, before the pleasant joker settles back into place, and all Kanda can do is shake his head as he drapes the jacket over his forearm. Following the monk and the scholar, he tries not to lose his hard won calm of moments before.
And yet.
He still isn't sure what Lavi had told these people about his 'problem', doesn't know what to expect.
Frowning faintly to himself, he busies both mind and hands with the task of simply rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he follows them through the labyrinth of corridors, up stairs, until that question. At the sight of the only scars on him, however, he hesitates. Two large crosses cut deep into his forearms, not even something the nanites flowing in his veins have ever tried to heal. They're not something he, strangely enough, wants to reveal to these people, doesn't want them to misconstrue the meaning of his scars (even if he, himself, doesn't know what that meaning even is) and then begins to roll the sleeves back down just enough to cover them. As he does so, he cuts Lavi a sidelong glance, the frown deepens as their guide slows to a stop before a door.]
...Why would I care about a da--some stupid color?
[Granted, the monks he seems throughout the J wore yellowish robes, but they aren't usually what he would classify as gold, necessarily...]