By an insane stroke of luck, a good portion of Benedict’s most treasured belongings were here with him during the Gallows attack, and as such are not still lying strewn about under various debris. Which means he could dress nicely, given the option, but he’s been dragging his feet by reading on the sofa with Rat Red curled protectively on his chest.

“I don’t know if I’ve got a debate in me tonight,” he remarks, breezily apologetic, “but I can fuck off after dinner if you need the space.”

He’s not missing dinner. He’s never missing dinner again as long as he lives.