"Ah, now that's the good thing about medals, you see? They go with very nearly everything," Rupert replies loftily. He takes the coldness in his stride, and even the faint buzz of... something uncomfortable beneath his skin isn't enough to penetrate his general aura of bloody-minded amusement. He sips cheerfully at his drink, impervious as he is to his new friend's distant annoyance, and returns that critical look with one of his own as he inspects the other man from behind the rim of his cup.

"Or does this particular shade of heroic adulation not suit your tastes? What colour would you prefer, 'disconcerted apathy'? 'Weary disdain'? I'm sure I could find someone to throw rotten turnips at you if you'd prefer that."