Charlie's eyes snap to John when he says he knows. He takes long enough to elaborate (depending on how you count, two whole sentences!) that Charlie starts to feel like he's going to burst out of his own skin. After John clarifies that he only knows in general terms, that feeling settles into flat eyes and a tightly locked jaw. Detaching from the present and listening to John speak are always a hell of a combination.

They're being very reasonable, and would have addressed all his concerns if what he'd started a fight about was the same thing as what was getting to him. The real problems are still, hah, eating at him. There are a few things he's in danger of saying and he can almost rank them in order of how much he would immediately regret it. The watchman in his head, vigilant for dangers from within as well as without, has started to call time. He needs to remove himself before he gets nastier.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," he makes himself say to John, evenly, because he still gives a shit about John's feelings currently.

It's probably just provoking himself to look at Arthur as he turns on his heel, but he does it anyway, skinny fucking street-brawler Arthur and his 'seven maybe'. Perpetually starved-looking Arthur who'd make a poor meal, who's been in the Dreamlands and faced the King and, thank fucking god, it sounds like the meeting was at least brief, even though it was still calamitous. He opens his mouth and realises the whole fucking confession of what went on in the prison pits is too close to his tongue for comfort, and after a moment he just says with a broad, winning smile: "Eat your fuckin' fish."

Then he walks towards the back door, because he doesn't want to deal with any fuckers who might be walking down the street out the front right now. His hand starts to slip into his pocket, and then he remembers, and it makes a small violent motion instead as he goes.