Lazarus has no delusions about being an attractive man, the type of person who would look good in that type of uniform, but it doesn't mean he's wholly happy with his appearance. Even though he does little to change it and has bizarrely good luck with attracting romantic partners, some days he would absolutely prefer to be the kind of strong, upright, healthy man who could lead a movement and reassuringly look the part.

It's actually highly impressive that he's earned so much faith and trust looking like he does, but he tends to overlook that.

"Riot gear?" he asks absently. "No, I... fully admit that was very strange to see..."

Near looks like he's made of glass. Riot gear could protect him, Lazarus supposes, if he could move while wearing it. And he can, of course, he's witnessed it, but that doesn't really make it easier to accept.

He returns shortly, hair still damp from the shower that his pulse had interrupted, wearing looser and more comfortable clothing than the dark, close-fitting pieces he usually steps out in. He will probably not leave his home again today, and his feet remain bare as he returns to the warming milk and arranges his ingredients. Most of them are close at hand; not surprisingly, this is pretty much the only thing Lazarus knows how to cook.

"It's a big deal that I'm good at this, you know. I don't think you'd remember Belle... she was before your time, but back when I lived with her, I tried to cook occasionally. I ruined a lot of food and appliances and still never really got the hang of it."