"I'll see what I can do for your next birthday." Which is a joke, unless they make port at some kind of fine tailor's shop or similar, and then it will be dead serious.

Arthur... spends the intervening seconds reminding himself to be cool, psyching himself down if you will, for the sake of not. Well. Not starting off today the way he started off the first time he smoked this stuff. Maybe he should say something. ...No, no, he's got this, as proven by him quietly muttering 'no, no, you've got this' under his breath. ...But maybe he should.

The sound of Crichton's returning footsteps is subtly softer, but still audible, and Arthur shuts up. The shirtlessness is, tragically, a perfectly silent affair.