He isn't the sort to jump up heroically, but he is the sort that feels a sudden ache to be with his unit, the familiar people who know what he's about, what's going on in his mind. After a momentary cringe at the denial of going on after them, he lowers his gaze and gives one stiff nod, breathing roughly while he tries to work out whether he'd be allowed to tell these men about his condition.

Perhaps, if he limits it to the crossover effects of the synaesthesia, leaves out the bit about memory, about the massive vault of intel on the Germans that sits in his mind, it will be alright.

Lifting his hands, he shakily starts undoing the front of his button up shirt. His blazer is long gone, and he stares ahead as he works at the front of his shirt, exposing the sleeveless undershirt beneath, with no thought of how he might look.

"Do you have a pair of earplugs?" he asks, lifting his chin abruptly, pale grey-green eyes locked on the other man's.