He hardly even notices the awkward moment, too worn out and on edge, lucky you Scarlett. Instead, he just wearily accepts the shirt and sees about folding it over his knees. (Don't I know this thing? Sure I've seen this before somewhere.)

In the end, he has to actually holster his gun, no matter how exposed that makes him feel, in order to manage getting it into a decent shape for tying around his face. "Guess it was a bigger deal in the first world war, but they still do it some. I've been in a couple, and they stank like you wouldn't fuckin' believe. Not just dead bodies, either."

He ties the shirt around his face and neck with the sleeves, and pauses, hands still behind his head, brows coming together. There's a familiar sensation to that. Not the trench mouth-protection, that was lighter, scented with some kind of herb. No, it's... something else.