"Most generous of you, Miss Davis," he replied, with a playful glance around. "Where is that cat of yours, anyway?" He rather liked animals -- one of the few saner sentiments passed down to him by his mother -- and though he didn't quite fancy the idea of having one near his food, it didn't hurt to say hello. And perhaps pass down some of the fish he would inevitably not finish.
"Perhaps they think that putting people out of work will give them time to be recruited." Theodore didn't really think so -- that was a bit long-sighted for those of Potter's ilk -- but musing over it filled in the space in conversation and allowed him to put his displeasure into words, a rarity in this day and age. He couldn't quite bring himself to appreciate the movement since he doubted they had any interest in fighting for liberty on his behalf, or the behalf of people like him. Whether they succeeded or failed, he imagined he'd be worse off than he once was. In their eyes, people like him had led a life of privilege, and that privilege had a cost that had to be paid. His own innocence in the last war was irrelevant -- in many respects, the tug of war of this era was more like a class battle than anything, and he would always be on the wrong side.
Laughter felt so wrong and so right -- in the broader cosmos, there was little joy to be found, few things worth celebrating -- but right here and right now, he couldn't help but feel the relief that came with it. Like they'd eked out a little microcosm with sparks of indignation and joy that could be relished and relived. What was happening Out There didn't matter so much. He was glad of it.
Fixing upon her a stare, he took his plate with a victorious tug and balanced it upon the edge of the chair. "I can indeed imagine it. I have a feeling you'll be yelling at it regardless of my presence." And he was glad of that, too.