It was a little of both, really. Matt dealt primarily in short, clipped syllables, which made talking dogs a lot easier than talking to people. This was no exception.
When he came back he had a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt not too dissimilar from his own slung over one arm. He folded them together and held them out to Rory. The knife was out of his hands, apparently gone.
Matt had a long stare. That was something else that didn't conceal well with his cover, but it didn't have to. It was obvious by the way he held it that his left arm wasn't completely real. He let other people assume he was a veteran of some war somewhere. The pieces - recluse living alone, rare trips into town, that pale look that looked through Rory now, the prosthetic - they added up fine, and painted a reductive picture that looked in his favor.
"No," he said. Was that a whisper of mock sympathy, a smirk that almost touched his lips? "Dogs don't usually ask for it."