It does help, oddly. The weight is a comfort, without the claustrophobic feeling of being shut into his armor, too readily remembering the way it had torn, the way it had engulfed him, restricted his movement, kept him chained and pinned in. The blanket, meanwhile, takes but a simple tug to remove again.

He listens. When Washington offers nothing in the way of condemnation, Locus's eyes narrow slightly, confusion settling in in the spaces where wariness should have been.

"Why are you here?"

They're not friends. Barely allies. This is...he doesn't know what to make of any of this, and it would be nice if one thing stayed predictable.