Sinclair can hear Jack's eager footsteps approaching and laughs to himself. Of course the kid would never be late for food. Of course.

He pulls down a couple bowls into which he dumps the strained noodles and the cut up chicken and turns around to set them on the table.

"Dinner is-- served..."

He recovers his sentence well enough. After all, he's had a fair amount of practice at keeping his composure throughout startling situations. So it's really only a hiccup in his words and maybe a slight lessening of his grin.

And he might have laughed at the way these clothes fit Jack, were it not for all of the obvious abuse he's taken. Too obvious. And god, all of it looks incredibly painful. The one that spans his throat...Sinclair probably doesn't want to know. But he still wonders.

All of this wondering occurs over the span of perhaps a single second. He places the bowls across from one another on the kitchen table and returns for silverware before finally taking a seat.

"It's not much," he says, "but it's something hot."