It occurs to Hector, for one brief moment as his leather-clad frame creaks to a stop directly in front of the living statue of a man he has a funny feeling he's shot before, that he may well have done this himself the first time he'd stepped out into this impossible city. Stopped still as a cow in mud. Time skipping ahead without him. Oblivious.

He probably would have pulled the look off a little better. With a vaguely serpentine tilt of the head and dip of the shoulder, he peers around the other man's frozen form, down the line of his lapel, to his hip. Water streams off one side of his own curve-brimmed hat.

And a black gloved hand reaches down to pluck the revolver from under Teddy's coat.

Much obliged.