Jefferson's movements are a little jerky as he fusses around his work station, making sure he has everything in place before he starts to dig through his fabrics for something he can deem acceptable. It's been a while since he's made a hat-- several months-- but he's made so many over the decades that he knows he hasn't lost his touch. His hands have been trained so completely that he can do it automatically, without sparing a thought.

It's almost soothing.

He spares Eliot a quick glance, corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile, before he lays down the fabric and begins cutting. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and he notes-- with some frustration-- that it's making his cut a little sloppy. Imperfect. Determined, he keeps at it anyway.

Eliot's question gives him some pause, and as much as he wants to nod and claim he feels better, he can't bring himself to just slip into that comfortable lie. He opens his mouth, he really tries to say it, but instead, Jefferson finds himself looking down at the half-cut fabric and the shears in his hand, and he's just shaking his head.

"I don't-- I don't feel any better." He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, wishing he could find the right words to convey that it's just... always going to be like this. There's no feeling better, really. Just fleeting ups and a whole lot of downs. He resumes his cutting, until it's time to move on to the next step. "But I'll fix things. You don't have to stay."