She breezes past his last comment and continues on with that perpetual perkiness of hers to Jack's exasperation. He's still trying to readjust the pants when the pirate flashes quick but mild smile at her. "Aye, sure, fresh as the first blush of morning sun."

In all truth, the shower hadn't been bad at all. He hadn't felt this clean in ... well, ever, honestly, since bathing options in the 18th century were pretty limited. And the peculiar products she'd had him use had not only helped to wash the months (and months) old grime from his body, but smelled somewhat pleasant.

Not that being summarily stripped and shoved into the shower -- or losing his clothes -- had been his favorite way of going about it, and it'd definitely take a more conscious effort to break the old habit of not bothering to bathe himself regularly.

As Jack places the tricorne back atop his head, she flitters by to spritz him with some sort of strong perfume that immediately has him gagging and scrunching up his face. "Oi! Bloody hell, woman, warn me first." A couple waves of his hand to dissipate the stink, and Jack swaggers his way behind her and out of the bathroom.

"On camera?" By the tone, it's not a 'do I have to' at all, but more of a 'what the hell is that'.