[ Lighter shakes his head, the tousled mess of his hair sweeping every-which way but naturally coming to fall over the shadow of his brow, across his right eye. Reality settles in, but only so much — "reality" as a concept has slipped through his fingers on more than one occasion over the last 168 hours. Desert sand felt less treacherous. Fingertips poised at the bottlecap's rim, he deposits it back on the nightstand quietly, a halting gentleness to the way he carries himself despite his appearance.

It could have a little something to do with how (presumably) likewise hungover he is, but also seems ingrained, measured too much as a matter of instinct rather than conscious effort. Rolling over, his arm steeples to pinch his brow, massaging some of the ache away with the pads of his fingers. ]

Don't worry about it. I'm just causing a fuss on account of how terrible I feel. [ He flashes a weak thumbs up from the mess of blankets. ] As for food...

[ Its scent does drift in among the skin musk of the bedding and it doesn't immediately turn his stomach. ]

I could go for some. How — [ lifting his gaze in what he'd intended to be amiable despite the many questions he has, he finds himself quieting again, at the heart of her focus. His pupils are red, a fluttering thing, like something once injured, or a creature caught unaware by the light. Clearing his throat, he looks away in deference and finally continues. ] ...how about I wait here, and we can eat together when you're done.

[ It seems about the least he could offer, all things considered. ]