Leaning to one side, Molotov produces a wrapped sandwich, which she tosses on his lap before offering him the bottle. She figures that if he's as good at procuring food as he is at dressing himself, he must be starving.

"Uh-huh," she nods, still sort of curiously looking at the bathrobe. "Did you not fit in any of the jackets, or was it just the first thing you grabbed? You sort of look like a hobo. Bathrobe and sparkly lycra. All you need now is a trash bag full of empty cans."

She's teasing though, and lets it go in favor of leaning back into the chair, fiddling with the remote to crank up the massage.