Wrathion's shawl is folded and set aside, his vest unbuttoned and removed, his shirt unlaced and pulled clear of his rumpled hair. Everything is neatly hung up, ready to sorted out at another time. Satisfied, he begins unbuckling his belt -- coiling it and stashing it away in a drawer.

"You're sure you won't be hungry?" he prompts, picking up a hair tie and a comb to begin pulling back his curls more tidily. "We can go back for something later, of course, although once you're comfortable that may be less appealing."

After they've curled up in the pile of blankets and cushions Wrathion has fashioned, he can only assume comfort may take precedence over food.