Called out on his bad habit, Hawke raises his hands in mock surrender then makes an attempt at putting on the offered clothes as Chris explains. Well, starts to explain in his Chris way, by which he gives a cryptic cursory answer and then attempts to change the subject. The familiarity of it puts Hawke at ease, though it's a guilty ease in feeling that Chris' evasion isn't due to benign embarrassment but something darker. He has that sort of uneasy tone.

"Thank you, I'm famished." Walking a bit awkwardly, Hawke goes for the table. He doesn't feel pinched, at least. There's enough stretch in the fabric to prevent that. But he does feel a little like a sausage... At least the shirt is suitably billowy and opens to mid-chest.

He leans against the table as he picks at the food there, deliberately taking the time to pour himself a glass of bourbon as well. Yes he's hungry, but the drink sloushes around other gaps inside him and he prefers those seen to before his stomach.

Finally, inevitably, he looks back at Chris again benignly, raising the glass to his lips again in order to sip just after he speaks. "A mess?"