*Staggering over himself for a moment, it almost seems as if he was attempting to run. Still, when he trips he somehow manages not to spill his drink.*
LT, brough' ye a gift! Or, uhh... Two? Three???
*Looking a bit confused for a second, he scouts the items in his hands before peeling himself off the floor and pushing three items into your arms; A container of Earl Grey tea, a mug with a visage of the grim reaper on it, and Gaz's stolen hat.*
Git yersel' some kip, aye? Ah will bring brekky innae morn-
*With that he staggers off, one hand on the wall to support himself*
He had just came fresh from a shower, always a dead of night bather with the comfort of being alone, without rush. His head was still killing him, the process of elimination of causation at the food stage. He had a wrap of… something, in his grasp, jar of Branton’s tucked in the other with a bowl filled with what appeared to be a hidden supply of figs chopped up in some off white colored ice cream. Ghost could hear the Scotsman before he even saw him, braving for whatever shenanigans befell him—
Well. He wasn’t expecting Soap to quite literally fall.
“MacTavish. D’yo know how late it is—?”
That dry, clipped enunciated cadence of a Mancunian through and through was rasped out through threads of exhaustion while his gaze bore down onto the man before his grey slipper clad feet. Another one of those moot blinks filled the silence as his arms were bombarded with a mirage of gifts to juggle with his food, one certainly stolen and now his burden to bare with returning it. All he could make sense of was kip and breakfast in the morning before Soap was off, earning a weighted sigh from behind his balaclava.
“Ditch the drink, Sargent and go wash up.”
He was thankful for the gifts, in his own way. Even if it sounded like he didn’t acknowledge them whatsoever.
