Briefly, he thinks about following her down to the kitchen -- he's just had a nightmare, that doesn't make him an invalid -- before thinking better of it. Maybe she wants to get away from him for a few minutes, he wouldn't blame her, and well, he's not sure his legs would carry him that far, still unsteady under him even as he sits there. All that in mind and the potential for running into Stark somewhere between here and the kitchen keeps him glued to his seat, vague guilt at making her wait on him needling at him, and he's still sitting there, wrapped in his blanket and looking like a refugee when she comes back a few minutes later. He looks dimly surprised that she came back at all, feeling sorry for himself.

"Thanks," he murmurs, reaching for one of the cups with a faintly trembling hand. He curls up around it almost immediately, the cup a shield from the rest of the world. "Leaded or unleaded?"

Regular or decaf?