"Bed," is his vote, called back through thin walls.

In the next room, Clark towel dries off in a negligent enough fashion, enough to put on some sweatpants as an equally negligent gesture towards some state of dress, digging up his wallet, and then saying, "huh, potato skins," to himself in a satisfied manner after a quick glance through some walls.

The delivery guy does not seem extremely impressed by a friendly shirtless bear man greeting him at the door, although a moment of squinting at Clark's face is interrupted with the offer of a generous tip. Graciases exchanged, food retrieved, which turns out to be a myriad of cartons filled with pub fare, including aforementioned paprika-laced potato skins, a collection of fried onion and pepper loops, a couple of crunchy looking grilled mushroom sandwiches doused in olive oil, and fritters that X-ray vision cannot discern.

"I think non-seafood means vegetarian, out here," he announces, digging through cupboards and drawers for plates and cutlery. There is already half a fritter between his teeth.