His feet ached and he was hungry, but his exhaustion took precedence and he needed to get the fucking weight of his armour off of him. It had been a long week no matter how you looked at it, and for now, he was just glad to be on his own again. He managed to struggle out of his cuirass and pauldrons and began to work on his greaves, which required him to sit down. As soon as he sat on the bed, the battle was lost. When he said that he was sold on the 'soft beds' argument Whirlwind proposed, he hadn't thought he was serious because Jesus, he practically sank into it. It had just the right amount of give and bouncy firmness. His chainmail clinked like a thousand coins as he let himself fall back, flumping on the bed, his task forgotten as the world was consumed by the soft, blankety comfort that was the bed. Handy liked beds, once upon a time associating them with the one consistent and reliable comfort of sleep. Something he had a lot of trouble achieving night after night recently.