-Morgan and Ingrid, may be civil, may be hiding knives-<br/><br/>He watched Ingrid for a moment, not asking about the lack of available flesh for now. He watched her power the Advil down, glad that she had not thrown up yet. They were not out of the woods, but maybe the trees where a little thin here. He watched her for a moment longer and then moved off, giving her some space. He moved across the studio, surprisingly Spartan and on the verge of OCD clean, not at all like its owner. It even smelled clean, and somehow Morgan did not smell like a distillery.<br/><br/>He moved and worked in silence, picking up a bar stool and carrying it to the small kitchenette the studio had. he set it front of the sink. Then entire time he worked quietly, quickly, a simple professionalism that no one here had even seen. He was still shirtless from the night before, working in just simple black slacks with an absences of socks or shoes. Plain pale skin stretched over a very gaunt body. There were light bruises on his back, marks that didn't seem to match anything in the room.<br/><br/>When he was done moving objects about, a second and small chair in front of the bar stool, he walked back to ingrid. He stood beside her on the futon and offered his hand. " Come on, lets get some of that motor control back and see about getting you to a bed you would rather sleep in." No innuendo, and a note of surety that he knew exactly what he was doing, in his voice. He waited beside Ingrid, his palm outstretched for her to take.<br/>