While Wanda was having her laughing fit, Daimon shrugged off the coat and unwrapped the scarf, and laid them across one of the tables in the room. He only smirked at the incredulity in her words, more amused that she seemed to think she had him figured out by a couple of memories and the place he slept, hardly a home to the demon who spent more time out of it than in it, and the mark on his chest. Wanda didn't know shit about him. He carried a couple of towels that hadn't been in his hands before, tossed one her way, and went into the kitchen to turn on the faucet, wetting the cloth and wringing it out, using it to wipe the grime off his face. "I'm dying to know what you expected," he gruffly responded, sarcasm thick in voice, but turned to look at her, brows raised, inviting her to humor him, since she was apparently so willing to let him know what she thought.