Had he been a proper host, Theodore might have done a thorough cleaning of his flat, might have cooked supper and put on the radio -- but he wasn't, and, if left to his own devices, probably never would be. It was less a matter of hospitality, which he had in spades, and more an issue of capability. He'd never been much for cooking or cleaning (there was no father now to make him do the latter), and spent much of his time alone and indifferent to those particular gaps in his skill.
So, with the prospect of a guest, he did as little dusting as possible in the area they'd spend most of their time in, and then worried more about the wine he'd serve. A nice red. Cabernet. 1994. He poured it into a simple decanter and then answered the door.
"Where's the army you intend to feed with that dinner?" He joked, reaching out to help. Not that the army was any kind of laughing matter.