Theodore managed a demure smile -- it wasn't meant to be demure, but on feminine features, it came across that way regardless of intent, and he pushed a few strands of hair out of his face. It was still his hair, at least in texture if not length, and he gleaned a tiny drop of comfort out of that. His mind was swirling around the horrible morning he was going to have, bathing and using the washroom -- it seemed entirely indecent, regardless of whether or not he owned these new parts bestowed upon him. Having Tracey remind him of it was no consolation prize.
It took him a moment's uncomfortable silence to realise what she was doing, and he stared at her brassiere like a fish out of water, all wide eyed and uncertain. She'd just been wearing that and she'd taken it off like it was of little consequence. He didn't want to see Tracey's underthings! But it was too late, and he tentatively reached out for it, unwilling to scorn her attempt to help him, even if it made him disastrously uneasy. His mouth open to reject her offer of help immediately, but he closed it again before nodding. Warmth and reddness was seeping up into his cheeks, and Theodore thought he might die before he'd even taken off his pyjamas.
He accepted, too, her journal, and skimmed it quickly, before handing it back. "Nationwide epidemic, do you think? Maybe it would be best to wait and see if anyone reports back a cure."