"Lapsed Catholic," Seth says, but with a distraction that clearly indicates that wherever his thoughts lie it's far, far away from religious denominations. All of those images, hot and brilliant and so much more understandable than most minds tend to be, furious with meaning and blood. And teeth. Sharp, impossible teeth, like the substances of nightmares, and Seth has always preferred those to dreams. Dreams have such little staying power, by comparison, and they're much less realistic.
He doesn't ask, and the funny thing is that he doesn't ask specifically because he is curious. There are plenty of ways to make directing her at the things in her mind seem innocent, but Seth would rather tease the answers out a little slower than that. It's something to pass the time, at least, and he could use the preoccupation while Jonah's absence still gnaws at his gut.
The towel is never used. Seth prefers to grit his teeth and feel them slide hard over each other. It hurts, but it's worth it. He keeps that in mind.
"It's in the refrigerator. Help yourself. I have no idea if it's good or not. I don't drink." He drops his hand carelessly into his lap once it's bandaged and keeps watching her, eyes almost refracting light with the intensity of their focus.