Morning, and the magma of his bones cooled into something more igneous and still. Rory looked spooked, with his shoulders rising up and head dipping a little low. It was uncertainty expressed the way dogs could sometime do, but this was no dog. Not anymore. As a man, Rory was tall, but not alarmingly so. If he was over six feet at all, it was only by an inch or maybe two. His hair was a sea of black that flopped overgrown into his eyes and was sleep-matted around his ears like an eerie replica of the fur he'd worn the night before while under the influence of the moon.
Waking up in unfamiliar places while covered in unfamiliar bruises was once a recurring element of his life. Those were the forgotten nights of bar brawls and bad news, bullet casings and broken glass. But these days? It was unheard of. In fact, since his contracted arrangement with the Devil himself, it hadn't happened once. Of course, seeing as how Rory could remember many of the details of the evening, he knew that alcohol wasn't to blame for what memory loss he had suffered. It didn't take a lot of thinking through, even if many details were missing. As for how he'd ended up in this man's kitchen wearing nothing but a blanket dotted with fur and blood? Rory had a fairly good idea.
"Moornin'," he muttered back, the word edged through his teeth with uncertainty. Weight shifted from one bare foot to the other, and Rory secured the blanket a little better around his waist. This was proving to be awkward, and Rory raised an eyebrow, decisive. "Well, lets not make a thing of it." He said it real conversational, friendly and dismissive like there was nothing to talk about, nothing to see here, nothing out of the ordinary that needed to be acknowledged, no sir.