These days, Rory took people at face value because there wasn't any real risk in doing so. Funny how all the leery-eyed suspicions of his mob days managed to ebb away after he'd died. He didn't have enemies, none of substance, so where was the harm in it? Wasn't a man allowed a second chance at shallow happiness? Rory pretended to think so. He didn't ask questions about synthetic limbs, and he didn't inquire about the motives of flirtatious women who were far too young for him. It was a comfortable life, except for the part where he turned into a dog and got hit by cars.
"Aye well, I'm a rare breed." It was a joke, but Rory didn't let onto that by smiling. Of course, smiling probably didn't come naturally to anyone or anything recovering from a hit and run. He took the offered clothes, and actually looked grateful for it. Rory kept one hand attached to the blanket, the half-formed toga around his waist while he gestured back toward the kitchen where he'd awoke. He retreated those couple of steps, turning to where he was partially obscured by the wall.
He got dressed quickly, despite the tenderness in his bones. It wasn't a private dressing room, but he wasn't sensitive enough about flashing his bare ass to really need one. Even so, he moved quickly. There were scars, the telltale divots of old bullet holes, shiny like pennies but gone old and white. There were some minor burns under the tattoos, old knife wounds that had never seen proper stitches. Indeed, it all spoke of a certain type of life, and not the kind that saw a lot of field medics of hospital beds. Not that he'd even begun to give the impression of military or law enforcement, not with his slacking posture.
All in all, the clothes fit well enough to stay on him, and that was all that Rory required. "Mighty generous of you, friend."