In truth, he doesn't even think about it in that moment. Just thankful to have that weirdly cut and oddly shaped shirt off and into something that feels familiar. Even if as he pulls it on he smells sweat and smoke and something that had become, in such a short time, entirely familiar to him. It was Vasquez, close and yet not close at the same time, nut there's something to it that's primal and sexy to him. Which leaves him uncertain and confused. It's not how he should feel as he slides into that shirt, tugging it down as his hands smooth over the fabric.

"Take it's not laundry day."

Because that's what you say when you're reacting rather than acting, standing there and just letting that scent surround him.

"I..." He frowns at that though, not sure what he expects, but glad to hear it. Enough so to unscrew the lid and take a deep swallow.

His fingers grip the neck of the bottle until his knuckles are white. Aching to take another drink, to chug until it's gone and the world is spinning and everything is hazy. Instead he screws the cap back on.