His mouth twitches again, that slightest of smiles, as he means it in only the best of ways possible. (And something of tease, too, as was his way.) Then he was gone, turning on his heel and making for he nearest replicator.

He returns a few minutes later with cup of juice and something that actually resembled a sort of broth-heavy soup.

"Looks like they're actually making headway with the replicators, thank God," he says as he slips the tray onto the table in front of her. "I hope that's alright. Chicken soup's supposed to cure all our ills back home."