"No drinks?" Dirk asked curiously. He sighed a foreign, likely xenos curse and turned, stepping to the door, pressing his fist into a call button. Two lights glowed for a moment between the speaker for a second. "Drinks," was all he said. 

"Yes, right away," a woman's voice replied moments later. 

Pulling his fist away, he was satisfied and went to the cupboard, pressing a finger against a switch, letting glasses slide out on a display shelf, carefully placed in tight, shaped indentions in the wood that snugly held the cups and silverware. He grabbed two robust mugs, with stout handles and a sweeping design as if the outside of the glass was carved into waves. He placed Jocasta's mug on the counter, and brought his over to the hot tub. Out of sight for a moment, Jocasta would hear the revving of a machine and the tub begin bubbling, likely increasing in heat by every second. 

"I'm going to take a dip. You won't have to wiggle your rump to join. Though drink all my booze and no promises." He replied, and there was a knock on the door that drew his attention. Opening it, a woman in a smart suit and blonde hair tied in a bun strode in with a cart of alcohol from varying different makes and planets. Dirk collected the selection, not saying a word as the woman looked around the room and then at Jocasta, clearly interested in her surroundings but quite clearly trying not to appear so. She saw Dirk give her a nod, which was obvious permission to leave. She did so with just a "very good," and Dirk closed the door behind her. 

All the bottles were displayed beside Jocasta's mug, spirits, whiskey, rum, beer, vodka, etc. Dirk left the room for a moment, walking into a closet and closing the door. Within, he stripped himself of his armor and underclothes, taking a solid two minutes to undo the layers of plate and weapons he had stored. After he finished, he stepped out in a crimson bathing suit with black patterns along its fabric. He still wore his helm, but his chest and lower legs were bare. It was safe to say, taking a look at him, that he was ripped. A lean frame with very little fat, he had the build of someone who spent their time eating just enough to live and killing men for money. Despite his armor, he had an impressive amount of scars, not to mention the mystery of how he had a slight tan. On his neck, she saw the end of a sharp edged, black tattoo that slid up into his helm. 

He poured himself a drink from a bottle of Darellian Whiskey and stepped into the tub, letting his arms rest against the edges. 

"So, before me, what was the last job you did?"  

"Tub should be ready," he said casually.