Two hands, even, once he's got a towel knotted around his waist; he'll hang his kilt to air it, shortly, and wear it home in the morning, but for now he's comfortable as he is and he'll sleep that way, too. Shortly, probably, because if they're keeping their hands to themselves (after Bruce's ribs are strapped-- which isn't an excuse to get nearer the other man but isn't entirely unpleasant, either) he could do with the rest.

“And here,” he observes, half to himself, “was me thinking I'd run to fat in this city.”

No fear of that.