Oh, please. The mere fact that Alan's here, safe (or, at any rate, not in any immediate danger), warm, and leisurely stuffing his face while in the presence of a beautiful (the lighting isn't that poor) woman rather than beaten and left for dead in a ditch somewhere is one of the more compelling arguments against the existence of any sort of cosmic balance scale.

"I made it," he boasts, unable to conceal a touch of childish pride. "Well," he amends a moment later, stealing a look at the couch, "I suppose if we're to be technical, Ki over there did most of the actual cooking and I allowed her the benefit of my brute strength."