Oliver doesn't take the bag immediatly. He waits, past the point where patience tells him that if something about this was rigged, it would have happened already. He drags the peace offering over, sorting through its contents without a word. He recognizes what looks like the local pain killer- though he'll be damned if he actually takes it.

The leathers he's wearing is an insulator, but it would be better over warmer clothes. The food makes it clear that he's expected to stay put for at least a brief duration.

That would be a great big fat no. Thanks for playing.

He still has two of his knives, both of them small and not particularly useful in a fight but serviceable as far as survival is concerned - both hidden in the lining of his jacket. The rest of his weapons are gone, which isn't surprising.

Say something. Set him at ease. Get him to go away.

It takes work to get himself to calm down. He has a plan of action - he needs to relax enough to execute it. Jack isn't the typical warden. Oliver gets the feeling he doesn't take prisoners often.

"Thanks," he says. The word is brittle.