For a moment he wishes he'd taken the opportunity to argue instead of conceding to his own mental state. He feels all the more guilty, then, for the attention brought to it — his fault for not hiding it — and considers lying to save them both the trouble.

"No, I— Well, yes—" Blake fumbles and it's anyone's guess which answer is which or whether he knows at all.

He reaches up, fingers squeezing along the forehead lines that feel etched deep with his discomfort over the past several weeks. How is it possible that his head is throbbing? Only John Blake knows, although anyone who's met him (or someone like him) would be able to guess pretty quickly. When his hand drops back down, he leans it heavily against the counter, leaving in a manner that cocks his hip out like he's still got a heavy gun belt to contend with. "A run of bad luck's all," he says dismissively.

But it makes him think. Has made him think. And since coming back from the island, it's been his dad on his mind, like the memory of the man chases after the son that takes after his mistakes. Had his gamble really paid off? Or had he tossed himself into that churn for the sake of his own hubris? He never understood why his father couldn't stop, but it's starting to sink in how desperation can lead to a great many unwanted things.

He switches the coffee to the other hand and offers his across the counter in greeting. "Blake," he says through a slightly self-deprecating smile. "But my friends call me 'Oscar the Grouch'."