[ It's striking, that sudden transition from an easy old countenance to the flustering of youth, the uncertainty and the unsure footing. It reminds him very, very much of somebody back home who ain't exactly his kid, but for all intents and purposes is very much his kid. They're not far off in age (physically speaking, if not technically), and there's a hollow twisting in his chest that he doesn't allow to make it to his face.

It makes his laugh-answering smile a little sad, a little bittersweet and muted.

He fill that silence, just because he can sense a pregnant pause when he sees one. Knows when somebody's working up the courage to tell a tale they think nobody will believe them about, or that they're ashamed of, or that they're afraid of, or the dozen other reasons people don't admit to the real cops about what actually took out their loved ones.

Annnnd there it is. Winner winner chicken dinner. His smile becomes a little stronger, almost a little smug for a fleeting second. It's like shooting a three-pointer with a decade of practice and watching the ball soar straight clean through the net. ]

Don't sweat it, kid. You tell half of people the truth about what's out there and they either call you crazy or they pee themselves. Not a lot of middle ground.

[ The hovering hand holding his coffee settles a little lower, elbow on the counter, relaxed by something familiar in all this new. ]

No fortune telling. Just been doing this a long time, I can spot 'em a mile away.