He spits unhappily, spitefully, like someone a little too accustomed to hacking up blood. If that ain't the truth, right? He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he settles Blake with a look it's something done. One hundred percent done, completely exhausted, utterly resigned. Not that he blames the guy, but it's probably real easy for him to keep the charade up when he's not losing his left lung to this crap.

"Yeah, well," He mutters darkly and then bites back the sarcastic comment that threatened to come with it. It seems he can be tamed, all it takes is intense chest pain. Who knew. "Maybe we should consider getting some private counseling."

Like taking this out of the public eye to somewhere quiet, where he can at least remember this guy's name. If they're stuck in this together he figures that's probably important. Unless they plan on calling each other pookie, in which case...

Gun.
Mouth.
Blam-o.

"I need a fucking drink."