There is an inverse correlation between how much he feels and what he says. Used to be that everyone would assume that he just needs a stiff drink and to go out and shoot something and he'll be fine. Now if he can just convince everyone here of the same.

"I--" his eyes narrow by a fraction and he huffs a sigh, jaw shifting tensely. He can't - and not because he thinks that 1306 is a staunch, singlehanded effort to keep a dozen spinning plates going, but because he has always been the one who can make the tough calls and be the bad guy and do the things that no one can be proud of doing. He has to be the support or the safety net or the fixer or whatever you want to call it because it's a long way down otherwise and he would be the one to let others down if he slipped.

"I'm fine," he hears himself say, repeating hollow, empty, meaningless words to send Malcolm and anyone else who might have asked on their way. It is too difficult to smile so he dispenses with the farce. Everyone is struggling. Everyone is frustrated. Doc doesn't see the point in venting.

"Maybe you just don't like me sober," he jokes. Look, he's making jokes. Surely he's fine.