He giggles and looks at Malcolm over the rim of his glass as he takes a drink. He’s not going to push the issue, but oh, buddy, you better believe he’s following up on this later.

He sets the glass back on the table and grins at Raylan, “Ohh, cowboy’s got some kink, huh?” He winks. “I’ll keep an eye out for something softer.”

“Tied down for seanc—” he laughs, shaking his head and his tone instantly switches from the fun playful jab it has been to the overly facetious one he uses any time he is dismissing childhood trauma. “No, no, you misunderstand my childhood. The knots came from the torture training daddy put us through.” It sounds like a joke, he certainly delivers it like one, and he desperately wishes it was just poorly timed gallows humor. But almost everyone at this table knows enough of the pieces of the story to know that this is just the terrible way he handles his own trauma.

A beat barely has time to pass before he downs what’s left in his glass, abandoning it to the table as he turns to get to his feet. “So, coffee! Yeah? Okay.” He has to stop shoving his foot in his mouth, and if he doesn’t walk away, it isn’t happening. There’s no wait for answers, he just disappears from the table to go make sure there is a pot being made.