She looked up, watching him closely as he dropped on the bed and chucked his crutches. Even if coffee overrode everything scent-wise, she could hear the sudden near-growl in his voice.

The light from the television flickered over him, sliding pale across his skin, catching shadows in muscles and folds of cloth and twists of hair. It didn't tell her anything more, though, and eventually she looked away.

The coffee didn't take long to percolate. She found two reasonably clean mugs, poured, and picked both of them up, balancing the sugar in the crook of her arm.

"Lack of maid outfit aside, I might be fired from the Crutch Corps due to my terrible serving." She handed him one mug before pulling the sugar from her other arm and handing it over, too. Then, with a glance around, she sat down in the bean bag chair and sipped her coffee.

Strong, black, cheap. It was just right.

"So..." She hesitated, not sure if she should even ask. But, crotchticks, she wasn't doing anything else at the moment--and this, at least, didn't fill her with anxiety. "You okay?" Her tone spun the question into this moment, his mood swing, not the last few days. He could choose to hear it or not, she supposed.