Pike wished he had her optimism. Or hell, any optimism, at this point. In his heart of hearts, he'd lost the ability to see a silver lining in anything. It was hard to really see a silver lining when he felt like death warmed over on a regular basis and really wanted, on a level he hadn't acknowledged, to be death warmed over. "Ain't that the truth," he grunted. Los Angeles had gone to hell with the snap of some cosmic power's fingers. And instead of dealing with that in a positive, healthy way, Pike had chosen the other way.
And then there was blood. He could see it well enough, but even worse than that was the smell. For a split second, Pike wasn't in the upscale bar anymore. For just that fraction of a second, he was back in hell, with all the smells - brimstone and blood and so many other terrible smells - and sights - rivers of blood on his hands, human viscera laying all around him, dead bodies frozen in silent screams with chunks of their bodies just gone - and sounds - slaves screaming as demons used them and threw them away - that came with it. His entire body tensed up involuntarily, his stomach heaved in a decidedly unpleasant fashion, and his throat dried up instantly.
He took the offered drink and, very enthusiastically, downed the entire thing in one go. He placed the glass back on the bar and leaned on it heavily, trying and mostly failing to hide his reaction to the blood. In a fight, he could deal with blood just fine, because in a fight he was a trained and experienced killer. Battlefield instinct made a lot of things very, very easy to deal with. Outside of it, he was a pretty horribly messed up guy with a lot of memories he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. It made all the difference.
Still, he tried to downplay it as much as he could, given his obvious physical reaction. "No problem." He probably sounded a little stiffer than he usually would have, but there was no help for it right now.