Hacking and gagging, he coughs up something black and unpleasant, the dribble trailing down his chin to mix with all the other gore. A guttural groan escapes and he pinches his eyes closed for a second, spits, and then immediately dives back in for more. He gulps and glugs and then gasps for air, either satisfied or wishing to die. He's already forgotten his potential grudge.

"Did you—? Who gave you this? Is it—?" Real? Is Jack real? The sense of his body receiving liquid in any form — actually keeping it down this time — means he's focused a little more. Not much, but enough that he unfurls, takes another few desperate pulls from the coffee pot, and then gingerly offers it back while trying to keep his distance.