[Hank's already softened up by the optimism crack, so the one-two punch of the blunt declaration of concern followed up with a bad joke makes Hank sputter, laughing and pressing the heel of a hand against his temple.]

God, don't make me laugh, it hurts.

[He scoots to lean back against the wall and thinks about it, thinks about actually telling him. The friend thing, it... it makes him want to, almost.]

Uh-

[Hank's quiet a second, wondering if he should psych himself up to admitting it.

He swallows. He clears his throat.]

I'll be fine. Give it a... a week? Maybe? If I make it that long I'll probably be, uh. Better. I guess. How's that for optimism, mister 'don't worry, a bullet wouldn't kill me anyway'?