How could he not take it seriously. The two people he'd promised to protect had gotten fucked in one way or another and it was, in part, his fault. There was no talking that weight off his shoulders; it would sit low in his stomach and gnaw at him from the inside out. Because what if - what if James never wakes back up, what if Roman spirals from having killed a man that cares about him. Too many what ifs.

He's distracted from those thoughts by Roman's glass sliding over and there's only a shallow prick of shame at how quickly he collects it, like a security blanket that wasn't ever going to fail him. If he could just numb things down.

"He doesn't have to pretend." Raylan did, for a whole host of reasons he didn't really want to unpack, no matter how much they probably needed airing. His jaw works for a second before he lifts the glass and takes a reasonable sip, teeth bared briefly as he swallows it down and sighs.

"Your analogy ain't far off from the truth though," he continues with a faint bob of his head, eyes still stuck in his new glass of amber courage. "But he's allowed to be angry about shit. He's got a lot to be angry about. Half of the reason he's here and it ain't the same reason I am. That I know that bein' angry doesn't help anythin' but-"

Where do you put impotent rage? Raylan shrugs one shoulder.

"Puttin' it aside is the best I can do. Efforts bein' made and all. Only thing that I ask of both him and you and I better be able to do it myself or the Admiral fucked up in lettin' me on this ship in the first place."

It wasn't Healthy, but it was Something.

"You're not that bad at this bein' objective shit, you know that?"