It isn't out of a sense of awkwardness that Rust turns away from Will as he changes clothes, but rather a serene kind of respect. Archaic concepts of 'decency' are congestive to simple interactions between human beings, in a universe where modesty is a paper umbrella in a hurricane: completely fucking useless for all the effort that's put into it.

He leaves the kitchen, coffee in hand, and returns to the living room; the travel on his body feels sluggish and warm but all too quick, like his muscles and limbs know the trek better than his own brain does right now. He has to nearly stop short of the small coffee table from almost missing it. With a nearly unbalanced step backward, Rust grabs the bottle of Turkey by the neck.

It's replaced on the table with his mug of coffee; Will speaks over the coated metal cap, words pouring out with the whiskey that spills into Rust's coffee. As he replaces the cap, he looks up and over at Will, expression softer by a mere shade or two.

"Not lucky, just correct." Rust dropped some weight in the whirlwind of late nights in the cold files room, skipping meals, and excessive cigarette smoking, that has lasted...years, really. That's not even counting the months and years of narcotics usage undercover. "Didn't think you'd be offended if I handed you the largest pair of pants I own; you don't strike me as that kind of sensitive." 'That kind' being 'vain.'