"I'm sure he thinks he's just fine rotting in the sanctum of his mind." Speaking from experience, perhaps. Coffee it is and he will pull out a cup, pour. Joan made it. He makes god awful coffee. It's like drinking gritty piss, really. One of the many reasons she is not allowed to leave.

Anyway. The cup is placed on the table and he unfolds a hand to motion he toward the chair across from the one his hand had steadied on.