He takes hold of the mug, surveying it for a moment before setting it down in front of him. Well, there's no drinking it through the helmet.

There's a pause, remnants of something bone-deep that resists, that wants to find any excuse not to, before his hands lift to the clips at the side of his helmet. The seal breaks with a soft, almost inaudible hiss, and the helmet pulls free.

And York gets a good look at the man under the helmet. An x-shaped scar cuts across the bridge of his nose, his features heavy and broad, dark hair still tied back tightly. The helmet balances beside him on the couch before he reaches for the coffee with a faint nod.

"...thank you."

It seems appropriate.