He should have expected that, eventually, someone would take him up on the implied offer of the open door. Oh well, at least it's Rich.

Oh hell, it's Rich.

The wonderful thing about friends is that they know you. It's also the terrible thing. The act doesn't work as well (or... at all) on people that know him. Like how no one can confuse the B-Street Band for Springsteen and the E-Street Band. It's close, but... Robbie won't try as hard to convince Rich of how swell he is feeling today, boy howdy.

"Wish you'd've said something before I ate dinner. Those things that look like koosh balls and taste like fruit punch laffy taffy are surprisingly filling." He had eaten two of them. "I've been promised they're actually vegetables. I'll take a drink though?"

He holds his hands out to catch the drink, which he expects to be tossed. Robbie doesn't care what it is - it's just important to share. There's no worry about beer, because the last few minutes of his appointment yesterday featured his outright refusal to consider medication and eventual promise to revisit the topic. For now, he is himself.