Rosinante watches as Soldat seems to be urged toward him, controlled by hands streaming barely-visible strings. It's as if he doesn't want to be generous, doesn't want to approach or offer a drink, but something external forces him to do it. Torture for both of them, perhaps - because in that moment, the soldier becomes one of those angry townsfolk, and the others lurk far behind, shouting insults and accusations at Rosinante all while snickering behind Soldat's back at having been unfortunate enough to be chosen for this task; to approach the helpless, wounded beast responsible for all of their suffering and offer it poison.

He locks eyes with Soldat and almost slaps the coffee away, but he's still just aware of his surroundings enough to force the nightmare into some sort of submission within his mind. It's coffee, he can smell it, and none of what happened all those years ago is relevant here. Fuck you, hallucinations, you haven't won yet - and he's determined not to let them.

"Thanks," he mutters after a moment as he shakes his head at himself and takes the drink. "You should probably go."