The sound of Ben's voice is so familiar that he almost doesn't think twice about hearing it, but that's the thing, isn't it? He hears Ben's voice and the way to reverberates off the walls of the empty shop instead of in the space between his own ears. It brings him to a stop almost immediately, frozen in the doorway just staring at Ben.

Something deep in his chest aches, but he thinks it could just be the gunshot wound. It has nothing to do with the fact that he's now standing opposite the very brother he never got to say goodbye to, that he never had the chance to really mourn. A brother he has a thousand apologies for and double the insults.

He opts to disregard the apologetic look on Ben's face. "Surprise, Benerino, to your great surprise I've actually managed to die for real this time, and I'll have you know it was not my fault and no, heavy drugs and alcohol were not involved." Raising one hand as if to make a point, he tilts his head, scrunching up his face in thought. "Well, alcohol, but it stands. Not my fault. Definitely dead. Real shit show, let me tell you."

The words stream out in a fit of nerves as he makes his way to the counter, taking up the space between the stool Ben sits on and the empty one beside it. The lady slaps down a cup of coffee in front of him and the liquid burns. He draws his hand back, giving it a shake and a little hiss for show.

"Ooh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the grave this morning, shit," he breathes, waggling his eyebrows in Ben's direction. It's so good to see him, and yet those words die on his lips. Instead, his expression finally softens and he looks back down at the steaming cup.

"You didn't even say goodbye, you little shitheel. Very rude."