One for Sorrow, Two for Joy (Max)

With a flick of his wrist Gus snapped two napkins from the dispenser atop the display window, setting one on the counter and using the other to fish out the rolls Maxwell pointed to. He set them atop the napkin and pushed them toward the kid. "Anything else?"

He made a humming noise. "Maxwell, that's a nice name." 

Behind the counter was a line of hot beverage dispensers, and a number of twiddly dials and spigots for more complicated drinks. Gus realized that he'd left his tea out on the sidewalk, but rather than go out and fetch it again, he decided to just remake it. He'd tested a few of the dispensers before- like the pastries, they were marked in gibberish. But he remembered the one on the far right was coffee, so that meant the one on the far left was-

Blood. Hot, steamy blood.

Gus hastily dumped it down the sink and tried again. 

Hot orange soda. Hot engine oil. Hot pureed meat product. Hot off-yellow opaque liquid. Hot water. Running his hand down his face, he dropped one of the tea bags into the water and capped it. It occurred to him that he didn't know what exactly was in the tea, and he hadn't managed to taste the cup he'd made before, but if you couldn't trust a cardboard box with an adorable four-and-a-half eyed spotted whangdoodle on the front, then what could you trust? It would be a surprise. Surprises were fun.

"Did you want a drink?" He asked Max. "I don't know what half of this is, but. There's tea and coffee."

Leaning on the counter, he turned the cup idly in his hands as it steeped. "So. Why do you think I'm your father?"

There was, fortunately, a sink behind the counter, meaning Gus didn't have to hand the kid a cup of scalding water. He poured and passed the cup to Max, frowning as he cleared his face, and revealed the extent of the bruises. Poor kid. He'd never answered how he got them. Hadn't answered a lot of things, and here Gus was brimming with questions. He rolled the paper cup between his hands as he listened. He instinctively touched the bridge of his nose when Max mentioned it. "I always liked my nose." he muttered to himself.

"I see. It's... uncanny, I admit, I don't understand it." He wondered if he should mention that he had been wearing a sweater before, or if it would just make things harder for Maxwell, though the kid seemed to have moved on from that point- moved on, or buried it. Gus was familiar with the latter option. There was more and more he found he didn't understand here, and it was getting difficult to manage. Every time he thought he'd reached a point of understanding, fate seemed to throw him some new mystery. Or maniac. Or child. Or six-foot weasel. Even he could only bury so much.

He watched Max's face slowly become an ugly, blotchy mess and winced. "Are you going to tell me how you got those?" he gestured at Max's face. There was a question he was certain the boy could answer. It would be one mystery solved- better than the zero he was batting now. Gus started glancing around the counter again-maybe there was something he could get to put on the bruises (Or at least, some of them.), something cold. A towel he could freeze for a few minutes, a pack of ice. Something that might help them heal faster, if it wasn't too late for that already. Gus wasn't familiar with antemortem bruises, and usually at that point, there wasn't much to be done except to break out the concealer. Which, it seemed, was already Maxwell's Step One.

Gus paused in his searching to look at Max. He couldn't really disbelieve the boy, given the state of his face (Especially now that there wasn't anything left to mask the ugly bruises.), but the idea that someone, anyone, would take out their 'frustrations' on a kid that couldn't weigh much more than two apples together didn't sit well with him. Sure, he knew such people existed, but it was one of those realities he'd shelved away with the rest of the worldly unpleasantries he didn't much like to acknowledge.

"Oh." The statement hung awkwardly in the air. Gus continued fishing around behind the counter, hoping to come up with a better response. 

He didn't find much. What he presumed was a mini-fridge had only several packets of fluorescent, glowing gel in a rainbow of colors. He grabbed a few and eyed them doubtfully. They were about the size of a large ravioli, and shrink-wrapped in plastic. He held one up to the light (The ceiling pattern swam and warped behind it), shrugged, and brought them to Max. "Here, these are cold, they might help."

He leaned on the counter. "I'm sorry." he said finally. "That sounds... difficult." Having died a couple times himself already, he was well aware of how 'difficult' an experience it was- although his deaths had been... 'peaceful', in a manner of speaking (Ironically, he'd slept right through both of them. It was the waking up that stung.). Looking at Max, he was grateful for that. He wasn't entirely sure if he should offer comfort or solidarity- or if the kid would accept either.