Jim's cheer isn't received one way or the other. Frank is used to people who cover themselves like that, like Billy had. His expression is flat, but not unkind.

"Good to know," he gruffs, setting his progress down on his thigh so he can take a sip of his coffee, long cooled. "I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks of me either." Frank leans back in his seat and gestures across from him, if Jim wants to sit. His bruises come to light this way, dark shadows cast under his eyes and scratches and more bruises mottling his face.