More like, why waste it on himself?

"John Sheppard, primarily. I assume everything administrative has been absorbed already." Eye contact regained. There is a steel door behind it, unyielding. She is a colleague and not his friend, although there's always time for him to start swearing at her too. Charles does not intend to, however. "I've collected several samples, I had ran analyses on all of them. I, uh--"

This is where it gets difficult. Remembering. Or remembering the way he used to think. "I set aside some plasma. I had some idea about-- creating a serum based off his own human DNA to regress alien transformation, but it's not going to be that simple. If it was, they'd have figured it out on his world without needing the, uh, the Ira...-- the bug embryo fluid, whatever it was. Hook in McCoy, or. Severus.

"The Winter Soldier's off-limits," is said, before he tosses back the contents of his glass in a neat swallow. He doesn't make a face.

"All my notes on Sheppard are on the department server. Help yourself."

Charles refills his own. He refills hers as a matter of courtesy. They are both civil helpings, and he recaps the bottle once it's done. That he doesn't put it back on the shelf is neither here nor there. If she's going to get what she came for, then so's he.

He hefts up his glass again, just to hold. "And I intend no such thing. Without a telepath, however, it's a different matter entirely, and somewhat out of your jurisdiction. It was a project I was handling professionally, but in partnership with Security due to personal involvement. By default, it's now theirs."

There is a new guardedness to his look back at her, caught at something he hadn't intended to project. And he'd been doing so well. Charles is stymied silent for a moment, before he lets out an exhale that funnels audible through nasal passages, taking a sip of liquor.

"I had every intention of drinking alone, but no, you haven't offended me. Please accept my apology in permitting you to think otherwise."

Stiltedly formal, but there's an element of irony to it, as if he's making fun of himself.

There is a weightier silence than before -- not the brittle, vaguely panicky pause like before, but something more considered.

Finally;

"What is it that Severus said about me?"

It's a guess. It could have been Nuala. But having judged the various department of his division prior to this moment, Charles considers assumption to be educated.

Cards laid out before him, Charles has the decency to turn an abashed look aside, a hand up to itch along scruffy jaw. The quick repartee that had kicked off their conversation has all but ground to a halt. He should probably find a neat way to close off the conversation.

"Your sympathy is very kind," he finally states, "but it's nothing I deserve. It's as they say about making beds and sleeping in them. You're right, I'm not reading your mind."

His second drink is finished, this time with a slight rankle around his nose.

"If I asked what you're thinking, would that yield result?"

It's all not going very well, is it, but probably for the reasons that are kept to himself. He can't explain to her why he doesn't deserve sympathy, or why he hasn't been hard on himself at all, or why it's not her that's ruined any chance of a friendship, because most of the reasons why are contradictory or overlapping or deeply personal or not very good.

Charles is silent instead. He watches her rise.

"Odessa." A beat. "Good luck with your new position," he says, instead. It's best if things are left in fragments.