And, in this instance, there was.

It was a toss up if he appeared scary or not. The unmistakable signs of lack of sleep followed by far too many drinks clung to him in the form of dark circles under each eye, the lids rimmed in red. He hadn't shaved, again, for the last four days, the stubble adding to his appearance of a street bum; the lack of care he'd taken with his wrinkled clothes - the white shirt sporting a coffee stain that wouldn't wash out - only completing the overall look. It was only sheer luck that he'd thought to take a shower that morning, his hair still damp from the effort he'd taken.

In his hand he held his own mug of coffee, the lifeblood sending a swirl of steam to cut across the center of his visage as he studied Hestia quietly before breaking into the silence.

"Interrogator? You?" he questioned. The implication behind his tone of voice was gratingly clear: she wasn't what he'd have picked, were he Rufus, for the job of intimidating a witness. She looked more like a witness could break her with just a stern look than anything else. That he could have had more tact was lost on him; much was lost on him lately.