There's a twitch every so often in Charon's face - or lack thereof, as Niko wipes away at the white gunk, the napkin likely taking away other oozy messes that comes from a constantly rotting face. He almost swats his hand away to tell him to forget it, that he'd take care of it later. But he was here, and going back on patrol with white shit on his face was bound to have him be taken less seriously. Sometimes, Charon really hated it when tiny bits of insecurities he hadn't felt in decades resurfaced for seemingly no apparent reason. Maybe he was going mad.

"No." Just aggravating quite a bit. But it wasn't Niko's fault, he at least realizes. It was just the situation he was put in. The fact that he was sitting here needing aid for the most ridiculous shit. He would have felt better if he needed a bullet taken out of his gut, honestly.

His next words are gruff, naturally, tinged with impatience. "Is it coming off?"