He glances at him briefly, a not unsympathetic look reflected in his eyes. "Understood." Fraser plucks his Stetson from the chair, tucking it into its usual place under his arm before thinking better of it, and sitting down. He then reaches for one of the devastated folders on the desk, and begins reassembling it. It's like a reflex action, almost. A compulsion to put things into a sense of order. Something else is bothering his friend, but it's unclear what, and he has no desire to push. He'd rather it be a voluntary act. "Were you planning on going to the range this afternoon?" he asks eventually, fully aware that his friend tends only to use the things when he has to shoot accurately, or for stakeouts that require being able to see further than approximately thirty yards ahead.