There's a moment when the ache becomes so intense he's sure it's going to topple him- he can only describe it as bereft, watching the fleshy thing squall and shrivel on the warehouse floor. It matches the pain in his hands, the twinge of older, cleaner scars, the tremendous wave of self-loathing and shame that still threatens to choke him.

He pulls his injured hands in close to his body, mindless of the blood he's getting on his shirt, as if he could really hide them from Donna.

"I'm fine. It's okay." There's no bite to his words, no strength, just quiet resignation. "I'll...I'll take care of it."

He really won't, that's clear in his posture and the weary, wary look in his eyes.

But if he takes care of it himself, then no one will have to see. He can keep the scant armor he has left.