Jaeger is docile up until he's confronted with more new people...then, he yanks his hands back defensively, trying to curl in on himself again. He comes to a stop once he realizes that the medical tent is so close, and in spite of the promise of relief, he simply...can't.

They don't need to see. The haze is starting to fade, but the shame is still there. What he's let them do to him, and the ugliness it's left behind.

"I'll do it at home. I'm fine." He's done it before, so many times before. He knows the ritual of cleaning wounds, of wrapping them safely away from infection and the odd sort of comfort of bindings and bandages. "I don't want..."

He trails off, uncertain. When he comes back, it's with stark, hollow words, full of frustration and anger. At himself. At Donna for making him do this. At this entire fucked-up, insane world that's laid him so bare, stripped him of all his equilibrium. It's probably the most lucid thought he's had in the past hour.

"I hate this."