"I've been told I have a knack for diplomacy," he comments drily. The temptaiton is there to brush it off like he always does, but his hands are still covered with pale pink healing wounds and with them comes the lingering memories of the warehouse. Of the fleshy walls and the sticky black blood and the crying things, and how vulnerable the whole thing had made him feel.

It's a bad memory on top of so many other bad memories, and while he's been trying to work through it, it's been to very mixed results.

"There's something about the snow, in particular, the silence. Coming out of the house was strange. Time was strange." He takes in a slow breath, lets it out, and shakes his head. He looks over at Yelena for a moment, then breathes out again. It smells like salt and rot, but after the cold sterility of being buried in snow, it's a welcome change.

"It's been a lot," he admits, finally. "Things build up. And this place...it makes it all very personal at times. No distance, no buffer."

He's familiar with this kind of work and comfortable with it. What he's not really coping well with is the way it chips away at his defenses.