"Reckon so," he nods, moving to unbutton the shirt carefully, it takes him a few minutes longer since he's favoring his left hand, but they're in no rush.

Eventually, he peels out of the shirt, first freeing the right arm before he leans forward and tugs at his left wrist to pull the cuff over his hand. Once the shirt is off, he reaches up to touch his shoulder, fingertips grazing over the damaged flesh.

There's the scar on the outside of his bicep, from the bullet he took at Stinking Springs - the one he dug out with his knife and kept wrapped for two weeks before Kim stitched it closed, so the wound isn't as 'clean' as one would like. There's another on the front of his shoulder, just below the collarbone - that damn rifle slug he took in Lincoln, the day the war 'ended'. That one stayed open and bleeding for a few days until he first came to Milliways and Dr. Tam and Zhaan patched him up. And then there's the scar low on his stomach, flesh discolored from where the infection had killed off tissue and then the tough skin that had healed into the scar.

The night you almost died. She almost saw you die.


The back of his shoulder is scraped, red and raw, a few small cuts and what will later be bruises already starting to darken.