( He chews on his bottom lip. The silence stretches again — not because he doesn't know the answer, but because he doesn't want to admit it. Stares down at the wood grain pattern on the bar top beneath his fingers. The places the wood is sealed, the places that sealant is cracked away, chipped, revealing rougher stuff beneath. Worn down from use.

He could fix it. )

Fighting. Violence. It used to be... I'd get this urge, and as long as I went out on a hunt I could get it out of my system, problem solved. But lately it's...

( He could fix it, if Mags let him. If he dropped just a couple gold pieces on the right stuff and she gave him a few hours without anybody around to screw it up, he could sand it down. Fill it in. Seal it. Make it good as new. )

It's not enough. It hasn't been enough. We went out after those bandits, and I started... tearing through them, and it wasn't enough, and when Jo grabbed me... It's like I didn't even see her, I just saw the next-

( The next victim. He was gonna go through every single person there, one by one. One after another, until there wasn't anybody left. Not a single god damn person.

He can't fix this.

His voice cracks, and the admission comes unbidden, out of his mouth of its own accord. Eyes wet, voice small, like a god damn child — )

I'm scared.