It won't be long; none of the strikes were the kind to do serious damage. The kind to make an enemy drop a weapon in a single moment - or drop him, in this case - not to cripple them for any duration.

His hand tightens for a second on the grip. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere. He could be gone, for a few hours, at least. But he knows there's no rest there, and he doesn't want to do that to Quentin. A twitch, as he tries and fails to summon the coherence to holster it again properly, tucked in the small of his back under the uniform, but he doesn't manage it. He lets it drop onto the top of the dresser and shoves himself away, stumbles, scrubs one hand over his face and then stares at one of the crystal lamps and pulls in gulps of air.

Nothing ever passes, unless it gets worse, or someone makes it change. (The joke is that these are the same thing). Nothing ever passes, but he can endure.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice careful and distant and small.