[Not a Martyr after all-- he sees the weighty look and quite sensibly says nothing, teeth pressed to lower lip and slate-blue eye shifting from Thistle's gaze down to the ground. It's not something he'd want to bring up besides-- he still carries at least part of the blame on his shoulders (and shouldering blame is what he does, isn't it?), should have noticed sooner, should have left space within the single-minded fixation that had consumed him to make time to check on those who were under his care.

But that was then, and this is now, and he feels both vaguely thrilled and chastened as the other man keeps talking-- maybe its what he's needed all along, someone who, when pushed, pushes back. Stands their ground. Overtly challenges the constant self-depreciation.

Overtly flustered now, he keeps his gaze locked on the ground, laughs quietly.]

It's turning out to be a very intense sort of day, isn't it? I doubt you woke up this morning thinking you'd be saying that.

[Because when in doubt, resort to bravado. Even if its the warm-edged kind, the kind that holds sincerity underneath. Fingers curling around Thistle's, he squeezes his hand gently.]

One more interesting thing to add to the list.