He wasn't certain what worried him more. That he would have to explain this to Jack- or that Jacked seemed to understand him so readily. All their fears and preparation, all their insistence that they can protect themselves, that they are capable- these are not concerns of common people asserting that they might be of use in battle. These are concerns of those that have endured something. Some horror. Something of which they have not spoken and perhaps if he were not so weary he might ask after it. For now he let himself be held and took the invitation for what he saw it to be. One to settle atop Jack entirely, not at all unlike a drunken Elvish blanket, and rest.

He huffed a faint, weary laugh into Jack's chest once he was down. Mumbled something sad and rough and inarticulate in Antivan before he corrected himself since the Wings apparently did not speak drunken Zevran. "I used the same dagger earlier in the week to kill her again. Rinna. I was caught in one of those...shift. Dreams.

It felt like it was real and I so wished it to be. She was warm and alive and everything I'd missed and I'd forgotten all that came after. The Warden, the Blight- this place. You and Eugene. And to escape I had to kill her again."