He shouldn't have looked. It's worse through Carver's eyes—seeing and not knowing, feeling only ever-widening dread. Like the resolve is slowly leaking from him.

Thank fuck he puts his hand up. William stares uncomprehending, then closes his eyes. Tight, his jaw clenching. “Yeah. That's...it was a wound.” He opens his eyes again. His shoulder has started to throb. He lets his other hand fall and sits there, a moment, off on another planet. It was sudden. What he remembers of that night is so small and insignificant: the exact shade of blue he wore, the sound—not of his finger being chewed off but of the spider matron's legs skittering across the floor.

“Not that old. We—they—we cheated time. To fix me up.” He sags a little at the shoulders, but doesn't move his hand. Thinks about it—thinks about it a few times, and when he does drop his hand it feels for some reason like pulling away. “Huh.” He eyes the mirror—the glass seems to have dulled. “I guess you can't fool everyone.”

Without thinking he's clasped his hands together, flexes his ring finger back and forth. Quietly, his gaze steady on Carver: “Do you want me to do you?”