And, uhhhh he'd definitely been under-exaggerating a lot about said injuries.
He's still wearing the same T-shirt and ratty jeans she remembers him wearing on their last day together, except it's covered in dirt and filth and old blood, holes in the elbows and a few along the hemline. His lips are cracked and dry, his face is marred by ugly chartreuse bruising and he holds his arm gingerly to his chest.
The Lev that Abby was familiar with was always slight, able to crawl into the nooks and crannies of various rundown buildings to hunt for supplies, engage in a variety of athletic stunts and martial arts, and to run long distances before tiring-but this Lev is practically a skeleton, his clavicles sticking harshly out of his muddied collar.
He winces at the crushing hug, swallowing down a yelp, but practically jumps on her after only a second of thought, squeezing her tight with his good arm. "You look so different," he laughs, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The Abby he remembers wasn't nearly the solid wall of muscle she is now.
It's as if she's been reinflated, her pallor smooth and healthy, and Lev can't remember feeling this grateful for anything in his life. They're both safe. They're both all right. Lev didn't fail her. He closes his eyes, swaying dangerously. For the first time in months, he can just be. Just rest. "I'm really happy you're OK."