Much's stomach twisted guiltily when she winced, and a shadow fell over his face as he watched her tend to her fingers. Instantly he thought the worst, that she was trying to cover up for something. Defensive wounds? Somehow? "Can I have a look?" he asked, curling his fingers gently around the hand she'd placed in his. When she nodded, he carefully peeled back the lace of her glove, exposing her sore knuckles, shadowed in bruises. "Oh Marce," he breathed, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb. He shouldn't have touched her probably, but part of him imagined he'd be able to, somehow, sweep the bruise from her skin. "Are you okay? I don't mean just the knuckles. All of it?"
Last time he'd seen her, she'd been a mess. Days of fear and no food, days chained to a bed, days waiting for the worst, days of grueling boredom, they'd all piled up on her so heavily she'd need him to actually carry her.
Part of him believed he should still be carrying her. That thing people said. About being responsible for people after you'd saved them. That. Part of him worried that wounds like this meant he'd dropped her too soon.