He didn't comment on his feet. It wasn't appropriate, but he listened carefully and gingerly put the hand that wasn't holding hers on her back. He didn't know how he was supposed to react, he didn't know magic was something you could be addicted to, but addiction was addiction, wasn't it? Probably. He'd work under that theory anyway.
"Shh," he said softly, looking around and then taking one of the wiping cloths on the tray where the stitching tools still were with the hand from her back. It was meant for blood or other excretions, but the soft fiber would work for tears as well. He offered it to her, heart aching at her story. "I'm sorry, Willow. That... that must have been horrible. But the state of mind... that wasn't you. Addiction, rage, and grief can turn anybody into a stranger. But today you protected me when you didn't know who I was, and you understood that you couldn't use more power to stop the boy without putting yourself at risk. You told me you couldn't do more and you didn't, that's monumental. Almost nobody is that strong, no matter what the vice is."