He’s haggard, exhausted, increasingly filthy in this roadkill veil of damp and dust. His glance to Bastien is uncertain, unsure what to make of his casting here as good cop. A little suspicious.

There is trace gratitude, also.

His compliance is slow and stiff, hindered by the inoperable claw of his left hand and the bandy-legged reluctance of muscle and bone to hold his weight after so many hours spent in the saddle. He clings to it to stop himself buckling over into the dirt, shuffling fresh dust loose in the process, leery of the nearness of Marcus and the free hand he still has.

He doesn’t have to say don’t touch me to buzz with rattlesnake warning in the way he coils in on himself while testing his own weight.