( There's only one small pause in an otherwise perfectly choreographed routine. One little hesitation in what otherwise feels like pre-scripted habit. Just a second after he finishes pouring water on his wounds and before he holds his arm up, like he's not completely sure the song doesn't end there and he's not going to be dancing this one alone. He doesn't seem outright surprised, just...

It's just a moment, and then it picks back up to unfold the way it's done before — usually the other way around, but not always. )

Don't say his name. You'll somehow summon him here.

( He drawls darkly, casting his eyes down to study the depth of the wounds. Three nice, deep gashes down the bicep. The rest are little knicks and scratches that won't last more than a day or two, tops. )

Still wish I would've chucked him into the canal before I left.

( But Mary loved him, and he tolerated her enough to let her pet him. Pretty much guaranteed him a safe ticket. )