Breathe, idiot, Carver tells himself. He realizes distantly that he's shaking. That he feels cold and clammy, his hands curled so tight to Pope's coat. He doesn't think he could let go even if Pope ordered him to. Revenge is a distant ghost. It's hard to focus on anything except how wretched he feels. The weight of all the filth on him, inside him.

"Yeah," he agrees, only half focused. He wants to kill these men, he thinks; he wants them to hurt because that's what he's supposed to want. "Can you...?"

Carver swallows hard. Closes his eyes.

"Can you help me up? I don't want it on me."