It's been a very long time since a blade has met Liam's flesh. Bullets he remembers, but he is so far removed from the days of butterfly knives and brass knuckles that the sudden reminder of what it is like to be stabbed manages to surprise him. Buried in his arms and hair, his eyes snap open, though they see nothing but the white-hot pain. As the knife jitters, he sucks in a deep breath. Then he breathes out, long, slow and loudly, when it is pulled down again; the way Shaman taught him to handle suffering a decade ago. He reminds himself that this was not worse than neurotoxin - reminds himself that he shouldn't be dwelling on this. He has a dearth of happy memories, now, and even less that are not tainted by heartbreak, but he manages to conjure up the memory of a particular face, a particular friend. Tracing that memory over and over, like running a finger across stitchwork on cloth. Soaking pain into it and making another place he could not come back to.

There is no being quick with this word, but to have chosen any other would have damned him to this man, and petty crimes did not make for interesting scars. Eventually it is over and, wordlessly and gradually, Liam collects himself. He draws away from the wall tenderly, hair covering his face while he figures out how he's going to handle moving with this brand on his back. When he's sure he can speak without his voice breaking, he combs his hair back from his face with his fingers, turning towards Hector with a weak smile. He's gonna need him to bend down and get his clothes. He hadn't thought that part through.

"Mm. I guess we'll see." There is no energy left for judgment. He casts a glance towards the ceiling before catching Hector's gaze, ready to tell him what helped. Then his smile falls, surprised. For all that people hoped their almost-tears would not be noticed, it was never not obvious. "-Hey, what's wrong? I'm fine." The worst of it was done.