There's one stray thought that hits him in the fraction of a second between being hugged and that fact actually getting to him: he has to wonder what it is with people turning the tables on him with empathy and hugs and friendly concern. Last time someone did that was Party, after Glitch had been killed courtesy of one of the aliens' more sinister games.

This time, he only copes marginally better. Last time, he was already under a lot of physical stress, the victim of hypothermia and goodness knew what else from spending a week completely void of pain receptors.

This time, it hits him squarely in the heart, which has been on a tight leash since this morning. He has to be strong, he's got to be, because there are people here who depend on there being at least someone around who isn't about to crumble like so much overworked pastry.

But then the embrace registers, and his skin burns wherever they touch like it did those first Hellish months in Taxon (he doesn't even know what Hell is, but he knows he's lived it twice over and that's all that matters right now, fuck semantics or lexicon or whatnot). Still he returns the hug with one arm, cheek pressed to the top of Az's dark-haired head, his other hand coming up to rub at his face. Forehead too hot, cheeks too cold, eyes burning and dry, jaw so tense it will snap any minute now.

Only, it isn't his jaw that snaps. It's his lungs, expelling one treacherous, wordless sob. What started as a hairline fracture sends the rest of his brave front cracking.

Damn hugs. There's a reason he doesn't do hugs.