It’s better than dead silence, but—that all she is moved to do in the face of him is say oh, is reflexively humiliating. Is it better or worse than Darcy throwing up, he can’t tell. What he wants, he doesn’t know—maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe anything and everything would be absolutely mortifying because no matter what here he is spilling everything he’s got all over the floor and he wants to run and shut himself in his cabin, but didn’t she just talk him into not doing that, wasn’t there a point to this?

His Mantle goes colder and more humid, gaining a stinging edge. Phil sinks to the floor.

”Sorry,” he beats out again, voice thick, because it’s all he can do. All he’s good for.