"You're better without me." His smile, aimed at the floor, twists unhappily. This is real self-pity, real misery. It's stupid, stupid - he needs to keep his calm, can't give into his weakness. He needs to keep it from descending into this emotionality. But he -

"Perhaps I'm no thief, but a doctor. Cutting away something poisonous. Myself, you know." And then he runs a hand over his face, and clenches his fist. Shakes his head. "Let's - let's talk about something else. Nothing good can come of this conversation."