[That confirmation isn't one D'Artagnan will ask details on, wouldn't even if the man hadn't moved past it. He'll not get mired in feelings, his or another's, not presently. It rarely serves him well, and it's part of what he aims to reclaim control of. He'll not fail so quickly. As he listens, his fingers still and break apart, and he leans back more on the couch. He nods, though Wash's experience isn't his, but he understands the escalation of it as something he enjoyed then becoming more focused interest, to cloud intrusive thoughts, unwanted reflections.]

Recently, I took up whittling, woodcarving, for those reasons. I'd stopped... patrolling in the Down, stopped fighting, and I didn't know what to do with myself when I needed to fill that... space with something, that wasn't violent or terrible. I have control in that. I want control in this. I don't want to... be afraid of myself. It's irrational, isn't it?

[He makes a disdainful noise then, thinking he'd been rather incoherent, or perhaps naïve in his comparisons, simplifying it.]