Elliot looks down again, thumbs into the little hole, brushing golden skin gone sallow with lack of sun. "Got shot," he explains, brow wrinkled as he considers once again the impossibility of his healing — and then those storm clouds pass, and he sighs. Doesn't seem inclined to explain further, though the memory of the pain of it is right there if Peter wants it. "Good call." He can double back, find something else to wear. Now that he knows there are going to be other people around.

When he leaves, though, to go find one of the provided Station tops, their hands may have separated but he doesn't try and untwine the way their minds merged. Like they stay clasped, despite the distance.