Flynn sighs, too, his heart heavy, wishing Peter would just step away from the door already so he could run from this. The confrontation, the memories, the-- everything. The bandages on Peter's arms. Something twists painfully in his gut and he feels another wave of nausea when he remembers the blood dripping into the cup drip, drip, drop. He's taken so much from his friend, from his soul and how is he ever going to make it right? The awful sensation of his questions lingers, how he tore into people's selves like a knife (or a shard that cuts into Peter's arm) and Peter telling him that he trusts him...

And then Peter kicks at the door and yells at the wall and-- seriously? Flynn raises his head from his hands.

"Are you... talking about me in the third person?"