He doesn't jerk away. In fact, like a frightened animal-- like that abused hound, still so desperate for the touch of a kind hand despite its treatment-- he leans hesitantly into the contact. "It's not like that," he protests weakly. "It's not. I am the problem. I've al-always been the problem, they wouldn't have discharged me from the Guard if I was good enough--!" With a splash, he buries his face in his wet hands. That's a wound that's festered for years, meticulously kept from closing by the woman who was benevolent enough to take on someone with a tainted record like Devero's.