"Ow," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head, looking at him.

In truth he hadn't been looking for pity. He hated pity, really he did. A part of him had more been scared, admitting it, saying it. Afraid that somehow it would shift whatever foundation they had been building and scatter it. No, he wasn't proud of the things he'd done. He wasn't proud of sending Nero's ship into a void, he wasn't proud of how things had gone down with Marcus and Khan, he wasn't proud of surviving Zompania. He didn't want Whiskey to be proud of him for it either. He just didn't want him thinking him less for them.

"I can get messages without smacks to the head," he grumbled, reaching out and smacking his shoulder.