"Don't worry about me," Sasuke returns, speaking almost before he really thinks--he said me, not it, and it's such a tiny difference, but the implications seem maudlin and dramatic now that he's voiced it.

It's true, though. Don't worry about me. He doesn't want Warsman investing anything in him, although there's the chilling suspicion that it's a little late for that; still, there's time to build up enough of a blockade that he can slip back out of the apartment without leaving prints.

He can't afford to feel safe. The luxury to want to was taken from him before he learned what it was.

But he knows he's dwelling. If he does it long enough, it will start to darken his face, no matter how hard he tries to keep it under--that unpleasantness always seems to be simmering just under the surface, waiting for any chance to explode out of him like so much lava.

Which gives him an idea. He takes another swallow of tea. "I'm a fire user--worst comes to worst I can light up a stick and carry it around with me." This smirk, he allows to stay--it's attached to the quip rather than to any interaction between the two of them.