There's no way to deny anything anymore. He wants to. More than anything, he wants this to go back to normal. He wants his life back. Not this -- none of this is what he wants.

But he's needed, isn't he? It doesn't matter if he wants it. It doesn't matter if it's right for him or not. He's needed. A comrade, a friend, needs him. And he can no more give up on that, no more turn it away, than he can fly. He can do this, at least. He can protect this. Whatever it may be.

"Good," he hears himself say. His voice is little more than a growl. "Keep it that way. Do not panic."

The last words are punctuated by squeezes of his fingers. His other self isn't too removed, as far as he's concerned. A soldier is a soldier. Giant robot body notwithstanding. He can't imagine what it would be like to be anything else. That, at least, he can take in stride. As long as he's a soldier, as long as he has his objective, he'll weather the rest of the storm.

And anchor those who can't. That hasn't change, and he holds onto it as much as he grips hold of the other man. His head lowers a moment.

There's a bare instant in which his head leans against the other's. A heartbeat. Nothing more. Then he lifts it, staring straight into the doctor's eyes.

"So we will. So hold it together. Understood?" he says, the growl still in his voice. "Hold together. Move forward."

I will not leave you.