[As far as he knows, that's how it goes with all Palebloods. On the other hand, maybe he doesn't know enough to make a decent sample size. Either way - safe side, oven mits. More important conversations.]

You wouldn't blame me. [He echoes Lance there, gently, softening his voice even further. But for all the quiet of his tone, there's not a single hint of doubt. Nothing. He is utterly, completely sincere. Lance wouldn't blame him for taking action against someone who'd hurt him. Or who'd hurt his family.] Not for going after Reaper, Mother Superior, or... if the Witch showed up here.

[His eyes lift, slowly, to meet Lance's. All that sincerity plain to see.]

And, Lance, I tried. I tried to take Superior down every chance I had. I tried to kill her.

[If they're both admitting big things to each other here - he may as well tell him about the attempts. Only Peter had ever been there during them. Well, Peter and Cynthia. He hadn't been successful, but not for a lack of attempts. None of them had any real hope of defeating a Pthumerian, and definitely not in Deerington. His hand tightens, curling fingers through the glove around Lance's.]

So how... could I ever blame you for pulling it off? How could I think any less of you?

[He blames Reaper. He blames Maul. The people who'd driven someone he cares about to this. For no good reason except they could. Or they thought it was teaching him a lesson, or some kind of high and mighty lie like that. What in the hell has this taught his teammate? His friend? Other than to hate himself.]

[Pthumerians help them if he met them alone.]