Kavinsky fidgeted with his sleeve, behind his back this time. The scratches itched and burned, especially with the added knowledge that he was thinking about them intently now. His stomach and chest was tight.

"They're from a nightmare," he blurted, then frowned. He didn't owe Al an explanation of where the scratches had come from, didn't owe him an explanation of what he was--not now, not ever, if he didn't want to. If Newt hadn't told Al what he was, what he was capable of doing--

But Newt didn't know he was capable of the nightmares.

"I did see him," Kavinsky hissed instead. His fingers curled in his pockets, unduly offended that Al thought he didn't like him. "I got to see the whole thing. Great. Yes. I'm a shit heel, and a liar, and a slut. Anything else you're here to add to the list?"