He knows cats do it. Crawl off into some dark corner and let themselves deteriorate rather than admit that they're hurt. For the longest time, he'd thought they were stupid. He knew they did it to avoid the predatory jaws of bigger animals even if they knew damn well no such other animals were in the vicinity. A house cat held this kinship with it's wild bretherin. Better to die alone than risk getting hurt again.

But you're sitting there in your room, face contorted in anguish as you clasp the stained cloth down on your wound. It could be a gash, gourge, slash or another type he doesn't know. He can't be sure, but he knows you're in pain considering the tear tracks that litter your face, salty soldiers clearing a path through the dirt and muck that had accrued on your face during your prior mission.

He's always considered you his to some extent. Since he first saw your wide-eyes glancing around the manor, he's wanted nothing more than to scoop you up into his arms, to keep you safe from whatever dangers might otherwise rear their ugly head your way. Logan had gone through a phase of saying Warren had become your "mama bird", muttered and chuckled under his breath as though Warren might contest the claim.

Though Warren would've never fathomed saying it in earnest. It's his job to protect you. Doesn't matter that he's his own supervisor as well as the one who hired himself for the position.

What matters is that you're pulling away from help. Pulling away from a helping hand in fear that it may grab you tight and twist your arm like the last time you accepted help. Or that their grasp may not be as far as they claimed it was, and they'll leave you, hand outstretched and awaiting aid. Whatever your reason may be, Warren's heart twists in anxious knots as he watches you stare up at him.

He could drag you to Hank, sure. But you'll never forgive him if he forces you, he knows that much. So instead, he squats down and regards you with a warm gaze before speaking. "May I see?"