[He hunches up a little at 'I am a bit,' like a scared child, the tequila both lessening the intensity of his reaction and making him forget to hide it.]

Channels. Doors. Hooks.

[It's hard to explain. Or, it's simple, but brutal, and he doesn't want to. He bites the inside of his cheek, and the taste of blood is still far too familiar.]

Just to see. Promise?