No, that's worse, somehow. Like erasing what he did. He'd like to reach out, to soothe it away--but doesn't. There isn't anything he can do.

It's old clothes he wears. Well, 'old', more like casual, comfortable, doesn't matter if blood gets on them. "It's," he starts with a little cough that might be a symptom of just clearing his throat, "spreading. In the city. In the water, apparently. There might be something to give to keep it from getting any worse." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

"I don't know if my symptoms can get much worse."