He steps closer, reaching, and it's like everything inside her assails an ache in that single direction. She's been taught not to retreat until retreat is the only promise of survival for the greatest part of an army, but that's not what answers and she knows it. She's touched him more than a dozen times in the last few days, but methodical all of it. To keep him alive. To change wounds, and check fevers. To dribble water and stave off dehydration. Not for herself. Not as the answer of a request.

He's closer and her heart, already in rebellion against his words, only thunders all the louder. His name. Over, and over, and over, again. It and only it. Threatening to empty himself from that spavce, her life, her, again.

She shouldn't. She shouldn't. She knows. Like every time she did, so many years ago. But she can't stop herself, doesn't want to, even though he's repeating exactly what she told him. He can't stay. He has to go. Paradise will not welcome him, man or...

...assassin.

Even with the chill of that word still there, every sign of those lingering wounds, and the darkness in his eyes, it doesn't stop it. The fact her fingers have to find the side of his arm, and it's like the warmth under them sheers away all the still-true facts -- down to the one she's not sure she can handle. Just as true as the rest. "I already did once." A bare second later, so quietly she can't be proud of it. "Don't make me do that again. Please."