All Paul was able to see once was the ways that Gideon is not like her father. It had seemed impossible that her fierce sunrise warmth could have anything to do with the cool, shadowed hollowness of him.

But she holds him in the ruins. She keeps him close, even though she sees him. She knows what he is, and she still opens her throat for him, just so he won't be alone. It's different with her, but still -

Still. Something aches in him, among all the other aches.

"I didn't get you anything," he says, and he knows she'll pretend not to hear the quaver in his the way he pretended not to hear it in hers. He doesn't look at her as he balls his borrowed sleeve over his hand and drags it over his eyes when he finally lifts his head, a gesture that cannot possibly have smeared light the way it seems to. The afterimage fades quickly, real or not.

It fucking sucks, and it does. She's still glad he came back. It's too much to hold together, and for once, he doesn't try.