[L doesn't speak, can't speak for the shoot of sickening pain in his arm. If he'd tried, there would be a quaver in his voice at least, perhaps even a whimper. He swallows, and breathes, everything in his chest shuddering as a fresh, chilled sheen of sweat blooms from his pores.

There's a hand at his neck, and is it really such a surprise? His pain comes back to Paul, after all, and not even Lycka is protecting him anymore, her dark glowering smoke grown beyond sympathy and into rage.

A strange numb peace settles in, the kind that only blankets the doomed as a final comfort. But nothing pierces through his throat; instead, Paul's forehead presses against his, and the blanket falls away and sucks all the air from his lungs, and no amount of shaky, gulping breaths can restore it.

So he doesn't try. The panic unique to the paranoid and mistrustful wrings through his ribs, but he's able to register what Paul is asking of him.

He's not sorry; he'd do it again. But Paul is telling him, in no uncertain terms, what he needs, and what has to happen for him to be safe, so close that their minds are nearly touching.

It's been so long since he felt like they were of one mind.]

I'm not supposed to let anything happen to you, either. That's why I took it. As long as you understand that... I understand what you need, and why.