Very reluctantly, she let him pull free from her grip and shivered slightly at his kiss. She didn't even protest his diagnosis, but stared blankly up at the ceiling. Exhausted and haunted, the stress added years to the lines of her face and even in - perhaps especially in - that ridiculous overlarge sweater, she could have been fifty. Her hand held to his but loosely. She'd used up all her will to be strong.

Long minutes passed, and she didn't move much. Hardly blinked.

"What can I do?"

It was barely a whisper, a cracked, ragged sound, colorless in intonation. And yet somehow it conveyed a wealth of hurt and despair and guilt.