It is beginning to get dark, but the shivers she'd had with night's approach have been banished by his shirt around her shoulders and his chest against hers, holding her in place. She is, even with all the insanity raging about them, happy, and she feels safe. That he can do this to her, that he can bring her away from all her fear, that he can even hold off her instinct to run, should worry her, would have worried her not so long ago. But it can't shake off her contentment, not now, curled up on his chest, so far away from the rest of the world.
His words are soft, not wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere, but needing to ask her anyway, "Let me ask you something Freckles," his fingers twining in her hair, afraid of what her answer will be, "The day Blockhead was beating on me, you said, 'I love you,' but that was just to… get him to stop, right?" He looks down at her, but she's not looking up, her body has stiffened against his, and he's afraid that the peace that they had will shatter.
She's afraid of something much worse than that though. The peace that they had, as fragile as it was, was going to end in the morning anyway. But what he's asking for, the confirmation that he wants, is something that frightens her far more than what will face them when they come for Sawyer. What he's asking for is something that she swore she would never give again, something that she could not bear to curse him with: her love.
Kate doesn't have many happy memories, most of the ones she did have are drowned out by the misery that her childhood became. But there is one she does remember, one that she clings to, and one that confirms the evil in her soul. At five years old the memory is murky, the details gone, but the feeling remains. Comfort, happiness, safety. All feelings that she wasn't going to experience much of for the rest of her life. Her Mom kisses her head and fusses with the blanket, her Dad switches out the light, and they both disappear into the hallway, leaving the door open a crack to let some light in. From her bed, Kate calls, "Goodnight Mom, Goodnight Dad. I love you," and just like that she curses her parents.
Not knowing what she's done, not knowing what the words of love from their innocent little girl's mouth have laid out for them, they both call out, "Goodnight Katie, I love you too," back at her. Her Dad left the next day, going to fight a war, but even when he came back, he didn't come home, Wayne was already there. He was a broken man when she saw him again, her words haunting him already.
That memory, as happy it was, is tied to another, to the day when her dying mother had screamed for help with her last breaths, terrified of her daughter. To the day when Tom had been shot in the car, and she'd fled with his blood all over her hands.
She'd ended up hiding in a storm drain that night, shivering not from the cold, but from terror. She'd realised what she was, what she did to people that she loved. They got hurt, broken, even died, all because she told them she loved them. Her mother had died screaming for help because her daughter's love had killed the only man she every loved. Tom had died because a sixteen year old girl had pledged herself to him as he cleaned the blood off her lips, had put away her dreams of revenge and flight to tell him that she loved him. First she'd broken his heart, sending him away packing, but that wasn't enough, she had to invade his life once again, and this time she left him dead.
Even Wayne, the bastard who'd wrecked her life, even he'd suffered from what she'd laid on him. At eight years old she was already surly and filled with anger. But her mother had stood in the doorway, complete with a plaster cast on her arm and a busted eye. She'd told Kate that it was her fault, that she was the one who made Wayne angry. If only she'd be nicer to him, then everything would be better. So eight year old Kate swallowed her pride, and at her mother's urging kissed Wayne goodnight, muttering a not very believable, "Goodnight Wayne, I love you," at him. He'd knocked her out of the way of the television with a grunt, barely listening to her, and spilling beer down her nightdress so that it stuck to her skin. She'd gone upstairs to change with tears in her eyes, but not missing the hopeful smile on her mother's face.
She'd done it to all of them, all the people she'd loved. Kevin had followed her halfway across the country, a broken shell of the man she'd married, heartbroken, cynical, miserable. He'd become the sort of man he abhorred, an angry drunk who only wanted to hurt the woman he loved. She'd done that to him, she'd created that mess, and she hated herself for it.
Two years later, she willingly laid her curse on Jason, whispering an, "I love you," into the darkness as she laid in his bed, the sweat from his skin clinging to her and filling the air with a choking miasma. She'd chosen him because he was a disgusting, violent man, and that was something she knew how to manipulate. With the words said, almost as a test of their power, she'd suggested the bank robbery the next day, and he'd jumped at the chance. She knew she'd break him then, and she couldn't bring herself to care. Her mind was still grieving for the people she'd destroyed, one more wouldn't make any difference to the weight on her soul. She'd shot him almost without remorse, wondering whether it was death or destruction that was coming for him, she never found out, it didn't matter anyway, it was all the same. She was a monster, cursed with the blood in her veins as much as with the deaths on her soul.
She's paused for too long, she can feel his body becoming tense, his walls coming up to her again. She can't give him what he wants, she can't tell him she loves him, she'll only break him if she does, and even what faces him in the morning is infinitely better than what those words would do to him. She's said it once already, only to snatch it back once it was safe, but she's afraid that those words have laid their mark on him already. If she says it again, she will destroy him.
She has to do something, if she doesn't answer, she'll lose him, and she can't cope with that, not now, not in the grips of these people. So she kisses him, the only thing she can think of, pouring her feelings out in the only way she knows how. It wouldn't matter if she meant it when she told him she loved him, he'd be cursed whether she did or not, but she hopes that he can feel the she loves him through her kiss, because it's all that she can give. She lays back down on his chest, resting her head where she can hear his heartbeat, her breaths short as she waits for his response.
He kisses the top of her head gently, whispering, "I love you too, Freckles," with only the tiniest hint of insecurity in his voice. She closes her eyes with relief, he believes her, and even if he wanted more, she's saved him from the fate that she's given to so many others.