He would have given almost all that he had; his intellect, his talents, his pride, to hold her hand. Given even more; his very career, the letters that follow his name, for her to be the one to reach out and thread her fingers through his. Ever since they became partners. He watches, curious, as her hand drifts over his lap, breath stilling as he feels her fingers wrap around his palm, soft skin catching against rough calluses, and as her hand constricts against his in a comforting squeeze he swallows away the irony of all that he has lost.
In that moment, as with every other moment since he woke, words seem to drift just out of his reach and he wants to say 'I'm sorry, I've missed you, I need you, I'm broken, I'm NOT broken, please stay' but his mouth is dry and his tongue is heavy and there are guards with guns so he places his hand over hers, feels her squeeze tighter, and releases his breath.
He mourned the loss of his mind and her friendship as one, but he would give whatever he had left to repair the latter, because yes they can get by without each other and no they are not inseparable, especially not since… but he's homesick for her; misses her like he misses Scotland and somehow a few seconds ago she felt just as far away, with her shoulder brushing his. But now… He glances over and she meets his eyes but cannot hold his gaze, not yet. Still, he glimpses her apology, her regret, feels the shift between them as she intertwines their fingers under the protection of his other hand, and, despite the current, extremely confusing situation, feels hope.
