Stark red drops hit the table between them, hollow little splatters resounding in the sudden silence.
He turns slowly, keeping his eyes downcast as he pretends not to have seen.
He can't let her see his eyes, not just because of the pity she doesn't want to see, but because of his sickening, all-consuming fear.
If she see his eyes, she'll know his terror, recognize the hopeless begging of miracles from a god he's never believed in, and it will only break her more, little by little.
He knows the only thing that keeps her going is the belief that she can continue to function unhindered until things get Real Bad, keeping her stoic mask cinched tightly over her sunken, weary face. If he can do nothing else, he'll let her keep her show of strength, despite his own terrible need to brush shaking fingers over her bloodied upper lip, to crush her to his chest, to let her know that, god damn it, he is here.
But she knows. She draws silently on his strength, and he bites his tongue, letting the copper taste of blood spread bitterly across it before daring to question if she's okay.
She'd say the same thing, anyway, if he asked. The same tired lie that they both know well. And as much as it hurts not to speak, it would hurt him more to hear her say I'm Fine.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to make a whole series of these semi-poetic little vignettes, but I have a tendency to get hung up on things. (For example, if left to my own devices, they will all probably follow this one and I'll end up with a thousand depressing snapshots of Cancer Scully)
If anybody liked this and wants more, send me prompts!
If not, I'll just channel my sadness into one of my other stories.