"I can't do this anymore," she says and he's about to reply, about to say she doesn't have to, when she starts to cry.
It's the quiet and soft kind of tears that he's never been good at handling, that kind people who never knew His Bobbi always say she's not capable of, and he wishes they were more alone than a glass box in the center of a busy lab and then he decides he doesn't even care.
"I'm sorry." She's whispering her apologies and he's not sure what for and it doesn't matter, does it? Not now, when she almost died and still looks like she might, it doesn't matter anymore.
She's breathing and awake and alive and he would swear that his heart is a collection of shattered pieces on the mend.
He wipes her cheek with his thumb, gingerly and careful around the mess of tubes and wires. She's looking at him in that utterly broken way and he doesn't know how to fix this, fix her, but he holds her hand tight, the tips of her fingers wrapped in white gauze, and he kisses her knuckles, and he says, "I forgive you."
Maybe that's what she needed to hear, maybe that's what he needed her to hear, and she closes her eyes and cries harder, squeezes his hand back and her fingers are shaking and maybe he's crying a little bit now also, and he needs her to know he's never leaving her ever again, he needs her to know that too because this place by her side will be his permanent position if she wants.
"We're gonna get through this, love," he says, kisses her forehead. "We're gonna get through this together."