Disclaimer: ...You know, this is fanfiction. What did you expect?

A/N: So this is... weird. As in really, really weird. I tried out a new style. Does it work? Or should I burn it? Let me know!


You need this.

No, she doesn't need this. She knows she doesn't. It's been over ten years; she doesn't need anything. He doesn't know what he's talking about. So she tells him that. I don't need this.

Yes, you do.

She did her grieving already. She cried herself to sleep every night for over a week. Had nightmares for longer. She. Does. Not. Need. This.

Rydia…

Go away. You're wrong.

Except – well – is he wrong? Traitorous mind, giving her doubts. He's wrong. Period. End of discussion. Not like there should even be a discussion here. It's her thoughts. She shouldn't be conversing with them.

Or with him. It just encourages him.

At least that's what Rosa says. She agrees with her though. Because she's right.

Hands rest on her shoulders. Light, but heavy. She tries to jerk away, but they won't let her.

Rydia. Look at me.

Nope. Not going to happen. She knows what'll happen if she does. He's got these eyes that just look right through her sometimes, and he'll just talk her into doing what she obviously doesn't need to do. In fact, there's no reason to ever even consider –

Look at me.

Not a demand, not an order, more of a request – which is really weird, now that she thinks about it – but she won't. She will not

She does.

No mask. No masks, plural, not the one that he wraps around his mouth or the one that usually shades his eyes. He's open, sincere. No. He shouldn't be. That's wrong. Except it's not, is it, and she hates herself for thinking it. Bites her lip to keep from making noise. On the inside, of course, so he can't see, but she has a feeling he has anyway. He sees everything.

Except for the things that he doesn't see. Like this so-called 'need' of hers. She doesn't need anything.

You haven't let yourself grieve.

Of course I have.

Not a defiant declaration. Not a whisper either. It's level, and calm. Too calm, and they both know it, even though she doesn't want to. Of course she's grieved. She's sobbed, she's cried herself hoarse. She's grieved.

No, you haven't.

She doesn't dignify that with a response. Calloused hands fall from her shoulders. Fingers trail up her cheek, pull away. Show her something wet. So?

You need to face this.

The tear falls from his finger. She shakes her head. Of course she's faced it. She doesn't need – she can't – no. No. No no no no nononono –

I'm scared.

I know.

It's not okay.

You're right.

I can't.

You can.

…Come with me?

She's against his chest, cuddled in his arms. Sniffling. Chin resting on the top of her head. Soothing. Hands on her back. Hands on his chest.

Of course.

She needs this.