Reason.
"It's finally over." his voice is weary.
She doesn't make a reply, but he can feel her relief. He sits down gently on the hotel bed, and it bends beneath his weight. She notices the blood on his hands, it's on his skin, beneath his fingernails, it seems as if it might seep into him. She knows it's the same for herself, she can feel the thin crust of dried blood still on her hands. She had tried in vain to scratch it all off while they were driven back from Ishbal. She had somewhat cleansed her hands, though even though the blood was gone, she could feel the pain of the Ishbalians all over her.
It tugs at her hair, weighs her eyelids downwards. She can still hear their pleas and cries, she had hardened her heart and mind against them. Their desperation still probes the deep corners of her consciousness. The gunfire, crashes, bombs, and worst of all, their cries, it constantly tormenting her. It's like a buzz in her mind that doesn't leave.
She turns her attention back to him. His body droops, he is thinner than he was, his skin is marred and dusty, his hair is longer, and worst of all, his eyes. His eyes are tired, and wary now, though the war is done, they captivate his soul, the soul of one whose eyes have shown him too much; things he'd rather not have seen. Their suffering. Their dying at his hands. The cruel brutality of what the force of the military can bring. She knows it kills him inside. She knows because it kills her too.
It's easier on her. She has her justification. Her atonement. Him. But he, he has nothing to shield him from the pure and simple truth of the things he did. In more ways than one, he saves her from the timeless suffering she brings on herself. She can protect him from anything. Bullets. Bombs. Knives. Her sharp eyes and wits can do that much. But she cannot save him from himself. She cannot stop his fall, but she can lessen the pain.
"I'm frightened." she says. He looks at her alarmingly. She cannot be afraid. She is the strongest person he knows. If she is afraid, he is afraid. He wants to be able to stop her from being afraid. She does this only to save him a little bit, but she speaks the truth, she is afraid. Not that she would ever admit it, if it wasn't essential to shielding him. She shields him behind her own pain. It is the only way to shield him from the guilt that is his own.
"No, no, don't be afraid. It's over. It's all over." He knows his words cannot soothe her. He knows nothing but death could ever put an end to their regret. He wishes his words could stop her suffering. If not for her, he could easily snap his fingers, let the flames purify him, rid him of all his pains, leave behind nothing but memories of fire. But he would never leave her side. He would never leave her to the world, with all it's cruelty. He could never do that to her.
It is the same for her. If not for him, she would pick up her beloved guns, put it to her temple, and leave this world by the same weapon that took the lives of countless others. Others that begged at her feet to spare them. Others that went down to their knees, looking for mercy, praying to some sort of God. Others that were not spared, others that lost their life, not by natural causes, and not by choice. Others that lost their life because she decided so.
They would do anything to erase what they'd done. Bring those from which they took life from back.
But they can only save each other, if only a little. If they were righteous, justified, they would realise saving one another would just be like saving themselves. But love deludes them. They see only the person they want to save. They erase memories of one another taking lives, because it's all they can do to save themselves and each other. Should it be selfish, should it be unfair that they, the ones who took lives, be the ones that are lucky enough to be saved, they'll never unerstand why. But they are done asking questions.
All they can do is save each other. He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
