This is what makes Priya different from all the other Dollhouse volunteers: she never used to run away from her problems.
Normally, that's the one thing they all have in common – something overwhelmed them, and they decided they couldn't cope – but it simply wasn't in Priya's nature. If you want something dealt with, the best thing to do is deal with it. It took being drugged and nearly incoherent before she finally begged for an escape. When she was free again, she wanted to confront, didn't take the chance to run.
It took the feel of a knife as the blade plunges into another human being to make her begin to see the true appeal.
She is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching Topher scrub and scrub and scrub at his hands as he has been since before she entered the room and Boyd left to make more phone calls. Blood is still dripping from his hair and smeared across his face, but he's still focused on his hands. If he spends too much longer at it, it's going to be his own blood going down the drain, and a part of her feels like she shouldn't care, that she should hate this man. But she does care, and she trusts him, and she doesn't really know how the programming works, never had a contract to read, but he came when she called, risked himself, and that must mean something.
Priya looks around, finds a towel hanging nearby, and reaches out for it. Her breath catches with the movement, and she freezes. Her hands are clean, but there is still red up and down her arms. She swallows and grabs the towel, and she turns on the water in the bathtub. The tub is cleaner than it should be. Everything would be a lot better if all this blood was gone.
She soaks the corner of the towel and stands, calls, "Topher," in a voice that almost doesn't quaver.
He flinches, turns around slowly and stiffly. His eyes are wide, but he doesn't seem to be seeing anything.
She almost reconsiders. It's too soon to be speaking. But his hair is sticking to his face, and water is dripping down his arms, turning red, and hitting the floor. She holds up the towel and says, "Here."
His first step is hesitant, but soon he's standing in front of her, letting her take his hands and dab away the blood on his arms, up to where his sleeves are rolled up at the elbow. He closes his eyes while she wipes the cloth across his forehead, delicately over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. She has to stop, then, and wring out the towel, send a little more blood down the drain before it's clean enough to continue.
Priya watches his face, concentrates on his expression. It's better than letting her mind wander, thinking about anything else. She watches how he relaxes slightly after her first touch, and she's close enough to hear his breathing slow. When she's done and most of the blood is gone from his face, she takes a step back, lets her arms drop.
He opens his eyes, sighs, "Thank you," and watches her smile, just barely. It's a weak, fake smile that fits well with her face right now. Now she's ruined. His hands are clean, so he reaches out, gently wipes away the smear of blood above her eye with shaking fingers, trying to return her gesture.
And Priya takes hold of his wrist – her hands are trembling too – and keeps him there. She turns her head, lets her cheek rest against his palm while she lets out a shaky breath. She moves closer, looks up to meet his eyes. The guilt and sorrow in his face can't be far from her own. The blood is gone, and she leans forward to kiss him.
He's uneasy, stiff and nervous as his lips part and he delicately responds, and she's forgotten about the state of his shirt, cold and tacky to the touch, nearly enough to make her ill. Priya carries on. She's in love with someone she's never met, and it isn't Topher, but in her mind, she's already decided this day hasn't happened.
When she sits in the chair later and says, "I don't ever want this back," he'll understand everything she means.