He tries to sleep, knowing he will need his energy soon, but his thoughts keep him up. Unable to toss and turn any longer, he finally gives in, getting up to go for a walk.
She, too, is awake, cleaning her guns and he wonders if anything has really changed. Are they really on the brink of the end of their world as they know it?
"You couldn't sleep either?" he says, slowly, quietly, as if not to startle her. There's no point, he knows she was fully totally aware of his presence. She always is.
"No." she replies simply, never one to mince words. For someone who loves words as much as he, he marvels at how much he loves her verbal brevity.
"You know, this could be—"
"It won't be." she interjects and he frowns.
"You know what I was going to say?"
"You were going to say this could be our last night, right?" when he doesn't reply, a small smile creeps onto her face. "It's not like you to be pessimistic. We'll make it through because we have to."
He settles down next to her and reaches for one of her guns before she slaps his hand away. Slightly wounded, both physically and emotionally, he whines, "What was that for?"
"Don't touch my gun unless you need it please, sir."
He chuckles softly, satisfied enough to sit with her in silence. He wonders if he should speak, say all the things he'd wanted to say to her over the years but lacked the courage or words for. Eventually he makes a promise to himself. Afterwards. Because there will be an afterwards if they have anything to do with it.
As they sit together, waiting for the sun to rise, he wonders what tomorrow will bring.