For kissbingo: eyelids.
She was unsure what the customs were at times like these in his culture. In hers, there would be a time of celebration, of remembering and laughter and letting go as a community, but she knew that this, at least, was not the way of his people, not his way. She felt awkward, a feeling that she rarely experienced, and one that she detested.
But she knew that she must do something.
He was hurting, and she knew that he felt it was his fault; no matter how the others assured him that there was nothing that he could have done, that he did the best that he could, that they had, at least, found him – he blamed himself.
She sighed as she sat in her quarters, candles lit around her. She was not meditating, merely thinking. He put on such a brave face to the world, acting as the commander that everyone else needed to see, living stronger than he really was so that others around him might have the chance to grieve, knowing that they were safe as they did so. It was admirable, his devotion to his people, but it left him no way to let his grief abate.
She had let some of her own grief go; she went to the gym with her bantos rods and ran through training kata after kata, letting the movement exhaust her body as she freely wept, shouted, laughed. She had returned to her quarters calmer; she was still upset, still grieving, still feeling that terrible loss, but she felt better than she had before.
He would not let himself have such a release. She had already tried, had gone to his office when his working day ended, expecting to find him ready to leave, ready eat the evening meal or take a walk. She had not thought that he would be surrounded by papers, typing furiously on his computer, an expression of intense concentration on his face.
"Come with me," she had said.
"I'm just gonna…" he had replied, waving his hand towards the paperwork. She had waited there, but he had shaken his head and continued to attempt to lose himself in his work.
She had left after watching him for an hour. Neither of them spoke a single word.
She knew that she was in a unique position to help him. He let so few in; she was willing to wager that most were not aware of his pain, of his feelings of guilt. There were three, perhaps four others who might notice, and she realized that she alone would be able to reach him in this state. The others were too absorbed in their own grief or too removed from the situation to make a real difference. It would have to be her.
She stood, decision made, and passed a hand over the door controls, ready to do what she could. She stepped back a moment later, surprised to see him standing outside her door. He was leaning on the wall, looking unsure, and he tried to smile at her.
"Can I come in?" he asked, and she nodded, standing aside to allow him to enter.
They sat together on her bed, side by side against the headboard, and he let his head fall against hers. "I should've made him come with me," he said. He had said this before, always with anger, but now she heard only regret and sadness. "I knew there was no way he could make it out of that hive. I should've grabbed him and forced him to come back here."
"He provided the distraction necessary for us to escape," she reminded him. "It was his choice, John. He made a great and noble sacrifice for us."
His shoulders sagged and he crumpled into her, holding her to his chest in an embrace so tight that she felt her own chest constrict. He did not cry, but heaved great, gasping breaths, and she held close to him.
They remained like that, clinging to each other, as he gasped and she murmured words of comfort in his ear and pressed chaste kisses to his closed eyelids. After a time he calmed, but still they sat, entwined, giving and receiving comfort.
Grieving together.