Gold
Roy watched Jean with a steadily-mounting concern and fear. The tall man seemed unnaturally bowed and aged with the weight of his grief for the poor little girl.
Roy would have told him that it was just the laws of nature having their way, if he didn't value his life. Jean wasn't a scientist. He couldn't see the world in all its harsh and brutal glory. It was the simple things that Jean could see, the small comforts of a child's touch, a budding flower, the scent of baking bread, the smile of a lover. The crushing pain of a tiny life snuffed out.
Roy couldn't comprehend the simple-mindedness of the man's world view, couldn't understand the horrendous loss that Jean had suffered over Briar's death. He tried to be sympathetic and caring. He tried to cheer Jean up.
Roy had been trained from an early age to see it all in the encompassing machinery of the world. Put things in perspective. He was a city man, bred for the University, Command, libraries, the laboratory.
Gradually, Roy and Jean had drifted apart, Liza bringing the aching man under her stable and loving wing. She could understand the grief, the agony, the responsibility.
Roy couldn't. So he drowned himself in brilliant gold, basking in the heat of amber eyes. He found comfort in the kindred mind of a restored Ed, found a cold warmth in the young man's arms.
There was no more laughter, no more shining sapphire, no more gentle touches. It was all pure science now, with no human touch to make the pain of separation bearable.