'We should talk.' She states without emotion, though there is plenty of it in her eyes. He supposes she is trying to be stoic, not allowing herself to show feeling for fear of the repercussions; she never wanted to be thought of as weak. He is weak; physically, emotionally, in every way possible he is weak. That is probably why he accepted the last mission more readily than others. Perhaps he is hoping in some way that it will be his last.

'What do you want me to say?' The tone is sharper than he means it to be, he stands there in front of her, opening his mouth to add more to this thought. As his lips part, the dam that usually so firmly stands between his mind and voice-box opens, letting out a barrage of words, a torrent of explanations (excuses) that flow out of his mouth. 'I'm too dangerous' rushes forth, its current moving faster than 'too old' and 'too poor,' he cannot hear these words, the only noise in his ears is the rushing of water; he doesn't know if it's the flood of words, or the tears welling up, not allowing themselves to fall in her presence (coward).

'I

Don't

Love

You'

falls out like a stone accidentally dropped; he can see the ripples they've caused by the look in her eyes. The words become stagnant, and hang still in the air between them, filling the few feet that keep them apart.

Those last four words echo in her mind; forming the shape of a bull they charge; they are attracted to her, her hair is vibrant red, the colour of a matador's cape. They charge forward, finding their target, piercing her straight in the heart. She would stagger backward, if she wasn't frozen. At the contact of it, she gives an involuntary gasp; the butterflies that had been anxiously fluttering in her abdomen escape, forming 'butIloveyou…' shakily separating in the newfound space.

'But

I

Love

You…'

tries to fight back against the charging animal, a mere dagger to its gargantuan effect.

'But

I

Love

You…'

seeps into the atmosphere.

Silence.

'But

I

Love

You…'

pools like blood on the floor at her feet.

He watches as the lights in her eyes slowly fade. He acknowledges that it is his fault (bastard). He knows he does not deserve to be loved; he is a dangerous, old man. What he does not realize is that a little part of her died at that moment, never to be revived no matter what the circumstance (monster). Her hair begins to fade; from red to orange, lighterlighterlighter until it matches his own. He can see the part that he would push behind her ears when it fell in her eyes turn grey; he sees this and knows what is happening. He knows she doesn't realize what is going on yet. He flees before she does (wretch).

He runs. As he escapes, he hopes to wake up from this nightmare; to wake up in his childhood bed, to look outside at the full moon from safe inside his blankets, wondering if werewolves are real.