[Colour]

"What does it mean?" A low, rumbling voice posed the question. Sergei.

Jayda looked up from her book –a very witty, very tongue-in-cheek fantasy novel that she'd found at the top of her bookshelf the other day- to see Sergei pointing casually at her from the armchair to her right. Not fully understanding what the normally quiet man was asking, the Canadian looked down at herself and realized that he was pointing at the teal ribbon she wore.

Oh.

"It means..." she began hesitantly, unsure of just how much information she wanted to give away. She felt the tingle of eyes on her, and yet not one of the three remaining Russians was outright watching her.

She didn't want their pity.

"It means I'm sick." She finished after a long moment, dropping her eyes to her book again.

Almost immediately, she regretted saying it, because the stare-tingles intensified and she didn't want pity.

Not that they were the pitying kind, but emotions were rarely rational things.

Sometimes, she kind of wished she was like Yuriy. He was never irrational or overemotional; he had a logical reason for everything he did –even if she didn't necessarily know what the reasons were herself. Turning another page, listening to the dry, thin sound over the ringing silence, she wondered when he'd gone from being Valkovich to Yuriy in her mind.

"Curable?" That characteristic drawl, measured and calculating, inquired.

The redhead in question sat on the opposite end of the couch from her, and she knew without having to look that those white-blue eyes were fixed on her, if only because she suddenly got goose bumps all over. That had been happening a lot recently, she thought to herself.

Jayda didn't really want to investigate that particular development; she wasn't sure if she'd like what she found.

Instead, she answered, "No."

Her tone brooked no further discussion on the matter, and the man remained silent.

She didn't want his pity.