"Compulsion"
The most painful for Riza was in his abdomen, a puckered kiss. That had been her fault entirely: she'd thought they were out of danger, she'd felt content to talk with him, to not pay attention. She'd been wrong, so he'd been in the hospital for weeks, stinking of flowing rot and crying out in his sleep, an opium drip holding him below the surface, until finally he came back and she could let out the breath she'd been holding since that first liquid tear.
The most painful for him was in his shoulder, where a bit of shrapnel on the wing had made its nest. That had been her fault, as well. She should have known, should have found out that the target kept a personal distillery, but she didn't. So when he snapped, the clay walls of the home scattered and took to flight, and he crumpled. She'd been sure that he'd fallen, but she'd thought that of him often. Now, alive, he grimaced each time the weather turned.
There were others, too, lying menacing upon his neck, twisted upon his thigh, and she would trace over each one of them, study them, masochistically, furiously. She'd recall every furrow of her failure. If he caught her doing it, he'd catch her hands and kiss them, and tell her that she was much more than he could ever wish for, and try to distract her with the sky. She made sure he never caught her; despite his sincerity, his thanks seemed a mockery.