Pretty
He's had a hell of a week.
Between the work it's been in staying hidden and the effort it's taken to exercise some unaccustomed subtlety in looking to locate her, he's all but exhausted. Not to mention, annoyed that he spent all that time checking out all possibilities, only to find her at her old place.
He's not sure if he admires the audacity or pities the stupidity.
And that's not even counting the burns all over his face that itch and hurt all the time because he keeps forgetting the special cream, and the echoes of pain from fractures healed for months now.
And the fact that he had to do it all alone because someone was too busy covering her own tracks to help him.
And she thinks she's got it bad!
He readjusts at the edge of the bed and watches his unwitting hostess sleep, his resentment gradually fading as his eyes catch on those tears on her cheeks.
But he still doesn't feel particularly bad, waiting so long to come find her, because she's made her own misery, leaping headfirst into the mourning before bothering to make damn sure he was dead.
And anyway, there's something about those little wet trails gleaming in the moonlight that's kind of pretty.