He wishes he was dreaming.

Because he doesn't even know what to think when he walks past her open door and sees her sitting at the foot of her bed, legs pulled against her torso and face buried in her knees. Because when Fran cries, it means that the universe has imploded in a fiery explosion of doom and that they are all actually dead. Although, he then wonders why he was sent to the same place as her anyway.

She doesn't make a sound, and internally, he asks himself if perhaps he is just overreacting. But honestly, Viera or not, who sits on the floor curled up in a ball just for the Hell of it? So, despite her mortal silence, and lack of facial visibility, he knows that something has brought her to tears. And in the cold, tangled reaches of his heart, he knows that he is once again at fault. This revelation locks him in place at her door and he cannot move or speak as though he's just stepped in fresh cement and been gagged all at the same time. But surely she must know that he's standing in her doorway, staring at her stupidly while she's in the midst of the Viera rendition of 'breakdown'. Surely she heard his loud, abhorrent hume footsteps coming down the hall. Though, as he stands rooted to the floor and her ears don't even twitch at the sound of his unsteady breathing, he thinks, perhaps, she didn't.

He belatedly wonders if she is simply doing that on purpose. Because she knows he can't keep his guard up when she's unhappy, and faking sorrow would be the most effective way to tilt the scale in her direction. She knows how easy it is for her to turn him into a pathetic, regretful excuse for a man with a single sideways glance. But even with this knowledge at his disposal, he still feels yesterday's resolve dissipate like sand in an hourglass. And besides, Fran has never been the vengeful, just-for-spite type of girl anyway. He would truly be shocked if she ever actually attempted to take advantage of his not-so-well-known guilty conscience. And if she is upset, he supposes it is only natural and that he probably deserves this. His cruelty the other day was immeasurable and he thoroughly believes she has every right to despise every particle of his being.

"What have I done?"

She is as immaculate as ever as she looks up at him, with not a single tear staining her face and no trace of bloodshot eyes. Her hair is lacking any tangles and her nightgown is white, pristine, and unwrinkled. He wonders how she can appear so untouched in such an obvious state of distress.

He is baffled by her question and the only response he can muster is a quiet "What?".

"I do not understand," she replies softly, "Why do you do this?"

For a moment, he is as utterly confused as she is, and then... he remembers.

He summons whatever little courage remains in the pit of his empty stomach, and slowly approaches her.

"Fran, I..."

"What have I done?" she asks again, her melodic hiss gradually entrancing him as he stoops down in front of her.

The forgotten shirt he had meant to fetch still waits in the cockpit, but suddenly he has lost all intent of retrieving it. He is so close to her now that he can feel her warm breath on his bare skin and this proximity is driving him to pieces.

"Why do you punish me so, my love?" he whispers beneath her chin, her soft white curls brushing his cheeks, "Why must you persist in this torture?"

"Why do you do these things?" she endures, "What have I done?"

Her voice is quaking softly, so he draws just a little bit closer to the skin of her neck and murmurs, "Hush now, my love. Tears have no place between us."

Her body goes still as his lips brush her neck. And as she glances out her window at the golden sky of dusk, she realizes something that both of them have yet to fully understand.

As he continues to whisper comforting words against her skin, 'You and I' are the only ones that register.