He didn't think there were tears left in him, but they salt his eyes, well up hot and close his throat. All for kindness, for the fact of Casey aiming his care right back at him, with his tone and his scratching hands. No one's washed Kira's hair in a long time--no one but his mother, really, when he'd wake from a nightmare of fire and metal. She'd put the low wooden stool by the tub and sit with him, no matter how old he got, how close they were to the dream becoming reality, and she'd wash and rinse his hair before putting his damp head on her shoulder.

What a coddled thing he is. What a hole torn in his life, being ripped away from them as he has. He's never experienced tragedy deeper than this, even when the city was burning around them.

He was looking at Casey when he said it, eyes dull and staring, but he drops them when the hands in his hair give him the excuse. When the tears burn down his cheeks anew. "You think I don't know that," he answers quietly, more an admission of exhausted desire than to a plan of action.