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[She's not sure how long it takes to run out of tears; by the end, her body is limp and boneless, her muscles quivering with exhaustion. Her breathing is thready & weak. If she knew how he envied the intensity of her feelings, she'd tell him it wasn't worth it. She remembers the numbness she felt after killing Chekov, and a part of her misses it. It would be so much easier than the loathing and disgust she feels.]

[ The numbness may be welcome, but Korra is too young to realize how fatal it is. To display all the signs of having lost the ability to react to suffering, loss, and danger. If you're frozen, stymied in the face of devastation -- emotional or physical -- that in itself is a death sentence. It's not numbness Hei craves, though there are moments when a spurt of unexpected emotion scalds the inside of his skull, and he wishes for a Contractor's desensitization. But what he wants is clarity. He wants her to understand, that breakdown often presages a breakthrough. That it's okay to shatter, because the psyche is like a phoenix hurtling comet-bright to the ground. The sun and moon and stars will drag themselves across the sky. And each day will be a gentler, quieter rebirthing. Giving you one more chance to find your way. ]

[ He waits until the onslaught of grief has passed. Waits until she's quiet, shuddering, nearly breathless. Scooting closer to her, he brings her hand to his mouth. Kisses the knuckles, then the palm, his words a gentle vibration against her flesh. ]

Do I need to kill someone? Or ... [ He taps a finger against her temple. But it turns into a caress, his hand gathering the damp hair away from her face. ] Is something telling you awful things up here?

[ It's almost playful, the way he speaks. But his look is solemn, dark-eyed. ]

[She meets his eyes with her watery blue ones, hating how her body shivers at his touch.]

What does it matter to you?

[It's a confrontational question, but there's nothing angry or aggressive in her voice. More than anything else, she's scared. She wants so badly to believe that he does care, that she's more than a doll to him and everything she's put up with hasn't been for nothing.]

[ What does it matter to you? Hei is confused, but the fear in her eyes, the sorrow, break the meaning upon him. Her distress isn't all for herself, but about him. She doesn't know if she holds any value for him. Isn't sure he returns an iota of her feelings, because if he does, then that means she hasn't suffered in this brutal struggle of an affair for nothing. Unarmed and all alone. ]

[ His jaw feels strung tighter than a violin string, and his eyes suddenly crackle with dark-blue flame. But he doesn't meet her eyes. It chills him, that someone should weep over him this way. Over anyone. She's like a little child who knows she can't go home, who has no power to keep from being lost. He's seen her cry before, seen her plunged in anger and self-pity. But he's never seen her quite like this. So pitiful. He doesn't know how to tell her that he cares for her -- the way she does for him. Doesn't know if, someday, he'll have the words and that depth of feeling, or if he'll die before it happens. He's been bred for a mean utility. Trained to fight and live only for the fight. It's all he knows. It's a life so singular of purpose, a utilitarian existence no different from that of a hammer or blade. Kindness, softness, empathy ... They're always a hairsbreadth beyond reach. ]

[ Try. He draws her against him, smoothing the water from her lashes with a thumb. ]

I wouldn't be here unless it did.

[ It's more factual than soothing. (Honest, in its own way.) ]

[She's too fragile right now to trust his matter-of-fact coolness. It's obvious what she wants to hear. She buries her face against his chest anyway, hating herself for craving comfort she can't believe in.]

I don't want to be a doll. [For Carla, for him, for anyone else.]

[ Doll. He knows he shouldn't read anything into that word. But at the same time he can't believe she'd say it like that. Like he doesn't know what a real Doll is. Like he's ever regarded even Yin as a Doll, even if that's her purpose. For a beat, he has reason to be glad he can't blush. Korra's words evoke a memory of Yin's face, her pale little hands, the stillness of her body wreathed in despondency, the pretty eyes looking so sad. He thinks of how she always manages to say some astonishing thing to him, some remark she can make to no one else. ]

[ Exhaling, he shakes it off. Lets the cool memory of Yin slip away in favor of the burning presence right in front of him. It's true, he started this affair by using Korra. She was nothing but the vehicle by which he chose to set himself free of his troubles -- for a few hours out of time. She was a veritable living doll the way Yin never was -- programmed for pleasure free of all complications. To be enjoyed until he grew bored with her. He's not sure how emotion blossomed from such a sober, self-serving deal. Not sure how some path in his mind that should certainly have pointed one way forever had instead imperceptibly veered. All he can picture is Korra padding around his airy kitchen, that afternoon they'd cooked lobsters, the glow of sunlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. Something had stirred there -- something bright and illogical and mysterious. ]

[ He wishes he could tell her that. Wishes he could ease the crux of her distress. He keeps smoothing her hair, a small, gentling motion. ]

Dolls don't have the effect you do on people. [ The remark isn't rhetorical, but issued in a whisper. ] You shine on them and they get a little less ... full of shit. Just a little. [ A beat, before he gathers her in tighter. ] Sometimes a lot.

[She wants to believe him, but how can that be true? Old wounds are opening up now, issues that she thought she'd resolved, like her guilt over killing Chekov. Every past mistake coming back and cutting up her insides. And every past hurt. The time he'd pulled out the knife. The time he'd flipped her over after she told him "no." Every time they'd been together and his mind had gone somewhere else.]

[ She's quiet, and something in Hei rattles, as if in a wind gust. He wishes she'd look at him, but at the same time, why would she? His face is full of things no one should like to recall, the night in the shed under the fizzy low-watt bulb, the evening outside the bar, where he'd told her he should kill her, the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol rising up to overlap Korra's juddering shock, her loneliness after all her friends left, and he didn't offer more than a token reassurance, the absence after she'd killed Pavel, and his idea of comfort was to pound her into the mattress in time to her strained gasps, then snap at her afterward. All those bitter times come back to him now in an inventory of ambivalence and regret, so jumbled up it makes his head pound. ]

[ Very gently, he rolls them, so she's on her back. Settles against her, a heavy bony quilt of warmth, his arms bracketing her on either side. When he kisses her, it's soft and moist as rain, his lips dotting across her wet face, tasting the salt on his tongue. ]

You don't believe me. [ It's not a question. His voice is raspy, and to his own ears, strangely tender. ] Do you know ... I've never known simple joy? Darker, more complex things, yes. But joy? No. I was infected by the psychosis of winning by age eleven. [ A beat, the words stifled for a second, then jerking out of him. ] I know I'm not always good to you. I've hurt you and I've used you. But I wasn't lying when I said you've made a difference. Your energy. Your kindness -- to someone like me, it's a miracle you exist at all in this world.

[ It's strange, trying to be honest when his expertise lies in deception. But these words have to be said to her. Over and over, until she believes them. If she ever will. ]

[She doesn't believe him -- not all the way, not completely -- but she's not strong enough to hold onto her doubts when he's saying exactly what she wants to hear. He lies on top of her and it's like he's putting a bandage over an open wound. She grips the fabric of his shirt and arches into his kiss, but it's not sexual. She's too scooped out for sex, drained of energy and feeling and too fragile to take off the shield of her clothing.]

[ Hei kisses back, and it's a hot, urgent slide of lips. But his passion in this moment isn't erotic. Instead he gathers her in close, burying his face in the lush tumbled warmth of her hair. He is breathing, but perhaps the better descriptor is that he is breathing her, her moist scent and the tang of her tears, her emotion. It's never something he's cared for -- but in this moment, it hits him. How much he's wanted this. The idea awes him. He's only just beginning to approach the shape and color of his feelings for Korra: their ways and meaning. He'd done so little thinking about her before, and what there was, tracked such a narrow groove. ]

[ It's unexpected, but there's a prickle of gratitude in there too. It's so rare that anything surprises him like this. ]

[ It's a long moment before his grip loosens. He draws slightly back to look at her face. There's something both distant but warmly drunk in his expression. ]

I know ... It's not enough. Whatever I've given you. Or what I'm saying now. But I swear, it's true.

I want it to be. [Maybe a stupid admission, but it's not like she has a history of making smart choices about him.

She gently pushes him off, maneuvering so she's curled up at his side, her head resting against his chest. Her body feels heavy and her heart feels bleak, but she knows it will all be better after she's gotten some sleep. Maybe the sound of his heartbeat will drown out the whispers of her darker thoughts.]

[ I want it to be. That honesty, that sweetness ... It makes his brain melt, even as good sense tells him: Beware. How has this happened, that he's been given this girl who might as well be the antithesis of him, yet shaped to his every susceptibility? Stronger than him, kinder than him, full of earnestness and humor and beauty and all that power that lures him, raises his awareness and his cock and his every barbed-wire instinct -- turning it love-soaked and shapeless. Some small bright fragment of her is in him. She is singing through his sinews. ]

[ No, not an antithesis at all. Just a contrast that offers balance. Two sides of the same coin. Diamond cuts diamond, after all. ]

[ He doesn't know how to express any of that. Not articulately and rationally. Instead he sighs and hitches her closer. One leg thrown over hers, an arm encircling her, letting her fit against him as if he is a bolster. Practical concerns intrude -- he wants to ask if she'd like a drink of water. But another part of him is loathe to let her go. It's better this way, anyhow -- the words have been spoken, the grief has passed and left her wrung out, and now his job is only this. Holding her until she falls asleep. It's not his usual way. But he's changed his ways in other things lately. What's one more to add to the list? ]

[ Oh, you can change, but you'll both pay for it. The question is ... what price? ]

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