Scar has to force himself to breathe. He lifts her closer when her head picks up, resting the side of his forehead against hers so he can see her face. He pries one hand from the curve of her back to find the tie in her hair, slips his fingers delicately under it, draws it looser until her hair (still damp) falls free. It's slow and unhurried, his fingers careful not to tug as he combs it apart. Scar buries his face in the dark curtain he’s just loosed, and breathes deep.

There’s something different, in her smell, but she’s still her. Dry sunshine, the lunch table set for three, the last comfort as he marched to his death, the last sensation before falling safely asleep. Scar's lips part as if he might be able to taste her in the air.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. For not wanting to live enough. For everything that had brought with it. He can't help but connect that to his disappearance.