The sounds are rising in volume. They're almost deafening - some voices identifiable, some too distorted and long ago to really pick out. He wants to tell her that was never the issue. Never in question. He has always trusted her. Since the moment they met, he has trusted her.

"I do-"

That much, he manages, before the whirlwind of memories, of literal mental baggage, overtakes his words. Before every piece begins so mold and collasece into something greater, something more indomitable. Before too-large hands made of memory and forgotten shadow start to wrap themselves around his shoulders, his legs, his arm. In the flickering purple-yellow-blue-purple light, his eyes are damp.

He trusts her.

But there is a hand at his throat choking down the words - made of ugly, familiar metal.