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"What do you see, when you look at me like that?"
She never answers. He suspects she never will. Not in words, anyway. There's always a searching look that she gives him--fear and regret and guilt shadow her face, flickering away like clouds passing through sunlight--and then she kisses him, like she's desperate to keep him with her.
As if he could ever leave.
"Will," she whispers, "my Will," and then she's frantic, burrowing under his clothes to get at his skin, hands moving restlessly over every inch of him as it's revealed.
Afterwards, she always holds him close, as if the fate of the world depends on it.
She wanted to end her own life, and instead she murdered the world.
The irony doesn't escape her.
Nor does it escape her that Will was there, with her, at the end of all things. Battered and broken, and twisted almost unrecognizable with pain, pain that she caused so many times over, but there with her still. Giving her everything he had left, his gun and his life, for a cause already lost beyond imagining.
And then to have it all returned to her, the world, the sunlight, the easy laugh in his voice, the light in his beautiful eyes. She tries every day to be worthy of it, of the second chance she's been given, of the light and the laugh and the world.
And when she does fall into shadow, he's always there to lead her out.