[ Oona's reply drains him, pulls the tension out of his neck and shoulders and lets the pressure slide off his limbs and onto the ground. He'd laugh if he could, but instead of that, he slides his arms around her shoulders and holds her to him, chest to chest. ]

Stupid. That sounds about right.

[ Because he's terrible at saying goodbye, that's what it boils down to. It's childish, but a part of him is still 8 years old, one hand in his mother's hand and the other hooked to machines and wires. Arrested development is something they both have in common, however much they want to pretend it's not so or otherwise.

He cares for her, though— so much so that he realizes he hasn't thought about dying in a while, even after being wrenched from his chance to finally kick the bucket, even after being sent here. From one cage to another.

He cares enough that he acknowledges it, with words that he'd kept pent-up. ]

I won't make you be too patient. I know what it's like, waiting for something that won't come.

[ Feelings are hard; emotions are difficult. He settles back against the couch, tips his chin up to look at the ceiling. ]

...I won't put you through that. [ He doesn't want to hurt her, if he can. ] Let me practice it, before I can say it.