He watches her eyes linger on him; not him (foolish, naïve, unblemished), but the older him (jaded, cynical, scarred). There is something possessive in her ash-green gaze as they trace over the forever still body, and something so terribly painful (grief, regret, longing). Her face is cold and steely when she turns to the living and breathing him, eyes offering this younger version nothing but vengeance, hate and something so dark, it’s as black as ink or tar; grasping, consuming.

No.

Darker.

As she drags the scalpel across his vulnerable flesh, he closes his eyes to escape hers. He tries to picture the sad, but vibrant light her gaze once held in an empty hallway, in a well lit and furnished room, and in a blazing plaza. It makes the ache, which has nothing to do with the blade trailing crimson on his chest, bearable. But once the pain subsides and he opens his russet eyes, the light is gone; there is nothing but the aching, haunting, savage black that stains and mars his precious memory of her. He takes solace in knowing that this dark-haired company woman who tortures him is not his fair-haired cheerleader he saved and saved him in return all those months ago.

So when he returns to his own time and sees her face (open, warm, bright), he grits his teeth against the panic--not the pain, he can deal with that--rising in his chest at the inky black shadows circling the edges of her sad and vibrant eyes.