The sadness in his voice, masked by the hardness he was trying to convey as he resolutely kept his face from her, made Rita’s heart ache. 

The nurses hadn’t even batted an eye when she’d come to visit though some still sent venomous looks her way from time to time. She ignored them to focus on him, on the man that she had come to rely so much on. On the man that was now confined, broken and defeated, to a hospital bed. Moody was still the man she remembered, albeit with a few new scars, some more…gruesome than his previous ones. That didn’t stop the visits, however, nor did his cynicism and self-loathing.

Rita knew the signs, had seen them in her mother, though his were from the attack and mutilation done to his body. He was not depressed, not fully anyway. He was reeling, spiraling. And he didn’t want to take anyone else down with him. The blonde placed her bag on the chair beside the bed, seating herself delicately on the edge so she didn’t jostle his good leg, knowing instinctively to stay where he could see her. He still jumped when people approached on the left, not used to the bind spot, the black void where once there was an image. And he would get used to things, get used to the loss, but it would take time, as all things do.

Hesitantly, Rita brought a hand to his face, tracing the line of his jaw but keeping well away from the left side of his face, fingers tangling into his hair. She wanted him to look at her, not shy away, not throw her out. The reporter knew that his words were a ploy, a device trying to get her to leave, but she wouldn’t. He needed a support system and she would linger, even when he raged, even when he broke her heart.