It is finally that last thing that makes her look up at him, difficult to read in part because of the mess Sarrux made of her face and in part the way she is when she’s troubled, when the answer to what’s going through her head isn’t altogether more obvious to her, either. She is thinking: he is good at this. He has had practise at this, or similar enough. He’s a skilled healer; that’s why it had been him she’d asked for in the first place. She is thinking about how few people he has attended are likely to have had portraiture references to show him where their fucking bones go. She is thinking about the years that they’ve known each other, and what that’s looked like.

She is thinking, that is more than he has to do. She is thinking, suddenly, humiliatingly, that she can’t burst into tears because she might make his job harder,

tears are streaking slowly, silently down her face when she finally looks up.

Guilfoyle chooses that moment to return, purposefully heavy footfall announcing him moments before the door opens, two portraits and a sheaf of paper tucked under his arm.