Jefferson clenches your tattered mask in one hand, balled up in his white-knuckled fist. Mentally, he’s not even here, he’s berating and beating himself, because how could he not have noticed?

The bruises, the scrapes, the extra pants and long sleeved shirts.

If he’d have noticed, this wouldn’t be happening.

The other hand cradles your body, his child’s body, your rapidly freezing body. You weren’t supposed to be die like this; in pain, cold, in hiding. There’s nothing he’ll do if you’re gone. Every thing he’s done and sacrificed will have been for nothing.

“Shut up.” Jefferson barks when you attempt to speak. He isn’t sure if it’s because he can’t handle what you’ll say or if he wants you to conserve your energy.