he who hesitates is toast

As he speaks, her old nightmare lifts into her mind's eye. She'd imagined, over and over, seeing it happen to him as she'd seen it happen to so many in Madripoor, hoping to God it had been quick and painless and that he hadn't known what was happening, that maybe somehow he'd escaped the confusion and surprise she'd seen on so many faces before they blew away into dust.

It had been weeks before she knew he'd been taken that day. She can't help how she clutches him, how her own breath comes in rough, rapid gasps, how she shakes as she presses herself against him, reminding herself he's here and alive, not a million pieces scattered to the winds.

There's nothing she could have done if she'd been there. Maybe, in that world, in that timeline, she'd have been caught by the Snap, too. "I'm not saying it wasn't awful," she murmurs, distantly pleased that her voice, at least, is mostly under control. "But he still shouldn't have left."