"What happened wasn't your fault," or at least he couldn't blame her wholly for it. The brute heaved a long, drawn-out sigh and pushed his back against the rough surface of the trunk. He couldn't continue at first, unsure if he was lying to himself in saying those words. What had he done wrong back then? He had rescued her, carried her miles and miles to Muggles and back again. He'd nursed her in the ranch house, or at least until she wouldn't allow him to anymore. Jefferson had never been entirely sure what had irked her so, and such confusion had led to his own frustration with her. He had never asked her more about it, for fear it would all happen again. "It was scarring for both of us," he finished, leaving out a thousand more things to say.
He gazed into the water, fingers shifting a little on the fishing pole. For some time the brute listened to silence, cracking a slight smile only when she expressed happiness for their reunion. They had Pripyat now; all was fair and good again, or so they assumed. His brows twitched, his scars frowned. There were still too many questions.
"Geneva," he said finally, holding his gaze on the water, "it... was an accident, right?" He spoke of the accident—or what he'd always hoped was just an accident.
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