[Those are the words of Stark or Rogers, coming from her. It makes him angry, and it makes him tired. He doesn't have to justify himself to anyone, and he's sick unto death of the mortals acting as if he must.

Except he does have to justify himself here. Or he simply has to walk away and never look back. He's done that often enough.

Maybe this time, he doesn't want to.]

That isn't why at all.

[His voice is quiet. He puts his face in his hand.

It isn't, and it is. Because thinking of the mortals as having Elicia's face, she's right about some things. But it was still something he had to do. It was still one necessary move in the game. It was just easier when the mortals were little ants, or pieces on the board.

He doesn't know what to say, not really. Because it isn't like that, and it is. He is no hero, but he doesn't think of himself as the villain either. He is doing what he has to, which makes it infinitely uglier.

He fights the urge to laugh when Elicia says that he's not a monster like the one in her closet. That's far too close to the truth.]

No one's ever been sorry when they hurt me.

[He doesn't mean to say those words; they just come out, harsh and painful. Too childish. Too true. He scrubs at his face with his hand. He never wanted to be good, or bad. I only wanted to be your equal. He just wants to be himself.

And who is that, anyway?

With an effort, he composes himself.]

I don't like hurting people, dearest Elicia. I regret it. I'm not that sort of monster.