Work Text:
"I think I'm going to die."
Of all the words he has spoken to Molly Hooper, they would not be the ones he'd have expected to warrant her reaction. Surprise, yes, the dry swallow of fear at what he will ask, yes, but not the bright eyes, wide and brimming, as if she could cry at the thought. Cry for him. He would have guessed her crying over him would be because he had ignored her or wronged her.
Molly never told him to leave her alone; for whatever judgement on her part made her like him he's often thought she'd do better if she had. It must go deeper if she would near cry at only the idea he wouldn't exist. He wants to chastise her for such foolish notions. People should cry for the loss of a great mind, not the shallow heart and flimsy flesh behind it. He can't be sure though, that that is all it is. She doesn't even know what it is to be near him truly, this transport of his kept distant from her much like he attempts to keep himself detached from it. It has always been easier to dismiss her feelings as infatuation driven by a yearning for what she doesn't have, but it appears she doesn't have to have that to miss it, to miss his being.