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“Can you keep it for me?” Vox asked Rosie, the torn piece of a photograph on the table between the two of them.
Rosie looked at the torn photo fragment of Vox between them. “Of course.”
She hesitated a moment before venturing “You two really aren’t making up, are you?”
“No,” muttered Vox. “Apparently not,” he said with more of a plaintive softness.
“I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “I thought you two were—“
“Well it doesn’t really fucking matter what you thought now, does it, Rosie?”
“I thought you two were good for each other.” She kept her demeanor pointedly mild. “That’s all.”
“Yeah, well, me too,” Vox said with a grimace.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Rosie repeated. “You sure you don’t want to keep it? You might miss it—“
“I’m sure.” He let his eyes slide away from Rosie. “I can’t look at it with us together; I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It being of us together is too painful.” He took a breath, the part of him with a bit of dignity intact somewhat embarrassed with himself for spilling that to Rosie, who he knew would be firmly Alastor’s in the “break-up.” The dust just hadn’t settled yet. This was a closing window to ask a favor of Rosie. That’s why he’d forced himself to do this; soon it would be too late. “I have Alastor. That’s enough.”
Only the Alastor in the photograph.
That would have to be enough.