There's nothing more true that that. "I don't want that for you either. You've had your share. You deserve some happiness." And Wing wanted nothing more than see it happen.

He tips into the touch for the same reason. Touch is like a communion of sorts, small exchanges that when put together add up into greater expression, like an undercurrent that does things words cannot. Wing's own hands are never still, always speaking soft notions of caring, love or encouragement.

"I imagine so. But then that's why he wanted us around." It's tragic, Wing feels, to reduce people down to something so base. "...I might have imagined it, but...he seemed sad, in the end."