[ He looks at his arm when she punches it, then at her, faint amusement layered on top of his anger in a way that makes it not entirely friendly--though it would be if the circumstances were different.

But then she starts squeaking. ]

Maker, [ he says, staring with exasperation, because it's easier to be annoyed with her for crying than at himself for causing it, but it only takes the span of those two syllables for him to feel bad instead. He repeats it again more quietly-- ] Maker, Pel, don't...

[ And rakes a hand back through his hair. ]

I know you wouldn't. That isn't what I... I just mean that he might not know that you wouldn't, and he shouldn't decide--

[ Blast it. ]

Please don't cry.