When she asks him to he fastens his arms around her -- she's drawn out some of the wires and tubes from his waist joints and knotted them on his recommendation, to stop any more fluid from draining out. Shreds of synthetic flesh have to be cut away to cut him free -- mercifully, terribly, it's only on the surface that he looks human. It's one thing looking down into a chest cavity from the top and seeing smooth covered circuitry and cables, another to be painfully aware of what's inside of a human torso and to find nothing but wires. She finds herself thinking that David is lighter than he looks, and of course, there's less of him now. A hysterical cough of a laugh escapes her. David murmurs an apology into her hair and holds on to her very tightly.

"It's nothing, you're only a little cumbersome--"

"Would you like me to keep talking? You might find it comforting to hear my voice, to be assured that I'm still functioning."

"Not if it drains your battery. Where do you keep your battery? It's in your head, isn't it--"

"Yes. The auxiliary power cells have taken a hit, but that shouldn't affect their longevity or operating capacity. I think it's best you go into stasis now."

"We. Can't you do some sort of -- partial power-down?"

"Not like you can, but I'll try."

David babbles about the film Dr. Zhivago; she lugs him down the passageway. The gentle sloping that had made their way easier on the way down, if less sure-footed, made an unbearable incline coming back up with her arms full of spasming metal. But the slowness of their progress doesn't matter; Shaw couldn't in a hundred years stop, not here and not like this. A cramp stabs at her side, hunger is eating at her belly, the skin is flaking away from her lips -- a consequence of poor diet, or raw breathing and filtered air, or some horrific space ailment but she does not care. Elizabeth Shaw carries ever onward.

David is propped up at the console where she left him when carrying him another foot became unthinkable, checking their course for the last time as the notes of that damned flute still echo in Shaw's head. Shaw ties off her braid with a black hair elastic -- the only remaining piece of Meredith Vickers, how sublimely useless that had been, useless as the untouched espresso and tea. The dye is faded to a rust brown, with one or two genuine silvery hairs. Her hair hasn't been long enough to hang over her shoulder in years; she hasn't seen herself in a mirror in so long. When she tries to picture her own face, what their creators will see when the two of them emerge to meet them, it's the last reflection she's seen of herself, hollow-eyed and grey-faced. Honey and those damned seed-pods made a poor comparison to her last meal on Earth, salmon and lentils and smoky herbs, even when that had been washed down with a chemical smoothie and promptly emptied out of her upon waking. But she lines up all those precious, useless jars in the duffel bag and sets them aside.

She drapes and ties David's precious cloth around herself like a blanket, and goes to pick him up. His mouth is a thin line, like a typographical bracket facing downward.

"Is it acceptable to be frightened?"

"You have my permission," Shaw says, and traces the paneling for the coffinlike pod with her eyes. It's big enough for two.

The air grows claustrophobically warm first, hot and salty -- was this pleasant for them, when they went to sleep, boxed up in the dark? Was it reminiscent of home, drowsy terraces drenched in alien sun, or was it strictly medical, antiseptic? At the first sleep on the Prometheus, someone had played a piece by Brahms over the speakers while they stripped down to underclothes and were given their directions -- had it been David directing them then? Or some human personnel member, equally initially unremarkable? She had been so caught up in mad celebration with Charlie, that they were finally going there, to notice much. And she had already known the procedures, Shaw was the kind to read airline safety pamphlets and those instruction manuals stored in the dashboard. The memory isn't soothing, it's not something she can slip away in. They will never be back there again. They'll never be there again, she will never see any of the crew again, she will never see Charlie's face again, she will never taste salmon again, she will never listen to Brahms again. Her head is aching, accompanied by every joint in her body, and her chapped lower lip has finally split in a few places. It isn't very restful, even with David's head on her chest as it rises and falls. Her breath ruffles his hair; a trickle of congealing servo fluid dampens her arm. His hand rests against her neck.

"You'll begin to lose consciousness shortly," David says. "You must try to breathe deeply."

Easy enough for him to say. Her heart is still pounding in her chest, jumping shivers making her hands quake against her sides. She tightens her arms across David's back.

"David, will you talk to me?"

"Yes," he hesitates very briefly. "Elizabeth. Would you like to go through your language lesson?"

"Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the arrival. What have you gathered about their home culture, David? What are your conclusions?"

It's uncertain for how long they lie there together. When the agent in the warm air carries her off into the dark, David's voice is still speaking.