"So do I. Maybe we share more of a language in common than just English." He reaches over and rubs a thumb under her eye, as if encouraging her to let a tear fall just so he can wipe it away. "Did you know I speak fluent Russian? Someday when we get these translator chips done away with, I'll prove that to you, lass."

God, he loves her. He loves her and any obstacle in the way of expressing that is some mortal offense that he feels the need to annihilate, and just like that, won't let me speak Russian becomes his number one beef with the Capitol.

"Where to, my dear?" Tom knows he'll miss the city, and in his head he's already imagining cottages or chalets instead of a real home somewhere else - a landing pad for when the attention and spotlights drain them, or rather her, too badly. He isn't really imagining that they'd ever leave the site of the action, the place where if not everything happens then at least everything is instantaneously reported.