He couldn't answer her. Such a feeling was becoming all too familiar, the few questions, the increasing number of few questions for that matter, regarding his movements that she did ask being ones which he could never answer with the truth and where he would simply be insulting her to lie. She did not really want to know where he had been, did not really want to know what he had been doing, or well, in this case trying to do. She did not need to know that his orders had involved the murder of a young girl and her parents, or that with Bellatrix present none of those deaths would have been quick let alone painless. To tell Moira was to make her an accomplice to the facts, to leave her knowing such heinous acts should be reported and yet to do so would mean condemning her own husbands to life in Azkaban at best, though more likely the dementors' kiss. Rabastan also couldn't stand the thought of how she would look at him if she knew. Suspicion was bad enough, it tainted her expressions, her oft-kind words, and left him feeling strange and unfamiliar pangs of something that must have been guilt, however it was manageable. Disgust would not be, a villa for her in Lake Como would not be, the life of solitude where he fell further and further into the Dark Lord's clutches would not be. So he said nothing, and hoped she would not again ask.

The jolt of pain that shot along his arm caused him to hiss, his eyes screwed tight for a moment as white light consumed his vision and he clamped on his lip to stop crying out. Intense though the pain had been however it ebbed away almost as quickly as Moira's hit had flared it, leaving only the feel of her lips upon the corner of his own. Shifting his head ever so slightly he kissed her properly before she could pull back, the familiar feeling of her lips against his making him forget for just a moment that he was in a perilous, and still apparently painful, position. However he was not one for forgetting the reality of a situation particularly easily and as he pulled away from her Rabastan shot a glance at the clock. It was still hours before the first of the morning shift would appear, though perhaps catching someone at the end of the night shift would be better. After all if they were tired they may wave him through on account of just wanting to get home. On the other hand they could be extra uncooperative.

"I think we will need to convince them we have a private healer, and also make sure they give us the notes so that any healer who does see me knows what in Salazar's name is wrong." For a moment he considered the notion that Moira had not been told because no one did know exactly what was wrong, however it was a notion soon dismissed and, on the off chance he was correct, Rabastan was fairly certain it was the sort of notion which needed to end in yet. Of course the fact he wasn't planning to stick around much long might make diagnosis somewhat difficult, however he was not stupid enough to discard healers all together. The problem was that there would be a gap of a few days perhaps between leaving and being attended, and it would be damn inconvenient if he were to die mere hours before a healer more sympathetic to his vocation could see him, "My mother will still have the name of the healer who treated father before he died, whether or not he can help directly I'm sure he could recommend someone who could."

Just what sort of person he would recommend did not need said, it hung between them after all just as everything pertaining to the Death Eaters did, dampening even the happiest days like a large cloud in an otherwise clear sky. That this day was hardly particularly happy simply meant that the cloud was bigger, lower and more oppressive. Exhaling slightly Rabastan let his eyelids fall closed for a moment, his grip upon Moira' hand relaxing somewhat before he looked at her again, his expression entirely more melancholy than he would ever normally let it appear. "I'm sorry," He paused, watching the second hand of the clock tick ever so slowly around the face, "About all this."

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