Dory: No. No, you can't... STOP. Please don't go away. Please? No one's ever stuck with me for so long before. And if you leave... if you leave... I just, I remember things better with you. I do, look. P. Sherman, forty-two... forty-two... I remember it, I do. It's there, I know it is, because when I look at you, I can feel it. And-and I look at you, and I... and I'm home. Please... I don't want that to go away. I don't want to forget.
Marlin: I'm sorry, Dory. But I... do.
Zachariah: You know Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically, irrationally, neurotically co-dependent on each other, right?
Enobarbus: Why, then, we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.
I miss you so much, a self-inflicted coma.
-Hawthorne Heights, "Decembers"
Dr. Chakwas: Shepard, our immovable center. A place for a person to stop and catch her breath.
Icy regret clutches your innards. “Oh, fuck, oh, man, your moirail’s taken up the paint.”
“No! No, don’t you— she ain’t— you can’t think that, you can’t, she ain’t. No!” He fucking jitters in place, his hands going everywhere — down to his flicknife — and you’ve almost got your sickle out before he realizes what he’s doing and holds his hands out to you, desperate and bare and finger-splayed, and you relax minutely.
“She’s not,” he says, barely a plead. “You got nothin on her, she’s a good girl. I keep her clean.”
And this, then, is the problem of Eridan Ampora: arch-agent, dumbass, smart as a steel trap and thick as a fucking brick. His moirail’s the only thing that keeps him going and she’s a complete mystery that no one’s ever fucking seen.