Regan closes her eyes, one hand rising to press cold fingertips to her temple.

She looks older than she did half an hour ago, grey and lined and tired.

"You always did have that fire," she murmurs, with a brief twitch of what could be a smile but isn't, quite. Too weary and heartsick for that.

"I need to think," she says. Only a fraction louder, and her eyes still closed. "Don't ask me to decide now."

Mirroring his phrasing isn't conscious.