Why cannot the Fool be unhurt? Why must there be difficulty for him at all stages, why must there be so much duty and pain keeping them apart? - and now, even, there is time, of all things. Fitz closes his eyes in pain.

Ah.

Those miniscule shudders are not his pain. He protests wordlessly, softly, moving up to hold the Fool against him. It is such a punishment that the Fool should be crying, but it is such a treasure to be able to hold him. He presses his lips to the Fool's forehead, to comfort and soothe. To each cheek. Finally, unthinkingly, to his lips.