A train change and a walk is too far, but his own flat is no closer, so regardless, he'll carry on. It would be faster, certainly, to let her walk beside him, run beside him, really. Even with her in his arms, his feet barely touch the ground as he weaves his way through the crowd impatiently.

It would be faster to put her on her own feet, but he can't bear it, to grasp her hand and lead her through would be agony, an agony he's not ready to relive.

But it is nearly impossible, with her lips on his skin, her slender frame pressed to his body, her hip against his hardness, to keep moving. "I would carry you for the rest of eternity," he says, because at least then he'd know she was real, that she was really there.

The crowd is thick and drunk and in no rush, and Orpheus' frustration nearly gets the better of him before he remembers who he is.

"Hold tightly to me, my love," he says, and he sings a song of very little consequence, but one that will do to part the crowd in front of them, clearing a path to the tube stop. Orpheus runs as well as he can with her in his arms. He would throw her over a shoulder except that it would mean moving her mouth from his skin.

Even so, when they reach the station, he has to set her down to get through the turnstile. His arm stays around her waist, though, keeping her close as he fumbles in a pocket for his Oyster card.

He has to laugh at such a ridiculous modern convenience keeping them apart after all they've come through.