Her hands squeeze his, not even thinking about it. She can feel the tears in her eyes, but refuses to let them fall. Refuses to let the Russians win, even now, so long since it happened. She looks down, observes the calluses on his hands, the scars, looks back up to his face, the odd angles from broken bones, the shadows in which he hides.

"You're okay, too," she replies, barely a whisper. She isn't sure she believes it, but she can try and help him. Be there for him. Allow him to be okay, slowly, day after day. He might never be fixed, but he can be okay.

"Yeah," she lets out a breathy chuckle, licking her lips. Then, she takes a sharp breath through her nose, and nods. "You should get to bed."