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[Daniel looks tired, dirty, and a little haggard, but otherwise seems fine.]

Hey. Sorry I've been out of the loop for a bit, I was off in the woods.

[...technically true.]

Anyway, I'm around again, and I should be in the city for the a while. Let me know if you need anything.

[Private to Claire]

Hey, did you make it out alright?

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[a soft roll of his shoulders, gentler than a shrug.]

It counts if if counts. Some things Russia did to me a hundred years ago and I still can't - can't.

Yeah.

Then... then I suppose it counts.

It makes me feel -- it isn't as though I'd never been attacked before, that I'd never seen horrors.

That never really mitigates pain as much as people seem to think it does.

Not the pain, really. The helplessness.

Yes.

That's - often the worst.

Do you know how to start feeling safe again?

Safe?

[he shakes his head]

Still working on that one. But not-safe is a long way away from helpless.

Paranoia is exhausting.

And then it won't let you rest.

You're safer if you're rested.

At some point, you just - have to accept that. That if you can't rely on anyone else, you have to make sure you take care of yourself, not just defend yourself. It's all of a piece, living.

I can't. I haven't slept a good night since -- it.

[he rubs Charles's back gently]

I'll watch out for you, if you want me to. I'm no stranger to nightmares.

[He wants to say yes.]

I don't think we're that far yet.

Okay.

[It's mild, unoffended. Perhaps when Charles is more ragged he'll push, but not quite yet.]

There is just one thing I'd like to know, about your war. Is it okay if I ask?

[A single, tight nod.]

I don't need details, just. Just the number.

How many of us died, in the shoah, in your world?

No one's ever had an accurate count, but they tend to pin it at -- well, at more than four million.

[ Unimaginably huge numbers, and Charles swallows, sharp nausea rising. He isn't even remembering anything in particular, is devoted to not thinking about the things he saw, and yet even the vague association makes him ill. ]

[He makes a small sound in his throat, a crushed sound, a whimper. He drags in a slow breath.]

Without you, it was six. Six of ours, and twelve total.

[Charles' jaw goes slack. His mind, blank.

The words simply don't process, for a long moment. Six. Six.]

Then... it was for a purpose.

[It wasn't all for nothing.]

[His hands are shaking, and he slips into Yiddish, the language of childhood and fear and Tateh's hand on his. In hurts in ways that don't have names, to hear it so baldly confirmed, how many could have been saved, if anyone cared to come for them.]

It was. It was.

[He manages to grab Charles's hands in his, squeezes them tightly, voice hoarse, but he meets Charles's eyes.]

What you did for those people was a true mitzvah. Never forget that. Never.

[He means it in the intimate and philosophical sense, both less and more than a simple commandment, a work of righteousness and compassion that is holy in itself.]

[Two million.

Two million.]

I had no idea, I didn't know, I -- if I had, I would have fought a hundred times harder --

[Because back then he'd been fighting for England, he'd been fighting to save his country. He hadn't even known what was happening in Germany, beyond rumors, hints and secrets lifted from the minds of soldiers.]

No one knew.

[His grip on Charles's hands is tight enough to hurt, his voice still rasping as he tries to control his emotions.]

No one - you came. That's what matters.

It was worth every -- [And his mind casts the concept he has no word for: every moment of pain, every tiny hurt. Worth the scars that have left him half a person. Worth it, and the sheer magnitude of that thought means tears run freely from Charles' eyes and his nose runs a bit too and he kisses the back of Israel's hand, as though that could covey even a modicum of what he's feeling.]

[He leans in, rests their foreheads against each other, and he wants to wrap his arms around Charles again but Israel's fingers refuse to let go of his hands.]

Yes, you, there's, somewhere -

[Somewhere there is a generation of children he never knew, with parents and hopes and lives because of Charles. In Israel's mind, they are laughing. They have struggles and dangers and losses of their own, no doubt, but he imagines their laughter anyway.]

[Charles breaks.

He presses his face into the crook of Israel's neck and cries. All the unshed tears from a thousand thousand dead, from a childhood broken and ruined and burned. Worth it. Charles has suddenly crossed from failure, from slaughterer to hero.

It is too much for him to cope with. It is too large to fit in his mind, or in his heart.

If Israel doesn't stop him, he'll cry until he's exhausted, until he's on the edge of sleep.]

[Israel doesn't stop him. He holds him tight, presses his face against Charles's hair and shakes because he cannot cry, rocking him and hugging him close for as long as Charles needs.]

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