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[ Hermione doesn't want to say she understands; she doesn't want Erik to think that her empathy comes from a place of falsehood, but she doesn't know if offering her own experiences would do anything to ease the pain in his heart. She's lost so much, too - family, friends, herself, all of it a tangled mess inside of her, but... She doesn't think that would help him.

Instead, she squeezes his hand, holding onto him gently.

It's the best she can do. ]

It changes, but it doesn't go away. That sort of pain isn't a scar, or something you can just.. Cover up. It's more like a scab, really. It heals, and you know it's there, but you can pretend it doesn't hurt as long as you don't touch it. Sometimes something else rips it open, though... And there's no hiding from it anymore.

[He finally looks up, unguarded. Because it's true, but it's not far enough. His wound hasn't scabbed over. It's still flayed open; it doesn't need to be touched to still lance him with pain. He can occupy himself for a time, yet he knows it's still there. He's always been masterful at pushing through pain... this time, though, it's much harder.]

It's... disfiguring.

[ Hermione looks at Erik, and she nods her head. There's no point in trying to hide the fact that she's as raw and hurt as he is - it doesn't matter how much time passes, the death of the people you love is impossible to ignore. The first time Dorian had died for her (and the fact that she has to say 'first time' speaks for itself) she had been so broken and lost she had ripped a woman's spine out.

There's no coming back from that kind of pain. ]

It's not going to go away... But that's alright. If we accept it and force ourselves to pretend then we're not being ourselves, and no one wants that.

[He's silent for a moment. She understands it. That wound, unhealing, always bleeding.]

Who I am is broken. If I act that way, the way it really is... there's little reason for anyone to speak to me.

[The faultlines will become clearer, the longer people look. All those little words of encouragement, the belief that he'll fix himself and get better... that will dry up, eventually. They'll see that he was never all right to begin with. Because if he hasn't managed to be okay in over fifty years, what hope does he have of being so now?]

I'm still speaking with you.

[ Hermione tilts her head up, smile softening, just a little. ]

I think maybe... You underestimate yourself. Or maybe people are underestimating you, or something like that. You don't have to be okay right now, straight away. If you need more time - years, even - to be okay? Then that's fine. What you suffered is something that no one should have to go through, and no one else can dictate the length of time it takes for you to feel different.

[Years. He lets out a shaky breath, because he knows that truth deep in his bones. It took him over thirty years to come to terms with his parents' deaths, find some peace. Will it be the same, with Magda and Nina? ...will he die himself before he can heal?]

I don't know that it's possible for me.

Anything is possible.

[ Hermione moves, bring her chair closer to Erik, and she tilts her head up to look at him. ]

It's been years for me, and... I'm not okay. I might be good at pretending sometimes, but I'm not. I believe in you, Erik, and... I believe that you can take all the time you need, that - that you don't have to live up to anything or anyone but yourself.

[This was an appalling way to tell someone happy birthday, he thinks. By dumping his problems on them. At least he'd given her something she truly did like first.

He has to look away after a moment, though he nods. The idea of being like this for years on end is almost suffocating. It's why he hasn't tried to look to the future - he doesn't know what can lie there except this great emptiness that's been punched through his soul. Digging a nail into the counter, he speaks again, words a little rocky.]

It's been three months, since my wife and daughter were killed. I don't know that I can live up to what I was with them.

That's because you can't.

[ There's no point in being anything else but blunt and honest with him, really, and she doesn't mean to be cruel - but she can't help herself. Tilting her head up, she breathes out. ]

If you're comparing yourself to a person you were with them then... You're never going to be able to move forward, Erik. You'll be stuck, because... They're not here.

[ Hermione doesn't hesitate to reach out, to take his hand into her, to hold onto it gently. ]

You can't constantly compare yourself to who you were with them, because you'll never be able to move forward. You'll never be happy again.

[He lowers his head, feeling the weight of those words. He knows, of course, that he'll never be like that again. In a way, the person he had been died that day with his family. 'Henryk Gurzsky' perished months ago. But moving forward? He's tried, so many times. It doesn't seem to work. And he doesn't know that he wants to move forward from them.

Even though time will do that inexorably, no matter how he fights it.

His hand is rough, skin coarsened from years of hard labour. After a moment, he lets out a breath and curls his fingers around Hermione's.]

This isn't what I had in mind when I came over.

[ It might not be what he had in mind, but Hermione thinks it might be what he needed. He's surrounded by people who want him to be better, to be happy, to be - good, and okay, but she knows that it's not that easy. Hermione has experienced that herself, and the pressure you can put on your own shoulders can be too much.

Turning her head back, she squeezes his hand, holding onto him gently. ]

That's alright. I think you probably needed this. I don't mind at all.

[He lets out a laugh; a short, quiet huff.]

I don't know what I need anymore.

Well, I think you probably needed to talk to someone. I'm glad you could talk to me.

[He's spoken to people, in fits and starts. Not so much lately; when he was fresh and raw from coming back to the Fleet, it had spilled out of him more, not yet confined by his own natural inclination towards silence. None of his conversations have been quiet like this, though. No one has told him outright what be believes is true.

There's value in that, bitter though it might taste at times.]

...thank you.

[ Hermione imagines talking to people isn't the same as having someone empathise and lay things down in the way she had - there was no beating around the bush, and perhaps that had felt wrong, at first, but... Evidently it had been the right thing to do. She's been through enough that she knows idle kindnesses like that often weren't exactly welcome. ]

Of course, Erik. Any time.

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