It was dark in his hospital room. The only light came from the moonlight seeping through the white curtains. It was well passed midnight, but he couldn't sleep. Not that he would when she was in the room. Not that he would when he was bent over, his tall and built body awkwardly angled to be somewhat on her level. Not that he would be when his head resting against her shoulder. Not that he would be when he was leaving her yellow shirt wet with his quiet tears, her hand threaded in his usually neat hair.

He didn't like to dwell on it - he didn't want to dwell on it. He wished he could wake up every day, carefree, without remembering the cruel nature of his job. He thought that he was over how brutish his job made him be. He knew that people considered him willing to sacrifice any and everything to further humanity's cause. He was, but to deal with the consequences afterward was something he wasn't willing to do.

Walking through the often times cold hallways of the Scouting Regiment's headquarters reminded him of the sacrifices he's made. The proud and determined faces of the subordinates he had seen grow and rise in rank - the faces he wanted to remember - were replaced with the sad and terrorized faces of ones facing certain death. He never really wanted to look at their dead bodies - he didn't want to see how far these proud and strong soldiers had fallen - but he always ended up staring at each of their faces. He would remember the conversations they would have, however short, remember them talking about their dreams and hopes and families and whatever else seemed important or unimportant or just a topic of conversation.

That was the part that killed him the most. Remembering that they were people that had dreams and hopes. Dreams of a family of their own. Dreams of a happy life once they were far enough along in the regiment. Dreams of a life without the terror of Titans (though, that was a dream for many, if not all). Hopes that they could have children and see them grow up. Hopes that they could live to old age. Hopes that they could live at all.

"Do you ever cry?" was her question.

"No," was his answer.

"I mean for the soldiers that die in the field."

"No," he answered again.

"It's not healthy to keep it in."

"Did you come to lecture me?" was his response, a bit unlike himself. Maybe it was the lack of sleep getting to him. She didn't say anything for a few quiet moments. They were sitting side by side on the edge of his bed. She had come and visited him for a reason he didn't really know. She was an unpredictable woman, he knew. One minute she would bouncing with excitement and enthusiasm; the next she would be quiet and thoughtful. One minute her eyes would be alight with her unbridled exhilaration; the next they would be subdued with her introspective musings. She was a sort of wild child with a streak of rationality. "Hanji?" he said after the quiet stretched for a few more awkward seconds.

"He's dead, you know," she whispered. He nodded, although he was sure she didn't notice. "How will we ever know when someone is taking shit within a 10 meter radius?" she asked, her joke falling flat as he heard the very sad tone of her voice.

"We won't," was his simple reply.

"Will you cry for him?" she asked after a moment's pause.

"No."

"You should."

"It would be unfair to all the others who have died."

"So what?"

"Hanji."

"Cry. It helps. It'll help you."

"And what if it doesn't?"

"It will."

"You're so certain about that," he laughed.

"When am I not certain about something, Erwin?"

"Almost never."

"Right. So, cry."

He did.