"That's never happened to me before," he murmurs softly as he finally pulls away from her hold. She takes his hand, and they help each other off the floor.
"I'm sorry." Fresh tears hit her eyes violently, and she squeezes his hand for want of another way to give him comfort. They stand together, crack and stretch their tired limbs. He rubs his tear-stained face repeatedly, and she pulls at her shirt where his weeping has soaked through; the rush of air gives her a slight chill, but she refuses to shiver.
"I've never—I've never dreamt about it before." He can't seem to stop himself as the words burst from him, his fingers pressing into his eyes as if to shove away the visions. "There was a roll call. I thought I was going to die, Liesel." He shudders to his very bone. "I've never felt it so—completely before. I've never—oh, God." A second shudder, and she can hear the tears thick in his throat. The rubbing of his eyes continues, intensifies.
"You're safe now," is all she can think of to say. And then she touches him, very lightly, on the elbow. When he takes away his hands to finally look at her again, his eyes are red and irritated, the skin of his cheeks still wet. He offers a weak smile.
"It's too late for you to go home." It's so obvious, and so pathetic in her young voice after his cries of pain. "Would you like to spend the night? The Hermanns won't mind."
He stammers, glances at a watch that isn't there. When he looks up at the mantel, she notices how disheveled his suit is, the white shirt wrinkling and the creases gone from his pant legs. His hair, too, is chaos, and when he looks back at her he looks ten years younger, a Max Vandenburg she never knew. He smiles embarrassedly, ashamed of taking advantage of his privileges as a guest. "If you're sure it's all right."
She nods and relief floods her. She takes his hand, and they walk through the quiet, warm home until she brings him to the second floor, the first room on the right. When the door opens she turns the light on, and it reveals a lightly furnished room, with a rather large bed and matching pine end tables and vanity. The walls are a gentle cream, the sheets an inoffensive olive green. She releases his hand and he shrugs from his jacket, undoes the first few buttons of his shirt. The shoes are the last to come off before he sets himself down, sighing softly at the comfort of the mattress, his body above the covers. She murmurs a "goodnight" she's certain he doesn't hear, and as she turns out the light and begins to shut the door, he speaks reluctantly.
"Would you mind—staying, for a little bit? I want you to—to be here in case I—I have the nightmare again." She can nearly see his blush, even in the darkness and even from the distance.
"Of course, Max."
She shuts the door behind her and in darkness pulls the sweater over her head. Her shoes are placed beside it before she joins him above the sheets. As he drifts, the most relaxed he's ever been, his hands blindly search for hers. When his fingers slip between hers, she gives them a comforting squeeze. They hold hands as they sleep, side by side.