A/N: Another interlude from Dave's POV.

The flight from Paris to London wasn't long, but Dave was wrung out by the time he'd climbed the rickety stairs to his flat. He fumbled his keys, dropped the mail he'd tucked under his chin, and just gave up. He slid to the floor amidst the papers and cried. He knew he was still mourning Eitan, he would for a long time, but he was also mourning Kurt. He pulled out his phone and even went so far as to call Kurt's number up, his thumb hovering over the dial button, before remembering that he was an idiot and that Kurt was somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. Even if Kurt did want to talk to him after the way he'd left him in Paris, he wouldn't have that choice for at least another six hours.

Dave sighed, tipped his head back against the wall, and stretched his legs out. His right foot met resistance in the form of a yellow padded envelope, covered in air mail and customs stamps. He snagged the envelope with the toe of his shoe and dragged it through the rest of his mail to reach it. It was heavy in his hands, battered from travel and from being shoved into his tiny mailbox.

The return address was Tel Aviv.

Dave's heart stuttered in his chest and he blinked away tears, peering closer at the writing. It wasn't Eitan's hand, but Dave didn't really think too hard about whose writing it was. If it was from Israel, it was from Eitan.

He tugged at the flap with trembling hands, pulled out something book-sized, wrapped in the pages of the Tuesday edition of Yedioth Ahronoth, and a loose piece of paper.

Dear David-

You don't know me. Knowing my Eitan, you probably didn't even know I existed, but I know all about you. Eitan and I, we never had any secrets. We married young, before either of us really knew our own hearts, and we did love each other, in our own ways, all these years.

I will miss him.

I know you will, too.

He loved you. He called you his American. He always looked forward to seeing you, spending time with you. I wish you had been given more time together.

But our Eitan, he loved the rush and the story more than any person or place; I suspect you know this, because you live in that world also.

What you may not know, though, is that Eitan kept a journal religiously. All the words he never found the voice to say, he wrote. I've sent it to you, because over the last years, even when you were apart, he mostly wrote about you. He admired you for being secure in who you are, for your talent and your wonderful, kind heart. He always told me that you were going to get tired of the travel someday, that you would find your way home and do great and important things.

Mourn him, David, but don't let his death be the thing that defines you. Live your life. Let that be your legacy.

If you ever find your way to Tel Aviv, the children and I would love to meet you.

Always,

Chava Avraham

Dave read the letter through a second time, slid it and the paper-wrapped journal into the envelope, and spent a half hour sorting through the rest of his mail. Once he had gotten all his things out of the hall and into his flat, he set it on the table and set to work getting back to his life.

The package from Chava taunted him every time Dave walked through the kitchen. He ignored it, instead threw himself back into his work like nothing had changed. But it stayed on his table. He couldn't bring himself to put it in the file cabinet.

The worst part was, somehow, everyone at work knew. He felt their stares, heard their whispers. The day he returned to his desk after lunch and found a photocopied article with Eitan's byline at the top, he hid in the men's room and cried for fifteen minutes before he could face the afternoon. They were doubtless trying to be kind, but Dave had no use for that sort of kindness. Not about Eitan.

He could feel himself slipping, but there was nothing he could do except hold on as hard as he could to the things he could do: daily tasks, correspondence with his sources in Moscow and Beijing, and breathing in and out as often as he could remember. The stories he'd been dealing with before Eitan's death had been reassigned to other reporters.

On Friday, two weeks after returning from Paris, Dave was shutting his computer down when his boss and mentor, Adrian, passed by his desk with a gentle hand on Dave's shoulder and a whisper in his ear. "Come by my office before you go, DJ."

Dave's stomach flip-flopped, and when he knocked on the frame of Adrian's open door, his hands were sweating.

"Please don't fire me," he said in a rush as he stepped inside at Adrian's beckoning wave. "I know I'm a mess. I'll do better."

Adrian chuckled. "I'm not firing you. But I need to know what your plans are, going forward. If you want to continue traveling, doing this work. You wouldn't be the first to walk away, after the death of someone you cared about."

Dave wanted to insist that he wasn't going anywhere, but the words got trapped in his throat. He sank into the chair across from Adrian's desk and rested his head in his hands. "I have no idea," he said, staring at the worn carpet. "I just don't know, anymore."

"You don't have to feel stuck, doing this." He gestured at the window. "You have connections, DJ. You can move on to something else, and the news world would still be here if you decided to come back."

"I used to be good at math," Dave mumbled, but the memory was faded. He most definitely wasn't that boy anymore, the one who'd done Kurt's calculus homework. "I always thought maybe I'd be a teacher, but then I had to get away, and I kept running, and now-" he broke off, slumped back in his chair. "Now, I just don't know."

Adrian put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me call you a taxi. You don't need to put up with the Underground on a Friday night."

Dave had the cab driver stop at the liquor store on Compton on his way home. He picked up a bottle of Auslese Riesling, the cheapest he could find. It wasn't going to last long, anyway.

The yellow envelope was still on his table when he walked into the kitchen, but today he picked it up and set it aside while he made himself dinner. While he quick-chilled the wine in the freezer, he settled down at the kitchen table and called Kurt. He could hear him handling his phone as he picked up, and Dave imagined him plugging in his headphones.

"Are you on lunch break?" Dave asked. "I can wait until you get home if that'd be better."

Kurt sighed. "Lunch was my third coffee of the day, an apple, and half a chocolate chip muffin. No, I'm just waiting for the printer to finish giving me the stuff I need to edit over the weekend."

He couldn't help but smile. "Wish I could have shared the other half of that chocolate chip muffin with you."

"Yeah." Kurt's voice was fond. "We didn't get to share dessert, in Paris."

Dave snorted, reaching into the freezer for the wine. It was nicely chilled. "Some people would call that dessert."

He could hear Kurt's swallowed laughter, and papers shuffling. "I didn't know if I'd hear from you for a while."

"Yeah," Dave admitted. "I wasn't sure either." He loosened the cork in the bottle and poured himself a glass, taking a long drink before picking up the envelope. Carefully, he slid the contents out and set them on the table. "But I have this thing- I need to- shit, Kurt. Eitan's wife sent me his journal, and it's been staring at me for two weeks, and I know I need to read it, but I can't do it alone."

"Oh. Oh - David."

He flinched. "So you think you could, like, virtually hold my hand while I do this? I won't promise not to fall apart."

"Of course." There was a pause, and muffled voices on Kurt's end of the phone. "Should I be drinking wine, or something harder?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea while you're at work, Kurt." He ran his fingers over the cover of the journal, all the marks made by Eitan's pen, every smudge a piece of him.

"Isabelle is sending me home. It's not a far walk, and I could use the company, if you don't mind the city as a soundtrack."

"Well, in that case, you want to split this bottle of Riesling with me? It's about as sweet as any dessert we ever bought."

"Sounds good. I'm ready when you are."

Dave took a deep breath, flipped to the first page, and began.

"10 August 2016.

I met an American boy today. He should have been out of place here, but he wasn't. Just him and a camera, no interpreter, barely enough Arabic to say hello, but there is something about him. He's not one of the soft ones, the idealists, the ones who think they can come over to Hell and save the world.

His name is David.

I bought him a drink at the hotel. He's so skittish, but sweet. I'm sure I will dream about his hands, and his careful smile.

As for the rebels, well, they are neither skittish nor sweet.

29 September 2016

Been too busy, these last weeks. Too many crises in too many places. Crossed paths with my American again, twice. Once in Oman and once in Venice. And, I think I saw him in the airport in Athens, but I was going to miss my connection so I didn't stop. We exchanged numbers, in Venice. He is impossibly young and also older than his years.

His smile was less careful, this time.

14 October 2016

Cairo, days of riots. It's all routine, now. David is here, with me. With me, in my room, the way we have been every night since the first riots five days ago. He knows how to do this hard work; his Arabic is even passable, now. Sort of. But when we are done for the day, when the police have cleared the streets again and curfew is in force, it doesn't seem to matter what is happening outside.

I don't even know how I found him, and we both know how hard it is to be together when this job is both our lives, but I feel like maybe this could mean something.

31 December 2016

I haven't seen David in six weeks. Our assignments haven't crossed since Cairo, and I must be missing him terribly because Ari can't stop teasing me about my expression every time my phone rings. He calls me puppydog every time it's someone other than David.

I am too old to moon over a boy like this.

My Chava is also enjoying teasing me. I am so lucky that she and I came to an understanding. We do love each other, even if most people would consider our circumstances non-traditional. I want her to meet David, someday. I think they would get along well."

Dave paused as a rectangle of photo paper fluttered out from between the pages and onto the ground. He stared at it, a photo of himself sitting on a beach chair, smiling self-consciously at the camera. The memories in his mind of that day hadn't included Eitan taking a snapshot of him, but he remembered the rest with vivid clarity.

"Dave?" Kurt said softly. "Do you want to stop?"

"No, it's... I'm all right." He cleared his throat and went on reading:

"7 June 2017

David took pictures of me today, on the beach here in Athens. I have only a few of him. That is often the way of things for the photographer, that they are not photographed themselves.

I think this one captures so much of him.

It's been a good trip, this week together. I wish we got more time like this. Sometimes it feels like there's never enough time.

15 December, 2017

Winter makes travel so unpredictable, but somehow we managed to connect in Marrakesh. It's been two months since we've seen each other, but that never matters. We always come back together easily, as if we've never been apart.

In January, after Elijah's wedding and after David is back from South Africa, I'm going to take him to Paris. The City of Lights for the man who has lit up my heart again after so long.

3 January 2018

Elijah's bride, Channa, is lovely. The ceremony was simple and beautiful, and reminded me a lot of the day Chava and I married. It has been a treat to be here with Chava and the children. They are growing so fast. Sarah's bat mitzvah is coming up in June. Perhaps I will bring David, then; he's been wanting to come to Israel with me. I'm sure the children will love him.

The cease fire, always so delicate a state of affairs, has crumbled yet again. I'm leaving in the morning."

Dave turned to read the next page, only the next page was empty. There was a small folded square of paper wedged into the spine, though. Dave tugged it free and opened it. "He left me a note," he said.

"Oh." Kurt gasped and sniffled. "Do you- you don't have to read it to me. It's personal, you should read it on your own."

"I don't know if I can do that," Dave said. "I mean, I don't think I can read it to you, but I also don't think I should be alone when I read it." He sighed heavily. "That makes no sense."

"How about," Kurt said carefully, "I sit here on the phone with you, and you read your letter, and I'll just be here if you need me."

Dear David-

If you're reading this, then I'm gone. Chava has instructions to pass this along.

I know you doubted my feelings and intentions. I know you thought that what we had was transitory, I could see it on your face every time we were together. But you need to know. I love you, my David. I love you, and I want you to be happy. I know it's easy for me to say, and hard for you to accept. But David, please. You deserve every happiness the world has to offer, and I wish this for you because these last two years you have been my happiness.

I love you.

Eitan

Monday morning, Dave got to work early and knocked on Adrian's door.

"I know what I want to do," he said in lieu of a good morning. He set Eitan's journal on Adrian's desk. "I need to get permission from his wife, but I want to publish Eitan's journal, and I want to take the pictures to accompany his writing."

Adrian reached over and, after a nod from Dave, picked up the journal and leafed through it, reading with a thoughtful expression. "You think you've got enough distance from this to be objective?"

Dave laughed. "Not even a little bit. But it was my heart that drew me to the Middle East to begin with. I don't think there's any reason why I shouldn't let it guide me now."

Adrian steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "Write me up a proposal. Where you want to go, what you want to photograph." He stared at the battered cover of the journal. "Every major conflict of the last few years, he was there, wasn't he?"

"Yeah. That's why I thought- I know it would be meaningful. His articles, they tell one story, but this - this is him. His life's story."

"And yours, too."

Dave shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I have to show it."

He stayed up until past two in the morning writing the proposal. He knew before he pressed Send that Adrian would say yes.