It happens more often now, the going away, the slow fall into something distant and terrifying and horrific. He feels it at night most of all, when he wakes from dreams so vivid and so real that he's sure the explosion in his mind will leave him dead on the side of the mountain in the A Shau valley. But the bedroom always reappears, the walls stop caving in, and he's left to gaze blankly at the ceiling as the hours creep by.
The hand on his arm startles him, his eyes leaving the sandwich in his lap to observe the scarred, strong fingers curled around his wrist. Klaus can't explain why he feels stripped bare, why he feels like his chest has cracked open, vulnerable and raw, but something about the hand anchors him to the moment. He doesn't pull away, but raises a free hand to pat Diego's.
"Of course we will," he says with a little more energy, a little more forced life that he's dragging up from the nearly empty reserves. Allison has to get better and they have to help her. And whether Diego means to speak to him, about the ghosts that linger behind his eyes, Klaus doesn't know. They've spoken once, in the shady bar back home, in the drive, in the infirmary. But what more is there to say?
"We always figure something out. That's what we Hargreeves do, after all. Fuck it all put and put it back together again," he snorts and gives Diego's hand a squeeze before he slides from his place on the counter, setting the picked at sandwich aside.
They could linger in the discomfort, pay homage to the elephant that stands between them in the kitchen, but that's not what Klaus does. Instead he busies himself with a deep bowl, a spoon, a plate, a serving tray. He even drags down an extra mug because, throat injury or not, he knows how his sister can be upon waking, if she's slept at all.
"We have water, you know. And some fancy, natural juices if you feel so inclined. You could have said no to the coffee." A small, tired, knowing smile is thrown over his shoulder before waltzes away again to the fridge for a pitcher of water, for himself.
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The hand on his arm startles him, his eyes leaving the sandwich in his lap to observe the scarred, strong fingers curled around his wrist. Klaus can't explain why he feels stripped bare, why he feels like his chest has cracked open, vulnerable and raw, but something about the hand anchors him to the moment. He doesn't pull away, but raises a free hand to pat Diego's.
"Of course we will," he says with a little more energy, a little more forced life that he's dragging up from the nearly empty reserves. Allison has to get better and they have to help her. And whether Diego means to speak to him, about the ghosts that linger behind his eyes, Klaus doesn't know. They've spoken once, in the shady bar back home, in the drive, in the infirmary. But what more is there to say?
"We always figure something out. That's what we Hargreeves do, after all. Fuck it all put and put it back together again," he snorts and gives Diego's hand a squeeze before he slides from his place on the counter, setting the picked at sandwich aside.
They could linger in the discomfort, pay homage to the elephant that stands between them in the kitchen, but that's not what Klaus does. Instead he busies himself with a deep bowl, a spoon, a plate, a serving tray. He even drags down an extra mug because, throat injury or not, he knows how his sister can be upon waking, if she's slept at all.
"We have water, you know. And some fancy, natural juices if you feel so inclined. You could have said no to the coffee." A small, tired, knowing smile is thrown over his shoulder before waltzes away again to the fridge for a pitcher of water, for himself.