She was perfectly silent as he spoke, not daring to interrupt him even when he couldn't finish his sentences. And when he was finished, she wished he could see his face. He held so much emotion in how he held himself and in his eyes and without seeing any of it, she could only rely on how his voice sounded and how tightly he was holding her hand. She knew that this was difficult for him to talk about, but it was something more than that, more than just the traumatic events he was reliving, he was hesitant and tentative and afraid.

It took her a few more moments to realize that he was waiting for her reaction, which was probably why he was so afraid in the first place. And, truthfully, she didn't know how to react. A tiny sliver of her was disgusted -- murder in and and all instances is wrong, and for a woman who didn't even step on ants, Daphne couldn't rationalize the systemic killing of people, no matter what reasoning you were using. A larger part of her was hurting for him, because he was obviously carrying the burden of every single life he had taken, and he sounded so sad by the entire story.

But the majority of her wanted to make him feel better, to erase whatever fear he had of her -- what, leaving? Telling him to go away? She couldn't do that, not when she knew that he was a good person, inside and out. He didn't have to tell her the rest of the story for her to know that he struggled with everything he had done and that he had tried to do something good with what he was given. But even that line of thought was trouble and while Daphne wanted to tell him that it was okay, it wasn't, and she couldn't lie.

So instead of saying anything at all, she shifted to feel along his arms for his shoulders -- and once she found those, she wrapped her arms around him for a tight hug, pressing her face into his neck in some attempt to comfort him past saying something that he wouldn't believe anyway.