He couldn't have stopped himself from being drawn to her even if he'd wanted to. The thought of where they were, cloistered away in a dimly lit cupboard, mattered not at all. He didn't have the heart, or the strength, he admitted, to move her from that spot on the cramped floor. Instead, he pressed closer, fumbling in the dimness to half-scoop Saoirse into his lap as his hands came around her tightly.
As Howell rested his cheek on the top of her head, stroking his hands up and down whatever part of her they could reach, he felt useless. Useless and helpless, with his fear and panic steadily turning to rage at the idea of what she'd had to suffer, that she was suffering again and he couldn't stop it. Impotent rage that he hadn't had cause to feel in a long, long time. The slight vibrations of Saoirse shuddering in his arms fought through that red haze enough to ground him, to remind him to let it go because there was nothing productive he could do. Though Howell wanted to, and the words were on the tip of his tongue, he couldn't promise her everything was going to be all right, he couldn't tell her he would never let anything happen to her. Because everything wasn't, and something would.
"You'll get through this," was what he could say to her instead. Because when things hadn't been all right, when they couldn't stop them from happening, they had gotten through it. In their own sad and horrible ways, Saoirse and he had the stamp of survival on them. "I promise you that we will get through this."
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