When Diego promises to get Ben, Vanya looks at him. Maybe it's the shock of the news, or the slow realization that she might be able to see the brother they lost first, but when she looks at him, all she sees is his face. Not some ghost lurking under his skin, a dying grimace hidden by the present. She doesn't even notice it, but she nods slowly instead of flinching away to look anywhere else. The only reason her focus shifts is the text that appears in the corner of her vision.

She can't find words - what words are there? She spent the best she had on her stupid book, and can't even remember what she wrote about him there. About his death. What she does remember is how hard writing that night had been, how she'd typed with damp and salty fingers about it. But to think that he's here - alive, breathing, Christ, what is she supposed to think about that? He's alive. And, what, he's been just out of reach for the past thirteen years?

Vanya leans forward, elbows on her knees, both hands covering her mouth. It takes a moment for her doubts to filter back then, but when they do it's like a tidal wave, water rushing into the space her shock had left. If he's just been haunting Klaus all these years, then he knows - about the book, about her. What she did - what she did to them. Was he there? She remembers flashes of the Icarus, and none of them really fit together. She slides her hands up to cover her face, pressing her fingers against her eyes until they ache. Shame makes her hot, reluctant to look at either of them, and the self-hatred that's almost always a low-key part of her days flares when she wishes, again (God, how often is she going to do this), that she could just pull out a bottle of her medication.

She doesn't tell them that she doesn't know what to say: her silence is a pretty clear indicator.