Hey, Soldat's got like four layers on. She's just getting their coat wet. It's fine, it'll dry. Her tears oddly make them feel less like crying, themselves, more like they got to be steady for her. Apparently Soldat is not a sympathetic crier-- thank god. It takes enough self-control to stay put and keep their muscles relaxed. This isn't bad, but it's not easy, either.

One hand rubs on her back, the flesh one, since it's the one that they presume is nicer to feel. Warmer and with more give to the fingertips and palm. "Not supposed to see a lot of shit. Still did. Still ain't your fault."