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[Daniel looks tired, dirty, and a little haggard, but otherwise seems fine.]

Hey. Sorry I've been out of the loop for a bit, I was off in the woods.

[...technically true.]

Anyway, I'm around again, and I should be in the city for the a while. Let me know if you need anything.

[Private to Claire]

Hey, did you make it out alright?

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[He nods, almost idly.]

That's fine. I'm going to just talk, I think, because I'm used to it, and my signal-to-noise ratio is probably lower than most, but you can listen in all you want.

This may all be simpler if we establish that neither of us owes the other anything. We are from clearly separate universes, and there is no prior connection, no relationship. I saved you once, you saved me once, and we could leave it at that.

[He isn't sure that's what he wants.]

[Softly.]

You feel like mine.

I don't really care what dimensional sleight of hand is behind that. I want to take care of you, and your Israel isn't here to do it. You'd never owe me anything for that.

I don't know you yet, and I can't trust you or treat you like a hero I never had. But I want to be a part of your life while we're here, if you'll let me.

[A subtle tension in Charles' shoulders relaxes. He shivers, and his hands drift up, hug himself.]

You make it sound so simple.

Isn't it?

[A playful grin, because of course it's complicated and he knows it. But it's also simple, and he's daring Charles a little to come up with a reason it can't be.]

I've -- I've done quite a bit for governments. But now I want to be a man of my own conscience, not a man of someone else's agenda.

I'm not asking you to be an agent, or a soldier, or a fucking civil servant.

I'm just saying - let me. Be home.

[He ducks his head, and tears prick at his eyes. He wipes at them, impatiently.]

That may be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.

Oh, achi.

[Screw this. He scoots his crate over, scraping loudly against the floor, and leans in to give Charles that hug.]

[His fingers rest light on Israel's arm. Slowly curl and tighten in the fabric. And hesitantly, warily, he opens up a thin stream of his emotions, a trickle into Israel's mind. It's a jumble, a mess, far too many emotions to name or untangle -- good memories, terrible memories, friendships and hatreds. It's a tumult, and touching the raw roar of Israel's mind calms it, easing the force of a hurricane to a thunderstorm, even if only for now.]

[There's an individual intensity to the chaos that's unfamiliar for him, but it isn't bad, even though parts of it hurt. He lets it rush through him, just holding Charles close, rocking a little, cooing softly, not bothering to sort through the images and reactions. Time enough for understanding later.]

[He lingers there as long as he can, wrapping himself tight in the thought of home. There are brief images of long, huge houses, and quiet halls, and dusty ballrooms and attics; the metal efficiency of military bases; little cottages and inns with guards outside the door.

And two little boys in a railway car huddled together -- the only emotion that comes close to what he's feeling now.

Eventually he pulls away. ]

All right. We'll try the simple way.

[A shuffle of images comes to mind for Daniel, too, gingerly offered up: sitting on someone's knobby knees, his own tiny legs swinging, pouring over a tome as big as he was; scratched a scar-laced cat with bloody fingers on a creaky dock smelling sharply of fish and salt; scrambling through dusty sun-baked alleyways, heart pounding, with his hands full of stolen apples.]

I'm glad.

[And the next decision is what he should do about Erik.

Erik tried to kill him in another universe. So did Israel. Israel, he's forgiven. Erik... he used to love him so much.

Charles takes another long breath.]

And perhaps it's not so complicated about Erik after all.

Perhaps not.

Can you talk about it?

[This isn't about him; he's willing to listen, but this he won't press.]

[He can't. It's all knotted up in his chest, tangled in concepts that are too difficult for words. And they, by extension, have made some words too difficult to say.

He gives a tight shake of his head.]

It's... does six months count as still fresh?

[a soft roll of his shoulders, gentler than a shrug.]

It counts if if counts. Some things Russia did to me a hundred years ago and I still can't - can't.

Yeah.

Then... then I suppose it counts.

It makes me feel -- it isn't as though I'd never been attacked before, that I'd never seen horrors.

That never really mitigates pain as much as people seem to think it does.

Not the pain, really. The helplessness.

Yes.

That's - often the worst.

Do you know how to start feeling safe again?

Safe?

[he shakes his head]

Still working on that one. But not-safe is a long way away from helpless.

Paranoia is exhausting.

And then it won't let you rest.

You're safer if you're rested.

At some point, you just - have to accept that. That if you can't rely on anyone else, you have to make sure you take care of yourself, not just defend yourself. It's all of a piece, living.

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