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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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[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.

I can't. I haven't slept a good night since -- it.

[he rubs Charles's back gently]

I'll watch out for you, if you want me to. I'm no stranger to nightmares.

[He wants to say yes.]

I don't think we're that far yet.

Okay.

[It's mild, unoffended. Perhaps when Charles is more ragged he'll push, but not quite yet.]

There is just one thing I'd like to know, about your war. Is it okay if I ask?

[A single, tight nod.]

I don't need details, just. Just the number.

How many of us died, in the shoah, in your world?

No one's ever had an accurate count, but they tend to pin it at -- well, at more than four million.

[ Unimaginably huge numbers, and Charles swallows, sharp nausea rising. He isn't even remembering anything in particular, is devoted to not thinking about the things he saw, and yet even the vague association makes him ill. ]

[He makes a small sound in his throat, a crushed sound, a whimper. He drags in a slow breath.]

Without you, it was six. Six of ours, and twelve total.

[Charles' jaw goes slack. His mind, blank.

The words simply don't process, for a long moment. Six. Six.]

Then... it was for a purpose.

[It wasn't all for nothing.]

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