Wonder in Wintergreen's voice, and a quiet joy. Sentiments I can understand. There are scars on Slade I do not know, stories behind them I was not there for.

There is part of me that wants to tie him down, press my teeth into each scar I do not recognize and make him tell me where they came from until he is known again. It would be unwise, at best, to try such a tactic, but I want to.

I tap one finger on Wintergreen's arm, signaling 'look at me,' and tilting my head at Slade when he does. Offer, and question: how much of right now is for Wintergreen, or for me, or for the both of us?