Sniff. Cling. Ivan's shoulder is becoming distinctly damp.

Yes, well, he has more uniforms.

"Well, that's pretty convenient, isn't it, seeing as we're related? I like you too."

"Really?" he asks, snifflishly.

"Sure. You're a huggable morbid little kid and I like you fine."

"I don't think anybody's liked me before," he says, drying his eyes on a part of Ivan's shoulder that has not been cried on yet. A little of his earlier carefree tone reasserts itself. "But if it means you rescue me, that's good."

"I'd rescue you anyway, but I'm going to have particularly strong opinions while I do it in this case."

"Well, don't fuck it up," he says firmly.

"I'll try. Word as Vorpatril."

"That's important?"

"Quite."

"Okay." He pauses, then adds, "I believe you."

"Good. Because you've got a hell of a wait ahead and that seems like it might be easier to take if you know to expect me to show up with help, eh?"

"Maybe," he says. "I've never expected help before. I dunno what it's like."

"Beats the alternative."

"I can't see how it'd make a good painkiller, though."

"Well, maybe it'll be better than nothing."

So's little bitty Mark. Ivan doesn't put him down, but he does sit.

Little bitty Mark curls up and leans on him. He is leanable as well as huggable. Ivan Vorpatril has many uses.

"You came in the door; you could take me out it..."