Valentine will take two little capsules and sip half a glass of water, huddling under the blanket draped over his shoulders.

"...how long?"

"Three months -- four? -- no, three. Three months."

"...three months."

He's not sure if that sounds too long or too short.

"And are there — active threats?"

"The usual. Sightings of Hubert's stag in the suburbs. Something keeps trying to break in the side door at night. We've got it under control."

He sighs and it's like half the weight of his body has left on his breath. His shoulders crumple and his forehead tips down towards his glass of water.

"You are both marvels. Wonders of the world. I'm so proud of you."

 The inside of his shirt is good for wiping away tears.

"We missed you. I'm so glad you made it back."

“How did you do it? I — don’t think I saw any of your materials.”

Cold. Nauseous.

"We thought you--"

“…no. No, I had nothing to do with it.”

"I think," Camillo says, distantly, "we should move you to the panic room. For the time being."

Cato is already up and heading there.

“Yes. That seems best.”

Camillo offers Valentine his arm.

Valentine reaches out to take it — stops, flinches — pulls himself up by the edge of the table.

He still limps, as he makes his way to the basement stairs.

The panic room was a laundry room, in a previous life. Actually, it's still a laundry room, because this is where the dryer hookup is, and it's never quite reached the top of their list of home improvement projects. The heavy bars on the door, the labyrinthine pattern painted on the floor, don't really interfere with the laundry.

The walls are reinforced, inside and out, to stand up to a guy with a crowbar, because sometimes the forces of evil have a crowbar. The real defenses were put in at the same time.

Camillo doesn't like to think about the black dog buried under the lintel.

He stops on the threshold and whispers a blessing before he passes from one imprisonment to another.

The words feel light and false on his tongue.

Camillo hovers nervously outside the door.

"Do you have -- any idea -- why they would've sent you...?"

Valentine paces the room, checking the wards.

“I can only guess.”

Cato comes downstairs with Valentine’s discarded shirt clutched in one hand.

“…if you would put that in evidence, and fetch a new one—”

He’s already gone.

Camillo steps into the room to turn on the utility sink at a trickle. The tired, painted-over pipes above the doorway shudder, and the drain gurgles softly. It's not much, but it's running water -- one more barrier to be crossed.

"Do you want help setting up the futon?"

“Please.”

He has to sit down on the floor next to it, halfway through, strength having left him. He apologizes for it.

Cato comes back with a full change of clothes.

Camillo finishes with the fitted sheet and steps out of the room, closing the door behind him so that Valentine can change in privacy.

"You should go in to school for the second half of the day. Nothing here is time-sensitive."