[ of all the beings in this house, of all the minds he's sensed and felt brushing against his own, the eyes that pry and vie for his attention, how is it that he's come to stand out here in the quiet of the night alongside a reporter he hired to tell a story? not once, but twice.

how is it that of all those who presumably know him, love him, care for him - only unsettle the disquiet in his mind, and this human being, again - the reporter he hired - manages to bring him back down into himself once more. it's no different than dubai, no different than san francisco.

but there won't be blood here. not daniel's. not again. and when louis speaks, there's the rasp of something old in it, rounded and almost creole at its edges. not the restrained, perfect thing he'd made himself to be. ]

I don't know if I can help with all of it, but I'm willing to try.

[ the bump against the shoulder surprises him and he tips his head up to look at daniel in the small space between them. ]

It's the least I could do.

[ there's a little lean of his own when he braces his hands on the balcony railing, bringing their elbows to brush together, briefly. ]

I have the feeling we'll have plenty of time. In the meantime? I'll watch your back. The way things are looking, I might need you to watch mine.

[ there's a lilt of a dry joke there, but it doesn't reach his eyes. something tells him they'll both need a little protecting, when the time comes. ]