His brow furrows in confusion, when he tastes the oil.

He swallows without even thinking.

"Good. Okay. Good."

Water, now, for more mundane reasons. Wherever Valentine's been, it hasn't been good for him, and dehydration doesn't help with anything.

He takes the water, and takes a slow, cautious first sip, flinching just before it hits his tongue.

After a moment of waiting, he takes another.

Having exhausted his immediate precautions, Camillo feels abruptly helpless. He covers for it by picking up his book from the floor while Valentine drinks, uncreasing the bent pages.

"...Dad, you're home."

He exhales sharply and tightens his grip on the glass.

"I'm not going to play along," he says, with the last strength he has.

(He leans back against the couch, so he doesn't have to bear his own weight.)

Cato is clutching his crossbow, point down, totally at sea.

"What do you mean," he says, voice almost breaking.

"He doesn't remember us -- or he's hallucinating -- Cato, go back to bed, you still have school in the morning, I'll call you if I need you."

Cato doesn't need to see Valentine like this.

"Fuck off," he says, with tears in his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Valentine finishes his glass of water and sets it carefully down next to him on the carpet.

He wipes a little black streak from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fine," Camillo says to Cato, because that fight was doomed from the beginning.

And to Valentine: "More? Still thirsty?"

"I'm all right, thank you."

It's fully automatic.

"Fine," Camillo sighs, exasperated, and gets a throw blanket to drape around Valentine's shoulders. "...Cato, lock the Death Trap, I don't want him wandering off all delirious in the middle of the night."

The Death Trap is the second lock on the front door, installed backwards so it locks with a key from the inside. Camillo named it when he was twelve and reading about fire safety, and it stuck.

Cato nods and runs off.

“…how could you possibly know about that,” he says, in the same tone he uses when he’s been tipped off to the taxonomy of some malevolent spirit by the shape of its slime trail.

"Dad, it's me. Camillo."

The throw blanket is as much for decency as for warmth, and as much for his comfort as Valentine's. He tucks it around Valentine's bare torso and tries not to think about the marks beneath.

He ignores the claim, and pulls the blanket closed around him.

"If someone's put a welcome mat at our door..."

"No one put out a welcome mat."

He's so tired. Why are they rehashing first-grade safety curriculum. Go to sleep.

"Go to sleep. It'll probably all make sense in the morning."

"...oh, am I sleeping tonight, then." 

He sounds relieved.

He drags himself up onto the couch, keeping the blanket tight around his shoulders.

Cato comes back, lingers in the door frame.

"Doors are locked."

"Great. Go to bed. Still a school night."

It apparently worked on Valentine. Maybe it'll work on Cato this time.

"Did I not say fuck off loud enough."

He comes in and sits down right next to him.

Valentine takes a deep breath.

"Suit yourself. I'm going to sleep."

If he's choosing to sleep stretched out on the rug by the couch, so that Valentine can't very well get anywhere without stepping on him, that's no one's business but his own.

Cato climbs into the biggest of the armchairs, with his crossbow in his lap.

"...he's back. So it's going to be fine."