When he gets there, he hesitates, and then steps past the threshold.

There's a gasp like he's had the wind knocked out of him.

"It was Cato's turn with the dishes," Camillo says, automatically and stupidly.

“This is my kitchen,” he says, unsteadily. “This is my home.”

“Please — are my children still alive?”

"--Dad. Please."

He's crying, and it's as much relief that Valentine remembers he exists as it is anything else.

“That’s us,” Cato says, but even as he does realization is dawning on his face.

“I can’t believe that. Not again.”

He sounds desperate to. His voice is shaking, and he braces himself against the counter by the door, unwilling to look back over his shoulder.

"--okay. Can you just..."

Cato's hands are busy with the crossbow; Camillo can't reach out and take one. He puts a hand on Cato's shoulder, instead, and tries to pretend that it's to steady Cato.

"...can you just, be, in your kitchen, and not believe us, that's okay -- do you want to cook something, we have things..."

Cato is taking tight little breaths and blinking hard, bow still trained on Valentine's calf.

"Why — have you been put up to being part of this? — is there a way for me to help you, something they want from you, I..."

His kitchen table is right there. His kitchen table and his kitchen chairs.

He limps to them, sits down in one, pulls the blanket back tight over his shoulders.

"...you're home. We're safe. You're safe."

Camillo comes over, cautiously -- not too close -- and squats on the floor nearby, tries to look nonthreatening.

"Can you see the nicks on the table from when I built the Parthenon? And the glue on the window from that stupid sticker Cato put there?"

Valentine traces his fingertip over the nicks in question, slowly.

"...the sock monkey sticker," he says, faintly.

"The purple one," Camillo agrees.

"Cato. I don't think he's going to do anything. Can you get the bolt cutters?"

Cato nods sharply, drops his crossbow on the kitchen island, and runs for the garage.

"...not for any digits, I hope," he says, distantly.

"Jesus," Camillo sighs. "--for the ring, Valentine."

"The..."

"...oh, right. That one."

He touches it with the toes of his other foot.

"You might have trouble with it. It's quite thick."

"We cut through my U-lock that one time," Camillo says, optimistically.

Where's his phone. There's his phone. He needs to call Cato's school and tell them Cato will be out sick today. Not that Cato ought to miss another day of school right now, but he'll never convince him to go in.

The school is not pleased with Cato's absence. They want to see a doctor's note this time.

Cato returns with the bolt cutters and one of the three first aid kits.

"Do you want to do it yourself?" Camillo asks Valentine, because he's pretty sure Valentine isn't going to try to hit one of them over the head with the bolt cutters given a chance.

He holds out his hand for the tool.

Cato hesitates, for just a second, and then hands it to him.

Valentine lifts his foot up onto the chair next to him, hooks his finger into the ring to pull it up and out.

It stays in place, more or less, as he slips it between the bolt cutter's blades.

"...I won't have enough leverage."

He might, on a normal day. But not this one.

"...do you want me or Cato?"

It should be his job, really. But Cato might be less threatening.

"You."

If it's not his children, they can do what they want either way.

If it is — Camillo will want to protect Cato, much more than he'll want to pass off the job.