Valentine takes it from him, inhales the scent of it.

The first time he puts it to his lips, he flinches, has to back off a moment or two.

The second time, he manages a sip.

His shoulders drop for the first time since he’s arrived home, and he sighs with a deep, broken exhaustion that doesn’t quite manage to drown out the relief.

“What a beautiful world this is.”

All right, so it's worth a little bit of liver damage.

"...there's been bodies washing up from the lake. I was up late, trying to figure out -- do you want to help?"

It's the nearest thing to normalcy he has to offer.

“—normal faces?”

He sits up a little straighter, props his elbows on his book.

"Probably, but I can't be positive -- the morgue doesn't like me as much as they like you--"

He has pages of notes on it, and a stack of books to haul down from upstairs.

Valentine pores over his notes, thumbs through books with shaky hands from one bookmark to the next.

About halfway into the glass of brandy he remembers to, tentatively, ask for something to eat.

They have been under a lot of stress and eating a lot of Kraft macaroni and delivery pizza.

Would Valentine like ... pasta. With ... canned tomato sauce. Camillo can turn those up.

“…it might be — prudent — just to start with bread and butter.”

"--yeah. Of course. Sorry."

It's not good bread, or fancy butter, but it is real food, on a chipped fiestaware plate. Camillo's brought the electric tea kettle, too, and tea and lemon and honey.

Valentine tears tiny fragments off the bread, one at a time. He inspects them and rolls them between his fingers before each bite he takes, still sometimes hesitates and has to take a second try.

“…you might be assuming it’s aquatic too strongly.”

"I might be assuming the lake monster is aquatic too strongly."

“Anyone can dump a body in a lake.”

He’s unwrapped a tea bag, and seems to be going back and forth on whether to put it in the mug. Eventually, it’s a yes.

"Yes, Scully, it's probably just a serial killer who targets exclusively universalist unitarians."

“I didn’t say mundane, did I?”

He opens the jar of honey,

dips the tip of the spoon in, inspects the way it shines.

"Z didn't find anything when he checked out the UU church."

“…so he’s involved, now.”

Camillo crosses his arms.

"I made a call."

He sighs, nods.

“It was yours to make.”

"You weren't there," says Camillo, who has been rehearsing this argument for months, "and Cato and I can only be so many places at one time--"

“Yes,” he says, gently, “I know.”

The kettle clicks off. He pours.

"--sorry."

He's such an asshole.

He shakes his head.

“You don’t need to apologize to me.”

He watches the tea bag float to the surface of the water.

If only Valentine would demand a full accounting of the last three months from him -- would ask him what he thought he was doing, tell him how to do it better --

"I don't think we should tell anyone you're back, yet. Even our allies -- outside of Cato and Z -- in case anyone slips up and knows..."

“…that might be useful, yes.”

He picks up the lemon, turns it over in his hand.

“Have I been, ah, let go, yet?”

"...not totally sure. I should open some letters."

It hasn't been the most pleasant topic to think about, nor yet the most urgent.