Ranuccio remembers coming round in the beggars hospice, after Michele had slashed his throat. How dark it had been where he was, inside himself. How soultearing to leave the numbess behind, and the nothingness.

So he waits, in silence, for Clay to come back, giving a quick glance to Jon, a half begrudged acknowledgement of rough, reluctant gratitude for staying put. And quiet.

Too early for words yet, but he keeps petting the dirty blond hair as Clay's hand starts to touch his arm, temptative, but getting surer and surer.