"Oh," he says, as though the concept of his wellness hadn't even occurred to him, and he looks down at himself as if there's anything telling to see. "I—I'm all right." It's not strictly a lie, but it's not very convincing either, and he smiles, a bit apologetic. "I mean, it... it was hard. It's been hard. But we're doing all right, I think."

It's been two months now; he still occasionally gets flashes of it, seeing John's body on the floor, uncomfortable and unpredictable little jolts now and then. And there's the more recent brush with Riggs, memories of which tend to prompt smaller waves of nausea over what could have happened, what might still happen. But it's all right. They're all right. He's trying to come round to the idea that it might actually stay that way.

"Nothing I can't handle," he amends quietly, taking a ponderous sip of his drink.