Chris came home the way people returned from war: upright on principle, sore in places he refused to inventory out loud, and running purely on spite and caffeine that had not yet been administered.
He was on the couch in the private wing like a tragic hero exiled to domesticity.
One leg stretched out, the other bent, a throw blanket draped over him in a way that suggested both suffering and aesthetic intention. He wore a soft, oversized T-shirt that was definitely one of Dax's gym shirts and lounge pants - comfortable enough to be believable, casual enough to be insulting, and entirely designed to make Dax understand that he had committed crimes.
Nero was in his arms.
Two months old, warm and small, with the absolute innocence of someone who had no concept of 'consequences' and therefore lived a perfect life.
