It's a strange thing, to feel so much all at once and at the same time feel nothing but numb. He should have been celebrating his victory, his freedom, and instead all he can feel are all the hollow spaces within him that he doesn't quite know how to fill.

He remembered almost nothing of who he'd been before Cazador. For two hundred years, that Hell had been all he knew. Now all that was gone, too, leaving him a scant few weeks from which to decide who and what he was going forward. Simple enough, as plans go.

So why does he feel stuck in that moment, knees on the cold stone, voice growing hoarse as the scent of blood and misery overwhelmed him?

Hermione's touch draws him out of his thoughts with a start, though his gaze still appears a little distant. "Ah. Yes, of course," he replied at once, hardly giving a second thought. Right, they'll both need a bath, and perhaps a good soak will set him to rights. It had helped before, after particularly difficult nights when all he wanted was to scrub his own skin off to escape the feeling of being trapped in it.

This was fine. It would be fine, they still had so much to do and the others needed him present and at his best.