[ It was a long time ago. He said the same thing, didn't he? To Midge Maisel, on a beach, in a dream. The surf beating relentlessly on the damp sand and Nate's hands fidgeting at his sides, restless. It's the kind of reactive thing you say as a defense mechanism, something to preemptively curtail any sympathies, a reassurance that time really does heal all wounds when it doesn't.

Time dulls wounds, builds scar tissue, mutes nerves. Time is a faulty freezer and a pressure cooker all at once, bits and pieces thawing out raw and tender, the temperature rising while the gauges crack and the valves scream. Old injuries become normalized, constant background noise like the hum of electricity in an office.

That pain and fear was writ large in the hands that grasped him on the edge of a cliff, the upturned face, the open heart. ]

Doesn't make it hurt less.

[ He leaves it at that; no more digging today. Nate has the feeling that Ian didn't intend to share more than his grudging, if grateful, thanks. There's a prolonged moment of silence, something that hovers as the lights on the water flicker to blue, then green. ]

Guess I'm just glad you're not planning to excommunicate me for the wake-up call service.