Daniel had thought it was more likely than not he'd die, but that didn't mean he wanted to die. Weaponized insecure grandpa eyes at Raglan, an idle draft of his will the evening after, boldly downing a very good martini in a final salute then scrambling to try and get out when very professionally capslocked at— survival instinct's a funny thing. He's still spinning around a bit, adjusting, adapting, fixing his head with the situation.

A paltry summary. The situation. Jesus fuck.

Louis, now. Finds a way to wound him, bittersweet. In between hours writing and researching and coping with new sensations and needs, he has thought sometimes of Louis, and imagined some other world. A world he does not inhabit. Has anyone ever missed him? Genuinely? People have said it. But they don't mean him, they mean some role he fills, husband, father, employee, caretaker. He thinks Louis might actually be the first person to say it to him, and mean him.

"I thought about picking up," he admits. "And I'd think about you, after I didn't." His gaze ticks away, uncharacteristic. Daniel, who stares dead ahead, confrontational even casually, is not infallible that way; being alone with it had in fact been horrible, as Louis absolutely knows, he just doesn't want to talk about it. Another beat, orienting himself, and he looks back.

"I've been worried. They said you went to New Orleans."