[ His expression darkens, and he steps back, shoulders tense and jaw clenched into a tight line. His ability is still a sore topic, apparently, that dark curl behind his heart flickers at the reminder.

Alec has a point, of course. Faraday has died, over and over – sometimes through no fault of his own. Sometimes because he didn’t know when to leave well enough alone – or because he did know, but didn’t care. Sometimes because he was just tired. And at least once – a shameful, drunken night – because he wondered if his ability wouldn’t save him.

He drops the cigar to ground, grinds it out with his heel – far more force than necessary, but it’s better than punching Alec’s teeth out, as he currently wants to do. The ashes leave a dark stain on the wooden planks of the porch, and he kicks the spent remains away to the dirt. ]

Sure. Fine. [ Brightly, but not without bitterness. ] The hell do I know, right?

[ He pushes off from the railing, putting on an echo of his usual smiles – but this one is sharp and mean. ] I must seem like the world’s biggest idiot to you, huh? Some sorry bastard who can’t tell the difference between bullets and beans. Must be such goddamn chore for you, tryin’ to save me from myself.