He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't. Wash hadn't had a chance to sort through what had happened to him; how was he supposed to put words to it? Could he even do that without going to pieces?

But he had asked Greg to come. (Kind of. Halfway. It still counted, because he was here.)

And he'd known he couldn't handle being alone right now.

And Greg was the kind of guy to play songs in a bar for the asshole who'd yelled at him the day before without even knowing him. Of course he'd be concerned. Of course he'd care.

He opened his mouth, and closed it. He couldn't lead with what had happened. Those were words that still wouldn't come. "When you fought the Nox -it didn't talk to you, did it?"