When Arthur kneels down, Charlie looks at him like he's about to either gibber in his face or go in for a headbutt. He chooses a secret third thing and scrambles around the offered hand like it's red hot, until he's on his feet and away from the sense of being enveloped and cornered; away from the half-conception of who had him enveloped.

John. John? Didn't they talk about how that was possible? He doesn't turn to look. Context says it's John. Context is coming back out of order. His life these days would be so much easier if actual memories trickling back was distinguishable from stage directions being fed to him.

"Shut up," he begs, breathing fast, back turned to them both, waving his hands as if they'll knock Arthur's words out of the air. He doesn't want fucking stage directions. He doesn't want them in a voice he trusts. It's true: he was in the snow. Then he was seated out of the snow. There was sharp, fresh tea offered. "Shut up! Don't-- Don't fucking do that, don't-- Let me-- Don't. Don't. Stop it!"

Yellow was in his head. Kayne sent Larson to the Dreamlands, then snapped his fingers and Charlie was somewhere else. Charlie has decided multiple times that this is happening in reality, but was it out of evidence or necessity? He can't survive a round two. If this is round two I'll make it bad for you.

The fire is crackling within arm's reach, and he nearly puts his hand into it just to see if that'll make the scene change, but the thought occurs that that might upset John and Arthur. Which makes them perfect parts for a scene, and also means that he knows he's not sure, because if he was sure their faces didn't have people underneath then he would do it anyway.

He decided that this was happening in reality for a reason. He must have. He twists to look at John's face over his shoulder, nervous and searching.