It's so tempting to put the blame, for once, on someone Charlie actually has a chance of hurting back. Not a god of madness, or a war, but a person with a face he can punch.

The problem is: that doesn't account for what happens after, when nothing is better and some poor asshole has a bloodied nose.

He studies Arthur's face, looks from one eye to the other. Arthur looks like he's about to collapse. He's seen the guy run into situations, he knows it isn't fear of getting hit. And if it was entirely fear of other consequences, he wouldn't have said it at all. No: Arthur is guilty, guilty as hell.

Charlie pulls that tempting urge in. Gets it in a headlock. Forces it to the floor.

"Nah," he says, softer, which is to say maybe sandstone instead of granite. "He was. You're just the schmuck he chose to make it possible."

It's not satisfying. There's no closure. Nothing ever is. There's never any.

The whole fucking family. Everyone dies so soon.

He nods at the couch Arthur evacuated.

"Siddown."