Red-eyed, carpet-mouthed, Lysander was hungover. He rarely got them, not since he was a teenager, and even then they tended to be manageable. But he was delicate today. Had gone into work, but spent all day snapping and taking paracetamol when nobody was looking. He had barely got anything done, had glowered when an intern asked if he was okay. Maybe having Q over last night had been a mistake. 

  Now at home, he relished the quiet, but couldn't help but feel somehow lonely. He saw his dad maybe once or twice a week - visiting two days in a row had been a fluke - but Abel's absence was all he could think about. He felt it deep in his chest. It hadn't felt like this when Cordelia had died. He hadn't felt empty, he had been scared, relieved, upset. But now, what did he have left? Bettering his father's life had been his reason for getting up in the morning, his motivation to work. 

  It was with some kind of reluctance that he picked up his phone and found Demetrius in the contacts. Like he didn't want to bother him. Like this was too much too soon. 

  But he pressed the green call button before he could persuade himself not to, and raised it to his ear. The ring tone was deafening. He had half-hoped Demetrius wouldn't pick up, but then there was a voice at the other end.