Chapter Text
Fire consumes all beyond the wings of the Dark Angel.
The flames sear his flesh, mixing pain and awe so thoroughly, he loses sight of their edges. He exists in supplication before the Holy. He exists to suffer. He exists to witness, as the Angel removes its mantel and reveals to him the screaming, hissing, toothless grin of a blood soaked skull. He cowers, for that is his reason for being.
The Angel drinks in his fear as it, for the first time, begins to approach him.
There is no thought of running. Of fighting, of denying the Holy Abomination what it wishes to take from him. He stands on trembling legs and merely waits his due.
Somehow, he did not consider it may use its spear against him.
The movement is too quick for the human eye to follow. Only the blood at its tip implies the deed. Only the pain and the wet, awful weight of his innards falling forward through the gash.
Somewhere, he knows this is right, this is what he has earned, but still he is so very afraid.
The Angel reaches for him—
And Victor awakes, breath catching in his throat on the inhale.
Yet more visions of the Dark Angel.
And it's decided to gut him like a fish. Wonderful.
And yet, for all the terror it inspires, it is something of a relief to see its return. If Victor is honest with himself, he greatly prefers the Dark Angel to the nightmare that has ruined his sleep since the wedding. At least with the Angel, the horror is singular. At least in that nightmare, he is alone.
Of course, he thinks, as he settles back into the rumpled pillows damp with his sweat, he will have no say in the matter. If anything, having a preference for one may ensure reliving the other, ad nauseam.
Yes, that would be more in line with his luck.
God, but he is tired. Perhaps he can sleep a little more before breakfast…
As Victor closes his eyes and begins his flirtation with the possibility of returning to slumber, he slowly becomes aware of an odd series of sounds. It is nearly nothing, they are so faint, but he swears he can make out the sound of falling…something. Not quite sand through an hour glass, no, it is too soft. The material dampens its own sound.
There is the scent of fresh earth.
Then, the gentle 'pat pat pat' of someone tamping down soil with their hands.
…oh.
Oh, yes, that's right, the…all of them, all of the planters in the first bay window have been reduced to dirt buried shards of clay and glass. It is but one of the messes made last night by two very much uninvited guests.
They left the bookcase in little more than splinters, too, and ripped the pages from several books stored therein. Kicked his invention apart, and possibly more to his barely used doctor's office.
And they left Victor with two parting gifts; a swollen lip and bruised ribs.
…both of which should be hurting more, by his estimation. Has his threshold for pain increased since this trial began? Victor gives his lip a gentle prod, testing its sensitivity, and finding it angry and sore. And yet it is not as swollen as he would have expected. Unsightly in its size, certainly, but not unwieldy. Ah, but his cheek is damp, not with tacky sweat but with water.
Adam has been keeping ice on it all night, it seems. Playing Victor's nursemaid, and doing a proper job of it, at that.
Victor is undeserving.
…oh.
Oh, how undeserving, for Adam's grace extended much further than simple aid, didn't it?
The memory fills Victor with such warmth, and such an anxious need.
What if he is mistaken? What if it was all fantasy? What if it was real, but Adam wishes to take his affections back?
Alas, it sounds like Adam is already busy, putting their apartment back to rights. Good man. Of course he is. There is no problem Adam is not eager to solve, no skill he is not eager to learn. And perhaps it is a symptom of his life living in hiding, and later traveling, living rough as he passed from Tower to Geneva and back again, but Adam does prefer a tidy house. Of course he would not leave the dirt and debris for more than a night. Of course he would save as many of the plants as possible.
Victor is so comfortable in this assumption that he is genuinely surprised when it is Shelly he hears give a big sigh before announcing, "that's the last one."
Shelly, who doesn't live here anymore. Shelly, who arrives for her tutoring after her morning chores, which is after Victor is meant to be leaving for the college!
Victor pushes upright with a swear, both at his negligence and the protest of his bruised ribs. The realization that the privacy curtains have been arranged around him, shielding him from the rest of the room, only stalls him for a moment. The question of why is irrelevant. He is late, his probation is on the line, why did Adam not wake him?
Ugh, and he's in his shirt and nothing else. Where is his leg? And how is he meant to dress with a teenage girl present? The privacy screens are meant to shield her, not the other way around!
Victor scoots to the side of the bed and tries to lean forward to check beneath it for his prosthetic, but his ribs are very against this, and his head, also, for the motion triggers a wave of vertigo, and Victor simply hasn't the strength to press through. No, he ends up flat on his back, panting pathetically, as he stares up at the covered, slanted windows, waiting for everything to stop spinning.
Was his head hit harder than he'd realized? Or—low blood pressure? When did he last eat?
…did he eat anything yesterday? Good God, he doesn't think he did.
"Victor."
Victor's eyes tip downward to find Adam, there, nearly a whole head taller than the rod upon which the privacy curtains are fixed. In the next moment, he's pushing the barrier aside, making just enough room for himself to slip past it to join Victor on the bed, weight on a single knee as he examines his maker with naked concern.
"You are still hurt," Adam says, his hand hovering over Victor's ribs, fingers curling, almost close enough to touch.
"What I am," Victor says, trying to push himself upright again—an action Adam makes easier with a strong, guiding hand to his back, "is late. What time is it? Why didn't you wake me?"
"…you are hurt," Adam argues. "You needed to—t—to—to rest."
"Krempe will not accept this; I could—this—this may—I thought you wanted me to complete my probation!"
"I do," Adam protests. "But not at your expense. You promised me—"
And Adam cups Victor's cheek, and tips forward to set their foreheads together, and Victor falls still, for such gifts have been regulated to the occasional nightly conversation. Not in the day. Not when he can see how close his Angel lingers, nor the concern in the set of his lips, nor his dark eyes and their fragile lashes.
Victor can scarcely breathe.
"—you promised, you would not be prideful about your health," Adam finishes, thumb ever so gently grazing Victor's bottom lip.
The scab he broke the night before, vicious in his beauty and covetous of his maker's blood. Sipping communion from Victor's lips.
Victor should not, for it will only irritate the already damaged flesh, but he cannot help himself. He has waited so long, and it is such a simple thing. Surely he is allowed this singular expression of his affection. It only takes a tilt of his head and his own hand guiding Adam's forward maybe half an inch, and then he can do as he has dreamt of doing for…Months now. Months.
He presses a kiss to Adam's palm, and watches in delight, pure delight, as all of Adam's thoughts fall straight out of his head. He stares dumbly down at Victor, at his captured hand, then Victor again, which is when Victor breaks into a grin, triumphant.
"Do you want to know how long I've wanted to do that?" he asks his Angel, voice tipped low with the half-remembered reality of his pupil not but a meter or two away.
Brows high, Adam nods.
"The train out of Friedrichshafen."
"No," Adam protests, looking genuinely surprised.
"And here I was worried I was being too obvious," Victor says, perfectly smug.
"But, that's—th-that's so…" Abruptly, Adam abandons that line of thought to ask, "is that why you were so strange about being seen as my father?"
Oh, they need to be off of this topic immediately.
What were they even talking about before—oh, God's sake, he is hopeless, allowing himself to become distracted from the matter of their very livelihood like this!
"That isn't important," Victor says, which earns him a pout, but he presses on. "Krempe must be notified, or—"
"He has been," Adam says, sitting fully on the bed with an air of mild exasperation. "Mrs. Sweeney told Dr. Bennett, and he swore to tell Dr. Krempe."
Oh.
That's…quite practical.
Not that she had to do that. Patti did more than enough for him last night, and now she's taking off time from her daughter and her hearth to run messages to Victor's employer? Ugh, he's flush with shame at the very idea of it.
"And he will be bringing Mrs. Johanna and Henry with him, when his classes are done."
What.
"Wha—no," says Victor.
"That is the request I sent with Mrs. Sweeney," Adam says, cadence slowing and his words firm. "Who will also join us, and Mr. Sweeney, too."
"What for?" Victor asks, feeling, quite frankly, betrayed.
"To discuss what to do, Victor," Adam replies, sharply.
"What to do—Adam, I already know what to do."
"And I want their input," Adam replies, defiant.
"Ah," Victor says. He sits back and nods, seeing the shape of it now. "You do not trust me."
"…you told me last night you do not trust yourself," Adam counters.
Oh, he did not.
…
…goddammit, yes, he did, but—that—to bring them all here—
"That's no excuse to make a mockery of me," Victor argues.
"A—a mock—" Adam looks utterly baffled—and he would! Everyone treats him with such concern, and would gain nothing by leveling upon him ridicule. Victor, however, actively invites the derision required to incite proper mockery, especially for one with illusions of grandeur, which is all Victor has ever had as motivation.
"No one is coming to mock you," Adam says.
"No, that is exactly what they will do," Victor states. "You don't know them."
"I know Henry wouldn't," Adam retorts.
"No, he'll just look sad and fuss, which is almost worse."
"Why do you hate your friends?" Adam asks.
That—
He—
"I do not," Victor says. "But you can hardly call them my 'friends'."
"What other word is there!"
"For the Sweeneys? 'Neighbor' would suffice!"
Adam does not need to know what Patti told Victor last night. No one needs to know that. She likely wouldn't want it, certainly not with a friend in Jo, who would needle her about paying him any mind whatsoever. After all, he brought this all upon himself. As usual.
"And Bennett?" Adam asks. "Mrs. Johanna?"
Victor scoffs.
"You know better," he says, side-eying his creation. "I told you—Johanna was never my friend. I know the woman even less than I know Henry."
"…You are—you are being ridiculous," Adam says, shaking his head as he pushes to stand. His agitation is clear in his crisp pronunciation. It is nearly enough to give Victor pause.
Nearly.
"I am not," Victor says. He has to direct his argument over the top of the curtains as Adam parts them to squeeze back through and crosses to open their untouched wardrobe. "Jo, especially, will happily laugh in my face for all this."
"And yet you know her even less than you know Henry," Adam counters.
"And you are insufferable," Victor snaps.
Adam turns and simply looks at Victor. Expression neutral, posture relaxed. He just looks, and lets Victor's statement hang, and ever so slowly tips one corner of his lips higher than the other as the falsehood grows undeniable.
"And I the fool to suffer you!" is Victor's less than stellar retort.
"You are a fool, yes," Adam agrees, returning to riffling through their clothes for Lord knows what.
…for Victor, obviously, as he is currently in nothing but a rumpled shirt with semen dried on the hem.
God, but his creation is frustrating!
"I'm gonna go," Shelly announces, reminding Victor—and it appears Adam, if the speed with which he's jerked his head to face her is anything to judge by—she is still here, in their apartment, entirely capable of observing their little squabble. "I'll ask ma if she, you know. Wants to give input."
"She does not need to!" Victor says. "As you heard, it's going to be a—a packed house as it is."
There is a pointed silence which ends with Adam giving Shelly—Victor must assume—a little nod, and her giving her goodbye, punctuated by the sound of their door closing behind her.
Which does imply that their door has been fixed.
With the child gone, his privacy is no longer in need of protecting, so Victor places his weight on his good leg to yank the privacy curtains open, revealing what progress has been made with the apartment since he fell into unconsciousness.
But, more importantly, it reveals their clock, which says it is already a quarter to three.
They have a little more than an hour before all those bastards show up! That isn't remotely enough time to dissuade even one of them from coming!
Victor swears violently, dragging his hands over his hair.
"…not until your ribs heal," Adam says, absently, as he pushes the frame supporting the curtains to the side with one foot, allowing him space to lay fresh clothes out for Victor at the foot of their bed.
…fine, Victor supposes that is the reply he should expect, when he hisses 'fuck me sideways' in French to himself. But he did not need to add 'aroused', there, next to 'panicked'. Especially when there is also not enough time to indulge in the feelings now inspired.
…and how dare Henry teach him such filthy words! And entirely to spite Victor!
…he will decide later if that is worse than Henry teaching Adam French in preparation for spiriting him away to Paris. And if it is better, it is only so by technicality.
Victor huffs, then begins to strip, a task that would usually be a single, swift action, interrupted now by how painful it is to lift his arms with these stupid ribs of his given less than a day now to heal. It means when he finally yanks his head free of the fabric, Adam already has the wash basin filled.
This is simple routine, now.
Or rather, it was.
Things have changed between them, after all. What was once taboo is now on the table. What was once expected civility can be discarded for a more…intimate showing.
Adam appears keenly aware of this, for it is common practice for him to bring Victor a basin to wash from, an exchange which used to include Adam politely directing his attention elsewhere, skirting Victor's nudity. Now, Adam offers no such courtesy. Now…
Now, Adam's eyes trail across Victor's skin in hungry passes, pausing now and then only to sweep somewhere new in the next moment.
Victor feels more than naked under his attentions. He also feels electric, his vanity given new life with how…covetous Adam's appraisals are.
"…your skin is—is so lovely," Adam says, finally placing the basin beside Victor, between him and the pillows. "It glows."
"Careful," Victor says, helplessly smiling, "I am told my ego is my worst quality, and you are currently feeding it."
"No one's skin is like yours," Adam states, and it is a very sweet, but very ignorant statement.
"There are plenty of people with skin like mine. And darker."
"Where are they?" Adam asks. "I have not seen them."
"We are too far North," Victor agrees.
"…but you were born no further South than Vaduz, and all we met there, were people pale, like Shelly and the Sweeneys."
"Ah, but that is my father's family estate," Victor explains. "My mother has heritage further South, near the Mediterranean. The sun shines stronger there, has fewer clouds to contend with, and so the people are darker."
"…you are singular here," Adam decides, before taking up the washcloth and wetting it.
"…what are you doing?" Victor asks, eyes flicking between Adam's face and his hand.
"Do you not trust me to bathe you?"
Well.
Well.
Victor has to clear his throat before he can respond. He is suddenly very glad he has left his shirt to pool in his lap.
"No, I do not," Victor says. "For we have, now, less than an hour before your guests arrive."
"…I will not take an hour."
…oh, and he means it. He is being entirely serious.
Victor half expects his ribs to start aching from how full his chest feels with endearment for his Angel.
"I meant," Victor says, not sure if he is managing soft so much as teasing, "we are likely to become distracted."
…oh no, he's even more adorable when he's flustered.
And one right after the other, like this? Victor isn't sure he can survive it.
"Tomorrow," Victor suggests, reaching for that cloth.
"…tttt—morrow," Adam agrees, releasing the cloth into Victor's care.
And then he stands and leaves Victor to his washing.
As much as Victor would like to linger and perhaps daydream a little of what tomorrow will bring, he remains on a deadline. Soon, he is carefully applying a new shirt, an action Adam soon comes to assist. There is some performative complaining from Victor that he is perfectly capable, blah blah blah. And Adam effortlessly dismisses this nonsense, and fastens Victor's prosthesis before helping him step into his trousers.
It puts them nearly chest to chest, them standing like this, Adam's attention fixed at Victor's waist as pushes the buttons through their corresponding loops.
His concentration is also cute. The way he twists his mouth, and looks so very serious. Adam's serious side carries such weight that seeing it, brought on by a handful of buttons,
Before Victor knows what he's doing, he shifts to his tip toes to press a swift kiss to the most frown-y side of Adam's mouth.
Of course, Victor only has one toe to balance on the tip of. His other foot is unyielding silver, perpetually straightened, and now utterly useless for balance. Not that Victor has far to fall. It is still enough to startle him, and what would have been a pleasant bumping of chests as he lands leads instead to a hiss of pain, as those pissy ribs are jostled.
Adam's hands snap up to cradle his elbows and linger as Victor settles back, offering support until he has both heels on the floor.
They murmur compulsively to one another, half over one another;
"Pardon—"
"Easy—"
"I hadn't—"
"You okay?"
"Yes—yes, I'm okay."
And Adam gives a rumbling sigh, and brushes Victor's curls back behind one ear.
"…you truly could not wait?"
Smug bastard.
"You've forgotten, because I am now the very definition of discipline, but there was a time when I had notoriously poor impulse control."
Adam rolls his eyes, his sharp smile still there as he croons,
(when did he Learn to Do That)
"Oh no. I remember."
And because he is mean, and perhaps because Victor's quip involved a reminder of his sins, Adam gives Victor a little shove as he steps away.
Victor lets himself fall backwards to sit again on the mattress, his smile wide enough to threaten tearing the scab.
Adam had turned towards the bookcase—no, the place their bookcase was, now there's a careful stack of books on the floor, the mess long done away with—but turns back, and their eyes meet, and Adam closes his lips around his teeth, smoothing his edges to something closer to fond amusement.
And Victor loves him. He loves him so very much.
Even if he has, of his own volition, commissioned a personal firing squad to take aim at Victor later this evening.
…A little because he has done so, to be honest.
And Victor should tell him so.
He should.
He does not, because, again, the words stick there in his throat. It is enough a distraction, wrestling with his own blasted mind and heart, that Victor is surprised when a plate is set unceremoniously onto his lap.
Milk is passed to him next, with a soft, "you missed breakfast and lunch," from Adam, with an implication that this now requires Victor to finish the entire plate.
He endeavors to do his very best, and invites Adam to recount his day as Victor breaks his unintentionally long fast.
He was wrong to expect guest as soon as 4. Victor realizes this error as he tidies the waste made by his meal away, and finds the time is 4:03.
The College's classes end at 4. Bennett then has to travel from the College to his lodging, collect Jo and Henry, and then cross Edinburgh to Butcher's Row in Old Town. And Adam says Nicholai will be with them, for Shelly has agreed to watch he and the the two Marys while everyone who knows Victor from a hole in the ground come and gather in his residence to call him stupid to his face.
He cannot understand how Adam doesn't expect this. Adam is happy to call Victor stupid to his face!
"Half because I think you like it," Adam protests, when the point is risen. Then, with some affront; "no, you do! Y—you—y-you said so last night, you like that I am 'mmmean'."
"That is a different matter all together," Victor argues.
"…I am not so sure it is," Adam replies, now eyeing Victor strangely, as if he has caught the light in some new and unexpected way.
Makes Victor more nervous than those hungry eyes that arrived with the wash basin.
"…what," Victor asks, and dammit all, that came out far too pitchy.
"…You do not hate your friends," Adam decides—not this again. "But you will not admit they are friends."
"If I have a friend within your 'guest list', it is Bennett and Bennett only."
Victor lives to regret these words.
He never should have uttered them, he was truly tempting fate by claiming any kinship with Hearn.
Because that absolute wench greets Adam with asking what he thought of the playing cards.
The ones Victor finished yesterday.
The cards he entirely forgot to give to Adam.
Now the surprise is ruined! Rent asunder by Ben opening his stupid mouth.
"…you said you—you—you would finish them yesterday!" is Bennett's paltry defense.
"Use your head, man," Victor snaps, as he digs the present out of his coat pocket. "Why are you here? Did yesterday perhaps end differently than strictly planned?"
"…some of that is your own doing," Adam chides quietly, as Victor drops the deck in his hand and immediately skulks to his rolling chair to pout.
"I am within my rights to take those back," Victor replies, sharply.
"…you are welcome to try," is Adam's retort.
Thankfully, Adam's guests are busy greeting one another, giving Victor the perfect window to snap his teeth at Adam and send the man into fit of giggles he has to stifle against the back of his hand.
"Horrible wolf," is Adam's reply.
Which,
Hmm.
It is a pity that everyone is now drifting into and settling within flat proper, for. For there is something about that reply that…that sticks to Victor. Something he likes. And yet, didn't wolves kill his friend?
…didn't Victor?
Didn't Adam say it with fondness? With a smile?
There is a…there is just something about the remark he feels compelled to ponder, but now is not the time, and so he is forced to set his questions aside.
Everyone is here, now.
Bennett, Jo and Henry sitting a bit cramped on their singular couch. The Sweeneys in the dining room chairs they have carried up just for this occasion. Adam in the desk's chair.
And all of them looking at Victor, fat lipped and bruised, propped up on his wheeled stool.
"Well," Victor starts. "I do not know how much you each know, save you both," he directs to the Sweeneys, "as you came to my rescue."
"Think nothing of it," Patti says, pride in her smile. Tobias grunts his agreement.
"All the same," Victor says. "I would be in much rougher shape without you."
"What happened?" Jo asks, as impatient with niceties as ever.
"I was made aware I am responsible for my brother's debts. They are…substantial, for he intended to sell the family estate to settle them. Despite knowing this, I chose to return here and. And pursue reclamation of my license. This has allowed the debt to fester, and two men were sent to alert me these debts are past due."
Jo nods, nonplussed, while Bennett looks properly concerned. Henry murmurs, "you poor dear," and that is Victor's cue to move things along.
"So I will be returning to Geneva. I do not know how long I will be gone, so I entrust you all will keep Adam company—"
Jo snorts. Bennett makes a startled noise. Henry's expression narrows as he cocks one brow.
"Oh, that's not happening," Patti says.
"Yes," Victor says, "it is."
"No," Adam says. "It is not. I am joining you."
"And abandon Shelly? Nonsense."
"It is not in question," Adam says, crisp and direct, "for I do not need to ask your permission. I am coming with you."
Victor feels himself flush at this. This is the second time today he is glad for his swarthy complexion, for it makes a blush much harder to spot. But damn him.
"And you will need more help besides," Henry interjects. "A stop in Paris, and I could introduce you to several bookkeepers, all of them more than qualified to handle such a delicate situation."
Before Victor can object, Jo asks, "what are the debts from?"
"…William aided me in completing my project."
Jo tilts her head ever so slightly. "Creating Adam was that expensive?"
Victor, admittedly, needs a moment.
Once his composure is secured, he asks ever so politely, "whatever do you mean?"
Jo stares back at him.
"…are we truly clinging to this pretense?" she asks. "We all know he was your project."
Victor is compelled by a force equal to if not stronger than gravity to glance between her and the Sweeneys.
…who do not look remotely surprised.
Now Victor is staring at the Sweeneys while Jo scoffs.
"They've lived below you for the last two decades, Victor," Jo states, in that icy exasperation he has always loathed earning. "They know. They have known since you brought him here."
"They were the first to know," Bennett adds.
Ah, so that is the fruit of their union; Bennett gaining the confidence to join his wife in tearing Victor down. Lovely.
Victor much prefers when he sat quietly, looking mildly frightened their argument may devolve into trading fists.
"Victor," Adam says, and who Victor turns to find staring at him, absolutely baffled. "You…tttrully didn't know?"
"That! Is not remotely the topic at hand," Victor argues.
"As amusing as it is," Patti slips in sideways, before chuckling to herself. It is agreement and it is not, and she proves this by continuing; "I can't believe you thought we didn't know."
"I am not taking a detour to Paris, Henry," Victor says, jerking the reigns and forcing this awful conversation back on its ruinous path.
"Just a couple of days," Henry practically begs, tilting his face in that way that makes his eyes more prominent and looking at Victor with such supplication. Victor could choke the man with his stupid, perfectly folded cravat, he really could. "A moment of respite before Geneva. And the chance for Adam to see a show."
Victor glances to Adam, to find him looking a little lost, the playing cards carefully fanned in his hands, implying he has been examining them. Examining them so closely that he had stopped following the conversation?
That is certainly a compliment.
Oh, how Victor wishes they were alone so he could ask after Adam's thoughts.
"You need the help," Bennett presses. "You hate finances."
"Our family has bookkeeps," Victor argues. "William, primarily, but—but neither of my parents enjoyed the matter and surely those records are still somewhere in the manor."
Almost everyone seems to want to reply to that, but Jo raises her hand, and the room falls silent, anxious to be given her decree.
"We cannot give useful advice if we do not fully understand what awaits you. To do that, we need to know the whole story."
"The Hell you do," Victor says. The pleasant warmth at knowing Adam is enjoying his present tips into an uncomfortable heat all up Victor's neck.
Never.
Never. He will not tell them.
He
He can't.
It's Patti who reaches over to place her hand on his leg. Who smiles at him and says, voice gentle and reassuring, and utterly disarming; "it'll be good, getting it out. It's hung off ya since you came home—"
'Home'?
Part of Victor wants to protest that point in particular. But Patti continues;
"—and it'll be good, letting go of that weight. Let us carry a bit of it for you, yeah? Why, I'm so good at keeping secrets, I had you fooled."
Victor was already going to trip over his reply, but that last bit forces him to do so smiling, if entirely reluctantly.
"That—it—That is not—"
"If you are worried about the illegal elements, Victor," Bennett says, "don't be? I didn't run to the authorities when you started stealing from graveyards and I won't start now."
"You didn't think we thought those were legally obtained corpses," Patti adds, a bit impishly.
Victor feels cornered.
Sensing this, somehow, Patti gives his flesh and blood knee a squeeze before taking her hand back. The contact is replaced near immediately by Adam looping an arm around Victor's shoulder, forcing him to give his creation his full attention.
"They are not here to judge, nor mock, nor ridicule," Adam says, and Victor is almost certain Jo is ready to join him in disagreement, but Adam gives neither room to reply. "Not beyond your tolerance."
…that…
Dammit, that should not be reassuring.
"I don't even know where to start," Victor admits, words really only meant for his Angel.
"The tribunal," Jo offers, face and tone perfectly neutral.
…yes. Yes, that is…
That is the most appropriate place to begin.