They ate without ceremony. Rowan sat a little off to one side, making himself small and quiet, letting the two of them trade remarks about Marta's sandwiches and the absurdity of the garden topiary. By the time the basket was half-empty, the edge in Chris's posture had dulled; he was still prickly and still dry in his humor, but he hadn't pulled back into silence. Dax matched him line for line, careful not to press, savoring each small flash of expression as if it were rarer than the food.
When Chris finally pushed his plate away and reached for his water, the sun had slipped lower, setting the fountain's spray alight in copper. Dax wiped his fingers on a napkin and stood, rolling his sleeves down again. "Thank you," he said, tone mild but sincere. "Marta can claim victory for this one."
Chris didn't look at him directly. "Tell her yourself. I'm just the hostage."
