Daniel fell silent. It didn't take much for Eva to neatly put everything on the line, and he knew it wasn't as easy as telling yourself to confront that source. The attack on the cultist was a violent, explosive symptom (or maybe an outbreak, that sounded more appropriate) of another problem, which was only a symptom of the heart of the matter. Something Daniel couldn't even begin to guess how it felt like.

He watched her wordlessly. His fingers restlessly drummed out a two-beat rhythm in fours against the bar as his brain raced, trying to see some way to help. She was right. He didn't know what to do with her. Daniel wasn't sure what to do with most of the people he worked with, and that was on a good day.

"No, I don't," Daniel had to admit. He was more at home in his office or some ruin or tomb, dirty, arms deep in bones, artifacts, tagging and cataloging, surrounding himself with dead civilizations or trying to form relations with newly discovered ones.

He didn't know if he could call her a friend anymore. Not that friendships came easy to him in the first place. Acquaintances, those were a piece of cake. People you might say "hi" to, discuss a new theory about Tlaxcallan warfare or this Badari figurine that just got unearthed. People you didn't talk to outside of the hallway or work. Friends were harder. Daniel was never much of a social butterfly.

Whatever Eva was, or had been, to him, Daniel didn't know if he'd ever fully feel at ease around her again. Even if she was troubled, she still tortured someone and enjoyed it, even used him to get to the guy. But she did need help. Daniel didn't need to be friends with someone to want to help. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to give up on you."

Even if Eva sounded like she didn't see the point after the cell.