Casper nearly chokes on his tea laughing, though he does manage to wrap around Tom when he curls in close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Maybe a little. I might have been a bit wild. I had my fun, anyway.

What about you? At whatever terribly fancy art school you attended. If... you attended? Do you? You've never said, I don't think." His mind feels a little fuzzy around the edges, though whether that's from Tom's closeness or the tea, he's unsure.

"No? I need some sort of guidance or I go all over the place with my ideas. I need someone to rein me back in a little. Keep me focused."

Tom's brow is furrowed, and Casper feels the need to press a kiss to it to help smooth it out. So he does, stroking his thumb over Tom's jaw tenderly. "School, I think. I taught, as a graduate assistant. It was nice, I liked it. Lecturing to a class.

I made some videos, for the Bureau. It gave me that same sort of a feeling. Imparting knowledge." Which he says in a vaguely mystical tone, adding a sort of cosmic hand gesture to the statement.

"Where are you most comfortable? Behind a camera?"

That hits him, somewhere in the chest. Somewhere the tea has managed to knock loose and he has to swallow hard to try and force down the tears that spring up at the corners of his eyes. The sentiment reminds him of something he'd never quite had but he'd always wanted so damn bad.

Instead of saying as much, he leans forward to clumsily crush their mouths together, nodding dumbly. "I'd like that. So much, Tom, I'd like that so much.

And I do. I feel comfortable. With you. It feels right, right?"

That goddamned ashtray. He's not sure why it turned up here, and he's both relieved and disappointed that it's missing its always smoldering cigarette. For the best, maybe.

The fingers in his hair help him relax further, practically melting against Tom, between the tea and the soft petting and his soothing voice. "Where it belongs back home?" he asks, his voice a little dazed. A little slow.

But he does. Picturing Trench's office, the dark wood of his desk. The green shaded lamp, the cup with the pencils, the scattering of papers. The framed picture of a much younger Trench holding Susanna. And the ashtray, of course. Before it was placed in containment, before Trench locked everything down so goddamned tight, paranoid bastard, it sat on his desk. And then on the shelf that ran along the side of the office, and then -- away somewhere.

But in Casper's mind, it and the lingering scent of Black Pyramid cigarettes belong firmly in Trench's office.

"Got it," he says, finally.

He is and isn't, all at once. Like Trench's office is being projected over his cabin in some strange palimpsest. Both places trying to exist in the same space.

"You," he says, quietly, leaning into Tom's touch like a pet cat. And then winces a little because -- well, obviously Tom is there. "You're over my shoulder, I mean. Talking to me, still. But he -- Zachariah. My -- my friend. He's sitting at his desk. Smoking, of course." He laughs a little, but it's emotional. Tear stained. "Like some damned film noir detective, with his desk lamp and a cloud of cigarette smoke."

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, finding Tom's shoulder to clutch at it. Needing the support, needing that physical touch to ground him and keep him in this world. To fight the urge to reach out and find Trench in whatever world he's in, now.

"I should have said it sooner. Decades ago. I tried to say it here, in the forest that night, but I don't know if you could hear me. But I'm sorry we fell apart. And I know that in the end, it's my fault that you -- "

He breaks off, his fingers digging tighter into Tom's shoulder, and he lets himself give in to tears.