Carver's more out of it than not, but he makes a small sound and curls into Riley's chest. And it's easy to get an arm around him like this, to cup a hand to the back of his head and just hold him while the dog watches and these two, sober and bitter, watch in turn. Pope looks so goddamn smug saying that shit.

They always do, don't they?

"Your boy?" Riley repeats, softening his voice so he won't disturb Carver. "Your boy?"

What the fuck.

"Pope," Shaw warns softly. Sensing a fight.