“One receives as reward for much ennui, despondency, boredom --such as a solitude without friends, books, duties, passions must bring with it --those quarter-hours of profoundest contemplation within oneself and nature. He who completely entrenches himself against boredom also entrenches himself against himself: he will never get to drink the strongest refreshing draught from his own innermost fountain.”
--Frederich Nietzsche

Well, Adon didn't care what anyone tried to reassure him with. He was making a miraculous recovery from near death. Great. Soon, he'd be going home. Fantastic. He had time to rest away from the bustle of the world and pressures of a job. Alright.

But Adon was bored to frustration, and this brewing feeling of restlessness was about to hit a boil. And he'd only been conscious for 10 minutes today.  He gave a gutteral groan in response to the sharp, rapping knock that rang repetitive into his ears -- boring into his head like a woodpecker.

"What?" he asked irritably, turning to his side and throwing the sheet over it. From beneath the sheet, he spied the grandmother clock on the bedside table -- yet another one of his mother's "homey touches" -- and judged, from the time, that it was most likely his mother. It was likely too late; he had, in all probability slept past her morning visit and offers of cinnamon rolls and pumpkin juice. And it was much too early for Dreogan. Joh'd be at work, and so, really, the only person he could presumably suspect was the doctor or his mother.

Throwing off the sheet, Adon quickly attempted to appear ready by reaching over for the book she brought -- the one she'd been nagging him about and telling him bits and pieces of the story, even though he'd been very clear: no. spoilers. Not that he particularly wanted to read The Mysterious Workings of -- Adon flipped over the book and read the title -- Rhoderic Persamon: a Travel Saga in Three Parts, but if it was a good excuse to hear a little bit less about that time Rhoddy -- his mother and the protagonist were on first-name terms -- and Vesper meet in Italy for the first time, only to realise that it wasn't their first time, and . . .

Why were women so ridiculously sentimental?  And they all read exactly the same. "A woman, struggling against all odds . . . a man, with a dark secret. Only she can unlock his heart." It was no wonder why there were so many frustrated, aging cat-ladies out there. Their expectations were vastly unreal, even in the magical world. And it made their books hell to get through. All three volumes! From the dusty and yellowed sheafs of parchment that carried the romantic, florid tale, Adon'd be inclined to say the tale was written 300 years ago, and probably should have stayed in at least the 19th century.  This was probably one of those ridiculous "Bewitching" tales that all those pureblooded women were infatuated with. Adon'd even rather read Slither Girls. Mostly to look at the rather appealing photo of the author on the back. He wouldn't mind spoilers, there!

Dropping the book into his lap, he looked up at the visitor, "Jonas Trevelyan," he said as the red hair and long face registered. He cracked a bit of a smile. "You're welcome in, so long as you can provide conversation on any topic but that bastard Rhoderic Persamon."

It hadn't taken much stretching of the truth to come up with excuses that would keep him away from the hospital.  After the assassination attempt, Jonas had been running ragged trying to keep up with the resulting investigation.  Identifying their assassin, questioning her, following up on leads, interviewing witnesses, writing reports, compiling the evidence, and then dealing with the very unhappy Department Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, who seemed to be taking the fact that they had managed to blow up half a Muggle street far more personally than he should be -- all of it had ensured that the recently-hired Auror had not had a moment to catch his breath since Sunday.

He hadn't been avoiding Adon, precisely, but his partner's elder brother had been very clear about how welcome Jonas's presence would be if he showed his face at Adon's bedside.  With all the chaos of the assassination's aftermath, the red-haired Auror had been too exhausted and exasperated to fight it.  Let Dreogan play the part of the noble sacrificing friend and brother; Jonas could swallow staying away if it staved off another battle.

But whether or not Dreogan approved of the visit, he couldn't stay away forever.  Jonas had begged a favor off of Dean Bailey, who had used his superb investigative skills to nonchalantly waltz onto Level Four and make certain that the elder Eleor was planning to work through the end of the day.  Once Dreogan's work hours were confirmed, Jonas had gathered up the papers he needed and left in a hurry for St. Mungo's, making a couple of stops along the way.

It hadn't been hard to locate Adon's room.  He had knocked lightly, waiting for permission to be granted before pushing the door open.  Jonas hadn't been entirely certain what sort of reception to expect, but at the younger man's immediately cracked smile, he broke into a grin.

"Oh, hell.  There goes the entire line of conversation that I had planned for the next three hours," he countered nicely, any sarcasm in his tone completely belayed by the way he was beaming at Adon as he limped over to his friend's bedside.  "Good on me for remembering to bring this chess set, or we wouldn't have anything to do for the rest of the bloody afternoon."

Still grinning, he dropped his messenger bag on the floor and then lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs.  "Nice place you've got here," he remarked cheerfully, glancing at the surrounding collection of personal items.  "Did you do the decorating job yourself, Houdini?  Might have to ask you to come over and help out with redoing the office once you tear yourself away from this place."

Jonas' jarring perkiness had ceased to be jarring at this point--they'd reached that level of familiarity with one another. Or perhaps it was just that Jonas -- was he actually being genuine? Adon had a glimmering hope. Until chess was mentioned.

"Auch!" Adon protested shortly, turning his head away from Jonas and closing his eyes. Adon had left playing a game of chess in order to get himself blown to pieces and he still hadn't regretted it.  In case further elaboration was needed, he expounded: "Not that. I hate chess. I haaate chess." It made him feel peevish and made his head hurt just thinking about it. Except that he was pretty sure he had a headache before this, and by all accounts of his mother, he had most probably always been peevish.

"If that's the best you've got by way of welcoming presents, I'll cast a blind eye--close my eyes for ten minutes, and'll give you a second chance to come back with something," he said, finally. His eyes were already closed, but he turned his face once more in Jonas' direction, waiting a moment.

He cracked an eye open, slightly. "Did you bring me anything? You know, other than your presence. I'm talking presents." Presumptuous. Cocky. He didn't really care. He was in a hospital bed -- it was his right.

Jonas tried to distract by talking about the scenery -- the infamous "small talk before getting to the point" approach -- which made Adon shake his head, open his eyes, and sigh knowingly. "Mother's embellishments. Though I wouldn't mind showing you a thing or two about decorating -- magazine clippings don't count." Adon was waiting for the Witch Weekly articles -- now a month old to start making their way onto the walls.

Jonas laughed, flashing the other man a crooked grin as he picked up his messenger bag.  "What, now I'm getting guilted into giving you blood presents because I got you stabbed?" he asked cheerfully, not looking as though he felt the least bit pressured by the emotional weight.  "I would've thought that me presence was enough of a gift, Eleor.  Unless you want to go back to chatting about Roderick What's-His-Name," he added with a wink.

Still grinning, he dug into the satchel, retrieving a few crisp-looking, newly purchased books to toss onto the bedside table. 

"Reckoned you could do with some reading material," he informed Adon with a lopsided smile, piling them up one-by-one.  "I brought a couple with mostly pictures, just in case the reading itself is too much for you.  Can't say it's quite as --"  He eyed the spine of the three-part Travel Saga, looking as if he were struggling not to laugh.  "-- cultured as what you've already got, mate, but there's Israelis in one of 'em," he added, looking incredibly pleased with himself at having managed to identify such an appropriate volume.  "And explosions.  And a plague killing every last man but one.  Thought you might enjoy it a bit."

It took a good deal of self control not to dissolve into further laughter at the revelation that Adon's mother had decorated her son's hotel room.  Clearing his throat -- despite his conflicts with her older son, Jonas had liked Hestia Eleor quite a bit and didn't entirely want to invite her wrath down on himself, even if he found her overprotectiveness to be hilarious -- he leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Yeah, don't worry, I finally ran out of Witch Weekly copies after wallpapering your cubicle two days ago," he assured Adon amusedly.  Which wasn't entirely the truth; he'd saved enough to hand out to some of the Mediwitches on his way in.  Judging by their responses, the Israeli had apparently already earned a bit of a reputation as a Romeo.  "Haven't had time to drop in to a copy shop and make any more.  You'd be surprised at how much more work there is to be done when a bloke's down his partner," he concluded, flashing the younger man a crooked smile.

Adon shook his head disapprovingly. "No; I could go back to sleeping. . . unless you make it worth the headache of consciousness."

Adon's body still ached painfully. Particularly his stomach and right hand. Sleep was welcome, but the lack of company was tedious and left one with too many memories, regrets, and forgotten moments that one alternatively tried to remember and dreaded recollecting.

"So what have you got?" he asked, stretching his neck slightly to get a better look. Adon didn't, for some time, bother with the somewhat painful motion of moving until he thought it either worth his time or necessary for politeness. "Huh." he said hesitantly, looking at the cover. "What's with the monkey?" The third picture on the bottom offered an image of a woman in a bra. Probably more interesting than Roddy's escapades.

"Do the Israelis win?" Next question -- if he asked too many more, he'd look interested or impressed. 

Which was much easier not to appear while seemingly disgusted at Jonas' perpetual reference to Witch Weekly.  "Easy, there, Joan. I don't see you going about to the same efforts for Fox and Radley. I will begin to think you have a little crush on me." He gave a ragged smile as he regarded Jonas, a twinge of sympathy. "Still. Glad to know you're spending the time pining away after me, instead of just taking over the case and messing up my files."

Which was, of course, why Adon'd hunted him down to come after his blood in the first place. . . Three months ago. Shit. Three months?

Life was simply dizzying. Or maybe he was simply dizzy.

"Look," he began before realizing he didn't, exactly, know what he was wanting Jonas to listen to. Adon reached out for one of the comic books, leafing through it slightly. "Thanks."

The red-haired man chuckled again, flashing his friend a bright smile.  "Really want me to ruin the ending for you, mate?" he asked, favoring Adon with a bemused look.  "And I thought we'd been over that, Eleor.  I'm not that sort of wizard."

The expression of gratitude, however potion-induced it might have been, was far more awkward than any speculation on his wizard-ness might be.  Jonas gave an easy shrug, avoiding the younger man's gaze as he pretended to study the cover that housed Mr Persamon, which housed a rather sultry looking wizard who was peering -- gazing? -- as it posed in various manly positions on the cover.

"Keep this in mind when you get back to the office and realize what a state I've left the casefiles in," he replied with a crooked grin.  "Speaking of which..."

Jonas glanced back at the still open door, and then carefully boosted himself to his feet.  "I won't tax you with work too much, but there are a couple of things I need to ask you about," he informed Adon quietly, starting over to close it.  They didn't need a repeat of the Groust incident; if Jonas had his way, that indiscretion would be quietly swept under the magic carpet and Adon would never know that he'd given away information to a reporter.  "They didn't by chance give you any sort of Do Not Disturb sign so that you can keep healers out during the nuptial visits, did they, Houdini?"

"Which gives away the ending? The monkey or the Israelis? I'm not reading it if the Israelis in it are worthless," he threw out his ultimatim doubtingly.

The wizard joke took longer to die than the Witch Weekly ones -- arguably, Adon decided, because it was funnier. And at Jonas' expense. And because he was more persistent than Trevelyan. "That's what she said," he retorted. It was all a bit cloudy, how that one actually worked; he only knew it was good.

So good that he couldn't help but chortle at his own joke for good measure. He grinned. "You know it's funny, Joanie," he chided Jonas. Adon was being particularly nonesensical right now, the rational artifacts of his mind input. Unfortunately neither the rational nor rational consciences seemed to particularly care right now.

"You say 'yer welcome, mate,'" Adon said with a grin in his best Cornish...Cornwallian...his best impersonation of Jonas.

But Jonas distracted himself and moved on. Work.

Rolling his eyes rather dramatically, Adon sighed. "Sock," he replied. "That's universal language for -- and I know you're not into that, but --" Adon shrugged. That's why it was funny. If Jonas actually were into that, Adon sure has hell wouldn't have joked about it. And not because it was incorrect or anything. It was just . . . no.

"Just use a sock. Mum left an entire stash of them . . . somewhere." Because she'd suggested he change his. Which he didn't remember doing. Curiously, Adon tugged the blanket and sheets towards him with increasing force until they broke free from the weight of the mattress, sending him flying back into the pillows. He winced at the tight feeling in his stomach and the shooting pain in both his arms and his belly. "Shhhhit."

However, he'd achieved his goal: his toes were finally visible. His bare toes. "Moloch," he hissed. "Yeh, there should definitely be some socks lying around!" he called to Jonas, watching his toes give an experimental wiggle, trying to catch his breath from the burst of pain.

He glanced back over at Jonas, slightly concerned. "This going to be long? I don't want them to not bring me. . ." there were too many parts in that sentence. He started again. "If they come by with potions, I will want them." Because that didn't feel so good. And because the potions still made him feel sooo good.

Lapsing into silence a moment, he added, "I hear you hit her with a car." The unprecedented display of violence on his behalf was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for Adon.

In the time it took Adon to finish determining that socks were, indeed, the best way to indicate that the room was occupied, Jonas had already dug through the drawers, found a pair, and started for the door, trying to keep himself from obviously laughing.  At the statement about the potions, the red-haired man had smiled crookedly and grabbed his notebook, tearing off a page to scribble out a quick 'KNOCK IF YOU HAVE POTIONS' sign.

He'd started for the door with both sign and sock in hand before Adon spoke again.  Jonas glanced back at him, raising his eyebrows, and then gave a half shrug.

"Yeah," he agreed, turning away again.  That was still a bit of an uncomfortable subject.  It wasn't that Jonas had hit the assassin with a car -- he was actually quite proud of that, especially since word of the incident seemed to be spreading of its own accord -- but the fact that the ramming had been necessary because he couldn't do magic.  Under slightly different circumstances, the entire situation could have been much, much worse.

But all of that -- his lack of magic, the curse, even the fact that Vedir Prideaux had put the pieces together and figured out the former -- was his problem, not Adon's.  Jonas draped the sock over the doorknob, balanced the sign precariously on top of it, and closed the door behind him, returning to his seat by Adon's bed.

"So first," he said, digging into his messenger bag.  He retrieved a large, flat envelope, covered with carefully written script.  "This came for you.  It's Arabic," he added unnecessarily as he passed it to his partner.  Determining that and ruling out every other language that Adon could probably speak had taken quite some time the night before when he'd been pouring over Gwenna's computer.  Between her help with that and her work on the invitation, Jonas thought he might have to offer his daughter a consulting position with Level Two.  "I glanced inside it, but I couldn't make head's or tails out of it.  I wasn't sure if it was important or not."

"And second..."  He paused, giving Adon a moment to rifle through the contents.  What was the best way to phrase this, without giving anything away that the younger man might repeat in less-than-choice circumstances? 

"I think I might have a lead," he said carefully, feeling out the words on his tongue.  "But I think we'll have better luck following up on it if we can start on the other end of things, at least geographically."  His forehead creased as he regarded Adon seriously.  "Do you have a contact back in Jerusalem who you reckon'd help us out?"

"Yeah," Jonas replied with less exhuberance than he'd expected -- or, frankly, hoped for. Maybe Jonas regretted taking Azorma down so totally and completely. . . It seemed unlikely. Maybe someone was giving him crap for it. Much more likely. "Raynor's not on your case about it, is she?" he asked. "Because you did what you had to." There was an edge to his voice. "And I'm not sorry for a second that you did it."

Jonas was dodging. Adon was too tired to pursue it, so with a sigh, he watched Jonas reach for an envelope. At the mention of Arabic, Adon might have laughed, but his brow was already knit as he tried to read the text on the approaching envelope.

Taking it into his hands, he broke the seal and pulled out a loose leaf of parchment. His face turned from one of concern to shock. Quickly, he turned it over, seeing only a blank back. He checked the envelope--nothing more inside--and frowned, reading the message again.

"It's from Thea. . ." he murmured faintly over Jonas' talking. "I don't know. . ." he looked up to Jonas.

He'd known--at least he thought he did--that Jonas had been talking. Because he was the only person in the room, it must have been to him. "What?" Now he remembered -- the words "back in Jerusalem" had just been spoken. But that could refer to nearly anything. Thea was back there. And she seemed to be mentioning, well he didn't exactly know what. A bit more about Katsaros, some mention of her parents. . . He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"She mentions Katsaros. . ." He looked back at Jonas, pleadingly. "I don't understand. What did you ask?"

Whatever had been in the letter, it had apparently been engrossing enough that Adon had missed the entirety of what he'd just said.  Jonas started to open his mouth, prepared to repeat himself ad nauseum, and then paused halfway,his expression relenting as he closed it carefully again.

It wasn't fair to dump work on his friend, not when he was so obviously still recovering.  Adon had been hit hard by the attack, and even days later, it was still showing.  The Israeli Auror normally seemed so vibrantly full of life, and seeing him like this, tired and worn, was as disconcerting as watching him get stabbed had been.  Bringing the letter, questioning him about contacts, didn't seem quite as urgent as it had when Jonas had left the office. 

Most of it could wait.  Or he could figure it out on his own.  The letter was the only thing that Jonas couldn't piece together without the younger man's help, and if it was about the criminal who was supposed going to cause Adon's death, then it was probably better translated sooner rather than later.

"I asked if there was anyone back in Jerusalem that I could get in touch with to follow up on a Runespoor lead," he said with a slight frown.  "But that can wait, mate.  What does she say about Katsaros?" he asked, his forehead creasing as he changed the subject.  "Translate it for me out loud, yeah?"

 A Runespoor lead. Sounded important.  Adon didn't exactly have it in him to want to go make flow charts and statistical breakdowns, but he was sure, eventually, he would.

"But that can wait, mate." Jonas had an aggravating way of confirming he was as much of an invalid as he felt.

"No," Adon said, feeling increasingly more peevish. No "playing easy" here. He irritably waved his pain-giving hand -- why did it have to be the right one? -- and dropped it onto his lap, cradling it atop the letter and glaring at it accusatorially. As punishment, he wouldn't use it again for another hour. And it would serve it right. Damn it.

"It was a. . . he was. . . " He hefted a sigh. "Adnan. He was my partner in Jerusalem. And so we worked the same cases. Knows everything I know and lived through a lot more before that. He runs the department, now. Musallam."

Another sigh, of relief to have been able to get that out, before looking to Jonas. That hand wasn't moving, and neither was the letter underneath it. "Nnnng," he moaned, closing his eyes tightly. "What's the point. S'just a letter."

Which required thinking and real introspection. Neither of which Adon felt particularly keen on. The brain-dimming prose of Persamon would be appropriate, now.

Or better: "How're the kiddos? Missing me, I'm sure."

A little compliment fishing. "Has Gwenna dismantled any more furniture recently? What was she building? A barricade?"

This was, Jonas knew, an exercise in letting things go.  He eyed Adon, trying very hard not to look at the letter, and then let a slow breath out.  It didn't matter.  It wasn't urgent.  If it was urgent and the younger man changed his mind when he was slightly more coherent in a day or two, he would certainly let his partner know.  For the moment, Jonas knew that he did not need to know everything about every detail, although it was unfortunately one thing to logically tell himself that and quite another to actually take it to heart.

"Yeah, she built a full size statue to you in the living room," he replied, flashing the younger man a grin.  He was not looking at the letter.  "And it was a gallows, actually, not a barricade.  Anna made her tear it down once Artie started screaming bloody murder about it."

He was not looking at the letter.  He was not going to ask about the letter.  "Of course they're missing you," he agreed good-naturedly, lacing his fingers together.  Not looking at the letter.  "You should see the office too, Eleor.  Since you've been out, the entirety of Level Two's been so morose, it's a wonder we've gotten any work done.  Pratt's been breaking down in tears every time he walks by your desk.  Radley and Fox moping about.  Hell, even Raynor's been sitting around, just staring forlornly at a cupcake," he concluded cheerfully.  He was not looking at the --

Oh, hell.

"You sure there's nothing in that letter that I need to know about?" Jonas asked, the words coming out quick and clipped as if that made the inquiry slightly more forgivable.  "You need me to follow up on something for you, I can, Adon," he added earnestly, giving the other Auror a half-pained, half-sheepish smile.  "Reckon it's the least I can do whilst you're out on paid holiday."

But Adon knew sarcasm -- he knew that what was said was what was not true. He couldn't imagine any of the things Jonas had described, save, perhaps, the effigy in Jonas' sitting room. It made him wonder if anyone missed him at all. Sincerely. Not just sarcastically. They were all so overworked, they probably didn't even notice. Unless it was because they felt he'd added to their workload by being down an Auror. It was still somewhat perplexing. Adon usually felt like he was A Person to Know most places he went. But here in the London office . . . it wasn't exactly a secret, that Adon didn't get on with many people other than Jonas and -- more casually -- Archer. He just couldn't figure out why. Usually, he didn't have to solicit friendship with people; they solicited him. Here, they were all so worn down or crotchety or soul-less. . . Adon'd didn't exactly understand it. He missed the inviting openness people seemed to have in the Middle East.

Forcing a smile, he nodded. "And here I was, thinking they'd get by without me," he responded sarcastically in kind. "The place is probably overrun with horrible snapdragons, since that's all I'm good for." The second runner-up to a building-up compliment-a-thon was a pity-party. Adon hurt. His ex-fiancee was mad at him, he had two people that either had tried to or would try to kill him, and he hadn't had any form of alcohol in over a week.

That done -- Jonas circled back to the letter, and Adon, who had not had the energy to explain the letter the first time around, found now that he didn't have the energy to keep Jonas from forcing the explanation, either. He just wanted a beer. Then a nap.

Puffing air from his cheeks again, Adon shifted against the pillows, which were slipping beneath his back from his recent lunge for the bedsheets. Speaking of which, his feet were cold. "Socks?" he asked, tilting his head towards the drawer where Jonas had produced the first one.

Blandly, he rattled it off: "She was wanting to follow up on Terry because -- you know -- I'd asked her for any names that sounded like Katsaros and looked at Beit Gaddol registration records. She followed up before. After January fifth. I told her he'd possessed Dree, but we didn't know more, and I'd let her know. I gave her Fox's information."

He rubbed his hand over his face before pinching the ridge of his nose. These potions were already wearing off. Hadn't he just taken them? The pain was supposed to be getting less, right? Why did his head hurt anways?

"Anyways. I think she just wants to talk to me. I don't think anyone else will do. But if you can find a way to get me out of it. . . s'appreciated. I've ignored enough of her letters. They've started to bite. This one didn't?" There was a momentary silence before Adon once more glanced down at his exposed toes. "My feet are cold," he sighed dramatically. Seriously. Nothing in this world was going right.

The red-haired man listened carefully, glancing respectfully away at the wall as he listened to his friend speak.  The situation sounded moderately familiar.  He'd never pressed Adon for details about any sort of past relationships; as far as Jonas was concerned, if he didn't ask, that meant that he never had to share himself.  But dealing with a significant other when the relationship had gone sour -- that stung.  That was one particular type of pain that he could sympathize with all too well.

"I'll see what I can do, mate," Jonas agreed seriously, glancing down at the letter.  Avoiding conversations was relatively easy; at least he had plenty of experience with that, even if he didn't have the best track record of successfully dealing with the consequences.

The younger Auror's repeated complaint was enough to earn a smile.  Jonas fought back a chuckle, giving Adon an amused look as he climbed carefully to his feet.  "What, you want me to park a car on top of them, too?" he asked nicely, tone lightening as he scanned over the room. 

Putting socks on his friend's feet was a little too uncomfortable for his liking, but there was an extra blanket sitting on a shelf in the open closet.  Jonas grabbed it, unfolding it halfway, and then tossed it over Adon's extremities.

"Have to say that your bit in front of the Ministry was pretty impressive though, Houdini, from what I could see of it," he remarked, shooting the younger man a lopsided grin as he reclaimed his seat.   If there was one thing that seemed likely to cheer Adon up, it was bragging about his martial prowess.  "Especially with a knife in you.  Reckon I ought to get you to teach me a trick or two.  That's what they teach you lot in the military?" he asked interestedly, settling in the chair again.  "Can't imagine you even need magic to take some bastard down."

At the offer, Adon forgot to be irritated. He forgot why he was irritated; after all, Jonas was going to fix it, anyhow. "Well. . . see if you could. . . if you mention that I'm here, and can't write back. . ." He frowned as he closed his eyes, considering if there could be any negative effects of this.


That'd buy him "about. . .three days," he mused to himself. After explaining Thea's letter -- as much as he wanted and no more -- he looked back at Jonas, to see what he thought of the proposal, only his partner was busy moving about the room for something. He sighed. "My feet are cold."
 

"What, you want me to park a car on top of them, too?"
Adon's face grew grave as he timidly looked down at his feet. He tried to draw them closer to himself, to hide beneath the sheet. Still several inches short. Helpless against the prospect of automotive demobilization, he quietly said, in a plaintive tone, ". . .No. . ." He looked sheepishly at the wool blanket curled around his feet, now, still folded. Jonas wasn't even going to tuck them in. Not that he was going to be ungrateful. "Thanks."

Jonas' animation increased, making Adon listen a bit more intently. Usually Jonas only put on tones for some sort of effect from his listener. Adon frowned, trying to figure out what that might be, and if he wanted to give it to him this time. The flattery was, well, flattering. But Adon couldn't fully agree. "Yeh," he said with a bit of a sigh. "It'd've been better if I didn't get a knife in me in the first place. I should have--if I'd had more distance between us, or if I'd thought to listen more carefully to Dree's accent. . .It's like Spence all over again. . ."

He continued hastily, as someone who has had too much time to focus on something, having recited it several times over. He said it all at once. ". . . and I shouldn't have roundhoused it, you know. Because of the balance. If I did less--like not Apparated. . . I'd have had more in me for later. But, I mean, I wasn't really thinking of later. But I should have." He looked up at Jonas. "You know?"

He puffed some air from his cheeks, glad to get that out. "You asked about the military? I didn't really fight like that, there. . . Only used magic a few times; almost always wandless, but sometimes it happens whether I planned for it or not. But I mean, the fighting -- we don't really use it. Not often. Still have to learn it though." He looked at Jonas. Had that been the question? "I use that fighting more in the magical world than I did in the military." Mostly because in the IDF, there'd always been rubber bullets.