Klaus is shuddering into pieces, crying, a dam welling up and tears spilling over, and Luther doesn't know what to do. He's glued his teammates back together before, back in the good bad old days, patching them up just well enough to keep on ticking another day and another — but tenderness was never on the Hargreeves curriculum. It was an improvised thing, discovered between the cracks. And so he rests an oversized hand on Klaus' arm, delivers a tentative pat, his expression strained at the edges. "We'll figure it out," he says.

Diego's still in the corner, pinned in place like an automaton with an order that Luther forgot to retract. Allison still thoughtful and silent, absorbing it all.

He clears his throat. "Alright, guys. C'mon. Let's give him some space. We can pick this up later." It's a dismissal: an at ease, soldiers, a we'll finish this another time. When Klaus isn't so recently woken-up and scraped back from death's door. Luther's voice is awkward and halting, though, and so he fishes his communicator out of one cavernous coat pocket, if only just to have something else to do with his hands. "And seriously, where's Ben? I told everyone to get over here—"

While he starts chivvying the others towards the door, Luther finds Ben in his contact list, jabs the number.

And a phone in the room starts ringing.