His fingers twitched under Adam's. Not out of anger, however, that much startlingly clear somehow, even if he hadn't opened his eyes. This was more an instant of need to connect, to draw warmth from someone, and then the sudden realization that he was somehow forbidden. He hadn't allowed anyone to touch him, since Mohinder had passed - not even Peter who had tried to put a hand to his shoulder at the funeral - out of respect for the dead. Out of fear for himself.

But Adam was right. He wasn't as fragile as everyone else was turning out to be. "I'm cold," he mumbled, finally, eyes opening to cast a guardedly pleading look at Adam. Sixty years, and he still couldn't bring himself to show weakness like that in full.