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For a moment he thinks he’s going to have to put them all in quarantine - that’s been the routine for so long, that enforced period of having them close but so very far away - that he feels himself smoothing his face into neutrality to cover the massive surge of relief he feels when he sees them approach.
Then he remembers. They don’t have to go into quarantine. He can let himself be happy that they’re back. He can even show it.
Not that there’s time.
Not that there’s time to register that Zolf isn’t wearing his coat.
Or his shirt.
It’s just his breastplate, and bare arms. Arms that are corded with muscle and marked with ink and dotted with goosebumps.
He must be freezing.
While they’re gathering around Einstein, readying themselves to teleport, Oscar slides up next to him, itching to reach out and smooth his hands over the exposed skin, lend him some of the unnatural warmth that’s been his since the resurrection. “What happened to your coat?” he says, quietly.
Zolf grunts. “Some kind of planar ghost dissolved it. Luckily the killswitch got it before it could get my pants.”
Oscar smirks and Zolf rolls his eyes, then shivers. “You must be freezing,” Oscar says, and starts shrugging out of his coat.
“We’ll be back in London in a minute, Wilde…”
“Shush,” Oscar says, and puts the coat around Zolf’s shoulders. It’s ridiculously long on him, the bottom almost touching the ground, but there’s something impossibly right about seeing Zolf in it, the silvery fur shining against the white of his beard and hair. Zolf grumbles as he drapes it over him but when he’s fully encased Oscar notices he moves his face into the fur and inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a second.
Oscar’s heart flips in his chest.
“Ready everyone?” Einstein says, and Oscar swallows, turning, feels Zolf’s fingers find his on one side, Cel’s on the other. He glances down at Zolf before the familiar lurch of teleport takes them, safe, successful, and warm, and Zolf looks up at him, and smiles.