They're touching his hair, and it's stupid, but it feels familiar and soothing. He's always connected it with comfort, since his father would ruffle his hair and tease him about taking after his mother so much.

It's little touches like that that has ensured Barnaby's anxiety hasn't turned into utter anger right now. He's calming down, slowly. Slowly, despite every part of him wondering how Frisk can know they're going to be okay.

He breathes out another shaky, wet sigh.

"I... I don't know how long it will take. To be okay."

After twenty years of this, who knows how long it will take?