Rabbit hadn't meant to open another door. Not that he'd done so physically or anything, though that was something that also concerned him these days. Opening doors. He tried to have other people do it when he could, as if his fingers and palms were somehow conduits to another plane. Silly. Untrue, he was sure, though doubt tickled his thoughts when he was alone, which was why he decided he probably shouldn't be. The worst part was he had been content in his denial until now, but dredging up the details of his trip for Liv had reminded him that he hadn't been looking to go anywhere in the first place. He'd simply opened a door. It meant he could just as easily find himself there a second time with no warning at all.

He decided he wouldn't give them the opportunity to take him again. Pax, Smol... It... none of them. He would stay awake, he would stay surrounded, and he sure as hell wouldn't open any doors. It seemed a solid plan. Still, Rabbit worried. He floated above life rather than touching it, twitching away from birdsong and shadow in equal measure, both harbingers of doom. He expected someone to notice that something was wrong, to comment on his jumpiness and paranoia, but nobody did. With his tendency to flit through existence, mourning his long dead father and acting as Olivia's unnecessary savior, no one saw any difference.

He spent a lot of time thinking, wedged between his sister and Jim on the couch while they watched TV or perched on a stool at Darlene's. First and foremost, Heliodora was a problem. Since he'd come home he'd looked her up. He'd Googled demesne. She belonged here at Rider-Waite, but she was a part of that place. He had so many questions, but the more he learned, the more likely he was to cut off a foot, at least as far as he was concerned. Something there had convinced her to stay, and while he couldn't imagine ever feeling the same affection for the place, he certainly couldn't dismiss the possibility that he might be made to feel it. Stockholm Syndrome? Was that it? Rabbit supposed simple brainwashing wasn't out of the question either.

Which brought him to the voice, an entirely separate but no less disturbing issue. Having ruled out the bird-dog as its source, he remained at a loss as to who it could belong to. It wasn't like he had the biggest pool of candidates to choose from. Someone who could grant visions, secondhand pain, and the taste of marshmallow steak. Not a one of the three he'd met seemed the likely culprit, and while it would have been nice to know who was, he wasn't interested in making any new friends.

It all circled back to his plans for prevention. No sleeping, no being alone, no doors. It would mean they'd have to pluck him right out of reality if they wanted him back. He was pretty sure that no amount of planning would ever be enough, not when real magic was involved, but at least he would know he had tried. He would force them to grab him off of the street if they wanted him so badly. Not that it would matter. Not that they weren't capable of doing whatever they wanted.