[ There's a sharp thought, brief and fleeting: 'I don't think you should tell me how I want to live.'
The way it cuts, its very content surprises him, and he blinks, flinches minutely inward. That isn't fair. She isn't... She isn't imposing anything on him. Isn't doing anything beyond answering the question he'd asked.
But she doesn't know. Doesn't know how he wants that whiskey and maybe doesn't understand how much it helps him, how it'll ease the pain away and set him up to make it through another morning afternoon evening. That isn't on her. That's no mark against Katrina.
(Does he want to keep living this way? And he doesn't need to think far about what she means by that. Understands the implications and their scope, and he hasn't always lived like this, not exactly, but it's hard to mention living any other way.)
He lets the thought sit before responding, giving his head the ghost of a shake (even that fires the aching further, even that causes further pain). ]
I don't know.
[ There's another moment before he gives in to the pull, turning toward the bathroom and finding the whiskey readily enough. It feels like failing her, somehow, to wrap his fingers around the bottle's neck, to right himself and move back toward the bedroom carrying his, his... Prize, finding, life preserver, god knows what. But he can't leave it. He'll only keep thinking about it. One thought on top of another on top of a splitting headache.
So he takes the bottle and makes his way toward the bedroom, no precisely looking at anything, doing his best to avoid her gaze. ]
no subject
The way it cuts, its very content surprises him, and he blinks, flinches minutely inward. That isn't fair. She isn't... She isn't imposing anything on him. Isn't doing anything beyond answering the question he'd asked.
But she doesn't know. Doesn't know how he wants that whiskey and maybe doesn't understand how much it helps him, how it'll ease the pain away and set him up to make it through another morning afternoon evening. That isn't on her. That's no mark against Katrina.
(Does he want to keep living this way? And he doesn't need to think far about what she means by that. Understands the implications and their scope, and he hasn't always lived like this, not exactly, but it's hard to mention living any other way.)
He lets the thought sit before responding, giving his head the ghost of a shake (even that fires the aching further, even that causes further pain). ]
I don't know.
[ There's another moment before he gives in to the pull, turning toward the bathroom and finding the whiskey readily enough. It feels like failing her, somehow, to wrap his fingers around the bottle's neck, to right himself and move back toward the bedroom carrying his, his... Prize, finding, life preserver, god knows what. But he can't leave it. He'll only keep thinking about it. One thought on top of another on top of a splitting headache.
So he takes the bottle and makes his way toward the bedroom, no precisely looking at anything, doing his best to avoid her gaze. ]