[The coffee is too bitter to drink, even with whatever mixes she likes in it, and by now he's used to those. He's terrified of her judgement, so clear and so black and white, still. There's a reason House hadn't brought her or Foreman down to pack their patient off with fake pills. And maybe House is right, he's not getting help on purpose. But he needs to do something, if he has to go back. Something needs to change.
He rests his other hand, warm from the cup, over the one clasped in his, focusing dully on the interlock of his tan skin, her pale.]
Maybe you'd be better off.
[Is he going to make her stay with him when the only way he can keep the panic down is by drowning it in gin? Or wait out however many years of prison visits? If he could just stay here, it would be easier to be crazy than make the choices, answer the questions she's not going to give up on.]
I love you. [Something that starts as a laugh turns into a groan, his head dipping to come to rest against her shoulder.] I'm drunk; you're going to kill me.
[once fate put us in the same room, when you knew not of me nor I of you]
He rests his other hand, warm from the cup, over the one clasped in his, focusing dully on the interlock of his tan skin, her pale.]
Maybe you'd be better off.
[Is he going to make her stay with him when the only way he can keep the panic down is by drowning it in gin? Or wait out however many years of prison visits? If he could just stay here, it would be easier to be crazy than make the choices, answer the questions she's not going to give up on.]
I love you. [Something that starts as a laugh turns into a groan, his head dipping to come to rest against her shoulder.] I'm drunk; you're going to kill me.