[He holds out his hand - the one with all its fingers intact - without so much as a glance. The bottle has a weight to it that’s all in the glass; it isn’t so full that he needs to prop himself up on an elbow to drink without spilling over the sheets. Not so full that he can crawl back into some corner of his mind and disappear into a dream of what could’ve been, might’ve been, should’ve been. But he’ll take what he can get while he still can, just like he always has. There’s nothing else to hold out for, nothing better than this.
Ed would have something to say, he's sure, about wallowing in self-pity without at least downing a few glasses of water first. But the dead can’t speak, and Oswald's belief in ghosts is fading away in the cruelty of their absence.
He pulls the bottle from his lips with a wet pop and sniffs, eyebrows wearily drawing together over the rim.]
You could have taken me to my bed. [He says, dull-eyed, to the wall.] But you brought me here, where I am unable to leave under my own power, and no one is coming to find me. [He feels a muted twang of fear in his gut.] ...well, if your intentions are to take advantage of me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.
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Ed would have something to say, he's sure, about wallowing in self-pity without at least downing a few glasses of water first. But the dead can’t speak, and Oswald's belief in ghosts is fading away in the cruelty of their absence.
He pulls the bottle from his lips with a wet pop and sniffs, eyebrows wearily drawing together over the rim.]
You could have taken me to my bed. [He says, dull-eyed, to the wall.] But you brought me here, where I am unable to leave under my own power, and no one is coming to find me. [He feels a muted twang of fear in his gut.] ...well, if your intentions are to take advantage of me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.