[Gathered up into a ball, he stares at the wall across him, listening to Alfred's footsteps drifting out of earshot. And he waits. Not for Alfred’s return, but for the pain squeezing his temples to ease off, hoping against hope. It’s quiet now: he hears his soft, tear-clogged breathing; the mansion settling; the odd clink of a cup or a dish on another floor. To be left alone just like this, he thinks, would be the greatest kindness Alfred could show him now. But Alfred wants him back up for one reason or another, and Oswald lets out a halfhearted croak as he's moved, aware of every tendon and sinew and nerve he has wronged. He leans heavily against the hand bracing him, face slack, hollow. The press of a warm mug to his lips rouses him a little. The drink has a faintly woodsy scent to it; tea, most likely. Weary and wrung dry, his body couldn't care less what it is. He sips, wincing at the lemony tartness of it. The spicy hit of whisky on the second sip isn't any kinder on his throat. But it's a comfort in its own way, as he continues to drink. A way he never needed more badly than he does now.
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His hands lift up, weakly clutching the mug.]