[The top-up he's offered is just as strong, if not stronger. It goes down in a few pulls either way, pooling hot in Oswald’s empty stomach. His throat steadily numbs up and his nose unclogs; he can breathe again, mostly. And deep into his second refill, the world grows fuzzier at the edges and the pain in his head a little quieter, a little dimmer, less urgent. He just sits a moment in the glow of a warm and comfortable drunkenness, cradling the cup in his hands. It’ll never have any of the answers he’s looking for; he has had the deaths of several loved ones in the space of a few years to figure that out. But he gazes long into what's left of his drink, as if this time it might be different. Until a thought occurs to him twenty minutes too late and he looks up at Alfred again, into the face of a man who looks as deeply and inexpressibly tired as he feels. Brow gently furrowing, he asks:]
...why did you bring me here? [There’s no bite to the question.]
no subject
...why did you bring me here? [There’s no bite to the question.]