His hand goes tight on his glass. He is staring into the depths of his drink, gaze gone distant, not seeing much of anything. He is abruptly not sure he can do this at all. He is abruptly not sure why he's even trying.
"It was." He sounds bitter. He is bitter. At Tim, at himself, at everything. At the absolute appalling mess he made of this, and at knowing that he can't make it better, because he chose this. "She turned away from it, even though it was killing her to do it. She chose not to be a monster."
Up until the end. Up until she had to save them, and submitted to it. Fine; he'll get this over with, then.
"I was in a coma," he says, like it's that simple, like he wasn't dead in a hospital bed, heart gone still. "For six months. And then I got up again. So I suppose it's clear what I chose."
no subject
"It was." He sounds bitter. He is bitter. At Tim, at himself, at everything. At the absolute appalling mess he made of this, and at knowing that he can't make it better, because he chose this. "She turned away from it, even though it was killing her to do it. She chose not to be a monster."
Up until the end. Up until she had to save them, and submitted to it. Fine; he'll get this over with, then.
"I was in a coma," he says, like it's that simple, like he wasn't dead in a hospital bed, heart gone still. "For six months. And then I got up again. So I suppose it's clear what I chose."