[for Meredith]
There's the alternative.
Her words follow him like a shadow, settling into his skin so he can't shake them, stifling his anger until all he's left with is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
There's the alternative.
She took her ring off. All they've been through, all they've done, and this is what might end them? All those tragedies just couldn't compare to a bit of drinking? It's ridiculous, and infuriating, and he hasn't the slightest idea what to do to even begin to fix things. This one isn't on him.
He has to go back to her. That much is obvious. But to what end? They'll just pick up right where they left off, an eventuality that he ducked out specifically to avoid. He'll give it some time, then, let her dwell on what she's done while he does the same. They'll survive this. They have to. He considers heading out to grab a drink, even gets his flask topped up for the evening, but Meredith's rantings have soured him on the idea for the time being, no matter how desperately he needs one.
There's the alternative.
That's when it occurs to him: if she thinks his drinking is such a terrible problem, worthy of jeopardizing their happiness (or whatever it is that they've had lately) over, then he'll just prove to her that it isn't. Simple as that. He'll sober up properly -- which shouldn't take too long, since he hasn't even gotten a real start on things today -- and then they can discuss things like rational adults. Problem solved.
There's the alternative.
He doesn't even make it a day.
He's mostly alright until night falls, at which point the pain behind his eyes becomes nigh-unbearable. He retires to his old hut on instinct, though stripped and bare as it is, it's hardly a decent accommodation. Where else is he supposed to go, though? Really, he's just lucky that someone else hasn't taken up residence. Between the headache and the cut on his back keeping him stuck on his side and his stomach, it's damn near impossible to sleep, but somehow he manages to lose consciousness long after midnight only to be woken up scant hours later, sweating and needing to retch as the sun comes up. Considering he hasn't eaten anything in days, this proves to be a particularly painful prospect, and he goes for his flask without thinking about it, just another instinct.
He can't decide if the few decent hours of sleep it earns him are worth the way he wakes up in the afternoon, hating himself.
There's the alternative.
That second night, he makes up his mind. It was absolutely worth it. He'd accomplished so much that day, getting out and showering, putting some actual food in him, but his pointed decision not to get himself a refill proves to be a mistake as he spends the night tossing in an absurdly uncomfortable bed, at once sweating and entirely unable to shake the chill that grips him. But hey, at least there are no blankets, so it's not as if he has to make a decision on the matter. None of his bruises or cuts seem to be healing properly, and he aches worse than he did back when he'd been in Rapture, right in the thick of it. He's still awake when the sun rises on another day spent cursing his own stubbornness, ending yet another night too many spent alone. He wants so badly to give up, to go back to her and try to pretend none of this happened, but after the things she said, the way she treated him, it's just not an option.
There's the alternative.
It's just the world's worst hangover. That's what he tells himself over and over as he forces himself out and about, carefully keeping track of the time to avoid Meredith as he forces himself to head back out into that impossibly bright sun to choke down more food that he likely won't taste until the second time around. He spent a full week down in that hellhole, drinking far more than even he would be able to justify under normal conditions and putting God knows what sort of insane chemicals into his body just to stay alive, this sort of thing is to be expected. He can't live like this, but he doesn't have to, he just needs to ride it out so he can prove some ridiculous point that he barely remembers, and that will be that. Really, it doesn't even have anything to do with his previous situation, which somehow proves to him that Meredith is even more in the wrong about all this.
Soon she'll be able to see so for herself.
All that's left to do is pray that it makes a difference.
There's the alternative.
He's still trying to fall asleep, sweat pouring off of him worse than ever, when he hears Meredith's voice. He's lost all track of how many days it's been in his stupor, and he's convinced that it's the first time in weeks that he's heard her, so thrown that he doesn't even register what it is that she says. Then he's coming to his senses, remembering just how he alone he truly is, and writing the sound off as nothing more than the scraps of some mad dream as he was finally slipping into blessed unconsciousness.
Hers isn't the only voice he hears that night, but it's the only one he remembers, and when he sets out again in the morning, he makes a vow that he's not coming back again.
There's the alternative.
Finally, finally, he seems to find himself capable of functioning like a normal human being once more. He still feels as if he's got one foot in the grave, but his breakfast seems inclined to stay where he puts it this time around, and he even finds enough patience in him to wrestle a new outfit out of the clothes box. Time to go home, then. If he still has one. After days of essentially having walked out on her (no matter how justified in it he continues to feel), he has no idea how welcome he'll be. How welcome he deserves to be. But hey, at least he'll have made his bloody point.
There's the alternative.
Time to see how intent she is on sticking with it, he thinks, eager to finally replace the endless echoes of her words in his head with the real thing as he maneuvers his way around Doc (at least someone's definitely happy to see him) to knock on his own front door.
Her words follow him like a shadow, settling into his skin so he can't shake them, stifling his anger until all he's left with is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
There's the alternative.
She took her ring off. All they've been through, all they've done, and this is what might end them? All those tragedies just couldn't compare to a bit of drinking? It's ridiculous, and infuriating, and he hasn't the slightest idea what to do to even begin to fix things. This one isn't on him.
He has to go back to her. That much is obvious. But to what end? They'll just pick up right where they left off, an eventuality that he ducked out specifically to avoid. He'll give it some time, then, let her dwell on what she's done while he does the same. They'll survive this. They have to. He considers heading out to grab a drink, even gets his flask topped up for the evening, but Meredith's rantings have soured him on the idea for the time being, no matter how desperately he needs one.
There's the alternative.
That's when it occurs to him: if she thinks his drinking is such a terrible problem, worthy of jeopardizing their happiness (or whatever it is that they've had lately) over, then he'll just prove to her that it isn't. Simple as that. He'll sober up properly -- which shouldn't take too long, since he hasn't even gotten a real start on things today -- and then they can discuss things like rational adults. Problem solved.
There's the alternative.
He doesn't even make it a day.
He's mostly alright until night falls, at which point the pain behind his eyes becomes nigh-unbearable. He retires to his old hut on instinct, though stripped and bare as it is, it's hardly a decent accommodation. Where else is he supposed to go, though? Really, he's just lucky that someone else hasn't taken up residence. Between the headache and the cut on his back keeping him stuck on his side and his stomach, it's damn near impossible to sleep, but somehow he manages to lose consciousness long after midnight only to be woken up scant hours later, sweating and needing to retch as the sun comes up. Considering he hasn't eaten anything in days, this proves to be a particularly painful prospect, and he goes for his flask without thinking about it, just another instinct.
He can't decide if the few decent hours of sleep it earns him are worth the way he wakes up in the afternoon, hating himself.
There's the alternative.
That second night, he makes up his mind. It was absolutely worth it. He'd accomplished so much that day, getting out and showering, putting some actual food in him, but his pointed decision not to get himself a refill proves to be a mistake as he spends the night tossing in an absurdly uncomfortable bed, at once sweating and entirely unable to shake the chill that grips him. But hey, at least there are no blankets, so it's not as if he has to make a decision on the matter. None of his bruises or cuts seem to be healing properly, and he aches worse than he did back when he'd been in Rapture, right in the thick of it. He's still awake when the sun rises on another day spent cursing his own stubbornness, ending yet another night too many spent alone. He wants so badly to give up, to go back to her and try to pretend none of this happened, but after the things she said, the way she treated him, it's just not an option.
There's the alternative.
It's just the world's worst hangover. That's what he tells himself over and over as he forces himself out and about, carefully keeping track of the time to avoid Meredith as he forces himself to head back out into that impossibly bright sun to choke down more food that he likely won't taste until the second time around. He spent a full week down in that hellhole, drinking far more than even he would be able to justify under normal conditions and putting God knows what sort of insane chemicals into his body just to stay alive, this sort of thing is to be expected. He can't live like this, but he doesn't have to, he just needs to ride it out so he can prove some ridiculous point that he barely remembers, and that will be that. Really, it doesn't even have anything to do with his previous situation, which somehow proves to him that Meredith is even more in the wrong about all this.
Soon she'll be able to see so for herself.
All that's left to do is pray that it makes a difference.
There's the alternative.
He's still trying to fall asleep, sweat pouring off of him worse than ever, when he hears Meredith's voice. He's lost all track of how many days it's been in his stupor, and he's convinced that it's the first time in weeks that he's heard her, so thrown that he doesn't even register what it is that she says. Then he's coming to his senses, remembering just how he alone he truly is, and writing the sound off as nothing more than the scraps of some mad dream as he was finally slipping into blessed unconsciousness.
Hers isn't the only voice he hears that night, but it's the only one he remembers, and when he sets out again in the morning, he makes a vow that he's not coming back again.
There's the alternative.
Finally, finally, he seems to find himself capable of functioning like a normal human being once more. He still feels as if he's got one foot in the grave, but his breakfast seems inclined to stay where he puts it this time around, and he even finds enough patience in him to wrestle a new outfit out of the clothes box. Time to go home, then. If he still has one. After days of essentially having walked out on her (no matter how justified in it he continues to feel), he has no idea how welcome he'll be. How welcome he deserves to be. But hey, at least he'll have made his bloody point.
There's the alternative.
Time to see how intent she is on sticking with it, he thinks, eager to finally replace the endless echoes of her words in his head with the real thing as he maneuvers his way around Doc (at least someone's definitely happy to see him) to knock on his own front door.