#alwaysssss

He’d broken in while she was home, about a week after she’d sat across from him at the restaurant, a week after she’d asked him if he wanted to keep driving her (asking him if he wanted to be friends, if he liked her).

He looked, well, he looked manic was the only way to put it. He hadn’t said anything, had just started rummaging through her cabinets, had eyed her like a cornered animal when she got close, sped past her to similarly tear apart her bathroom. She’d stayed in the kitchen, deciding that actually cornering him in the tiny room wouldn’t help things, and waited. He’d gone to her bedroom then, desperation growing, and she’d let him. She didn’t really know why, had worked in an emergency room long enough to know that when someone was having a psychological episode they could act rashly, had been on the receiving end of too many undeserved hits, but the idea of calling someone, of using the card that had been given to her by his parole officer (not that she could, seeing as she’d thrown it out. The man had come to her door, explained that Pope was a dangerous man, Ms, Mo-han. You should be careful with him. You call us if you need help. If he hurts you. She’d been livid, to say the least. Maybe she should have been grateful, but all she could feel was a rage in her blood she wasn’t used to, burning in her chest, and she’d closed the door in the man’s face, chucked the card) made her stomach turn, and so she waited.

Waited when she heard a wounded noise, the frantic sounds of him tearing her place apart pausing, before suddenly there were footsteps. Before he was out in her living room, not looking at her, like he couldn’t, before he was pacing, hands clenched into fists at his side.

“You’re a doctor,” he said, continuing to pace. “You’re a doctor, you’d have—you’d have access,” his voice was shaky, and he stopped, turned to her. “Have you been talking to Smurf?” His eyes were wide, pleading, even as his voice was cold, hardened, tremor gone.

“Your mom?” She couldn’t help but ask, confusion seeping through. “Why would I be talking to your mom?” He just watched her, shook his hands out, raked at his scalp, letting out a frustrated noise, squeezed his eyes shut.

“Talk to me, Andrew, why would I be talking to your mom?” He let her get closer, even if his muscles tensed, his hands sliding roughly to grip the back of his skull, elbows framing his forehead.

“She had to get them from somewhere,” he said, voice raspy. “She could’ve told you. Told you I needed them. You have access,” he kept saying, nearly whispering now, fervent. His eyes opened again. “You have access.”

”Access to what,” she asked, dipping her head like Jack had done to her a million times, to keep her with him, keep her in the moment when she started to spiral. “Andrew, I can’t help if I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her voice was calm, as if she was talking to a patient, and he rocked on his feet, leaning closer to her, like he wanted to believe her, rocked back, squeezed his eyes back shut, started pulling at his head again, hair too short to grab, blunt nails raking up and down.

He seemed to be gearing himself up for something, hands shaky, eyes still closed, and he finally opened his mouth, said it on a whisper. Ashamed.

“Anti-psychotics.”

“Why do you think I’m helping your mom drug you?” She asked, trying to keep her voice even, calm.