#withmyshakinghands

Ten minutes later, he got a text back and though he expected her answer, it still took him a while to process it. He imagined it wasn't the food she really wanted, but still, he knew he should put an effort in keeping up the charade. So he selected an assortment of food, though most were junk food. His options were limited to begin with considering how late it was and the effects of the breakout. Three different kinds of sandwiches (turkey, ham, and beef - which he got two of, one for himself), a variety of chips, crackers, peanut butter, and two bottles of water. It's a messy selection, but he neatly packs them in the worn out messenger bag he brought with him (the very same one he used to pack some of his things in the wake of the breakout) as if the presentation of them would balance out the sloppy variety. He almost knocked on the door before he recalled having his own key. Though this was their makeshift home, he couldn't remember the last time he entered the place. (Nothing feels like home to him anymore.) The knob turned with the key as he pushed the door open. He hesitated for a moment. He couldn't help but hope she had fallen asleep in the half hour he spent getting food. It was better than arguing over Petyr's silence and lack of show of concern or Lysa's persistence in getting him to talk. Eventually, though, he pulled himself out of those thoughts before he placed his bag on the small, round table and called out in the dark. "Lysa?"