𝘥𝘳. 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯 ⚖︎

( weakly swatting him away, resting down on his desk again. .he wasn’t going to waste energy on answering that )

“ what. . ” ( another mumble. .eyes slowly opening to adjust to the fluorescent lights )

( a weak mumble, slowly coming to. the scent of smelling salts still strong in his nose )

“ i didn’t mean to. .i apologise. . ”

( a small twitch of his fingers. .no other movement yet )

“ thank you. . ” resting his head against his chest

forcing himself into a sitting position. .or trying to that is

“ didn’t mean for anyone to find me. . ”

“ i feel like i’m dying. .even though i’m not. . ”

( usually when somebody walked into his office he’d immediately sit up and turn to see who it was, so him being completely still was sure to he a giveaway that something was wrong. . )

“ what?. . ” ( a pause. .silence — waiting for his next reply )

“ i can’t hear you too well. .sounds like i’m underwater. . ” ( another weak mumble, eyes falling closed again )

“ nauseous. . ” ( he felt a lot worse than just nauseous, but his throat hurt way too much to talk. . )

( glassy eyes slowly open after a few hours, pale hand lifting to shield his eyes from the light. .his head was throbbing )

( the doctors had eventually cleaned him of the blood and hooked him up to different drips to try and flush out whatever mix of drugs were in his system, the bags under his eyes more evident under the fluorescent lights )

( unresponsive. .not even a twitch of his fingers — head heavy against the males hand )

( drugs, alcohol and stress clearly aren’t a good mix. .amelia’s little escape plan has been getting to him more than he’d care to admit. weak mumbles escape him, head resting against his chest )

( head lolls to the side as he was pulled back, blood still pouring from his nose, skin a little paler than usual, if that was even possible. . )

( completely unresponsive, chest rising and falling shallowly )

( unconscious with his head on his desk, nose bleeding. . )