Perfectly aware that she's an unwanted guest, she walks over to the cassette player to listen to this obviously very-handsome singer. She bops along for a while and then turns down the volume, turning to address her host.
She produces two little shot glasses from her pockets and sets them down on his desk, not pouring quite yet.
"You need to make a new friend each week. A friend, meaning someone you have some fucking rapport with, else you've gotta spend two hours every night having some quality time with me."
"Gotta work your way up, Henry, considering I don't think you've ever had one to begin with," she tells him. "Dorian and Jon don't count. You been in both their heads."
He sighs. "I think you're stretching it by calling anyone a friend. But. I will talk to people." It means that he needs to dig his communicator out of his desk or wherever he stashed it.
He blinks at her. "Why do you have to talk like that?" he grumbles and then types out his post.
He shows it to her.
"There. It's done."
He can already feel the effects of alcohol, which is something quite similar to the drugs he's been given before, without the fear associated with them.
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"You got some homework for me now."
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"Homework."
It's not a question, but he does invite her to continue.
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She produces two little shot glasses from her pockets and sets them down on his desk, not pouring quite yet.
"You need to make a new friend each week. A friend, meaning someone you have some fucking rapport with, else you've gotta spend two hours every night having some quality time with me."
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"What if I don't make a friend until Wednesday? Can I count Jon and Dorian as friends to stave off the first two weeks?"
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He sighs. "I think you're stretching it by calling anyone a friend. But. I will talk to people." It means that he needs to dig his communicator out of his desk or wherever he stashed it.
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She finally pours the whiskey.
"Drink up, and you can make your first post to the network."
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"Why?"
He stands up and digs his communicator out of his desk.
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She throws back her shot first, then holds out his insistently.
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But he downs the first shot, completely oblivious, and then erupts in a coughing fit.
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"I think more people'll want to talk to you than you realize."
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He picks up another glass, this time a bit more defiantly, and downs it quickly.
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She meets his gaze and downs her own shot.
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She has herself a third glass, but won't push him into drinking any more.
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"Are you going to stay while I do this?"
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What did he think the 'redemption' progress was going to be like? Hard labor and more electro-shocks?
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Not drinking together and threats of quality time.
He sighs. "I'm not speaking," he tells her firmly and starts off his text post.
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She pours one last shot for Henry and then corks the bottle, waiting until she sees the post for herself to actually leave.
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He shows it to her.
"There. It's done."
He can already feel the effects of alcohol, which is something quite similar to the drugs he's been given before, without the fear associated with them.
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"Make good choices," she says, picking up the bottle and shot glass and heading to the door.
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He doesn't want to get drunk, but there a knot of anxiety in his chest that seems to be a bit numbed by it.
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