He looks suddenly tired, as though the intervening time—days and nights on the barge, the long walk to his car after watching Angela gulp down the pills, the moments of unearned relief—has just crashed over him.
He keeps on thinking of Angela, Angela who'd been so much closer to Crawford—in and out of his house, cozy evenings with the family. And then him. He doesn't have to imagine the feeling, is the hell of it. He's lived with it most of his life.
“Well,” he says. His voice is rough, feels rough in his throat too. “That's me. You're up.”
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"Oh."
Trouble blinks slowly, otherwise unmoving. And unmoved.
"Is that all?"
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“Nobody ever did that to you?”
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They take a long slow sip from their water.
"Of course not, darling."
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He can guess.
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"I choose reliable friends," they tell him, crisply. "That's why."
Hahaha. Friends.
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“Well,” he says. His voice is rough, feels rough in his throat too. “That's me. You're up.”
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"If you must. I killed someone."
The shrug is verbal rather than physical.
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This shrug is physical, shoulders lifted, palms up.
"I don't know. I needed to get out of an enemy base, and they happened to be in my way."
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“What made it the worst?”
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"Because I haven't drowned any orphans lately? Murder is a contender for 'worst' in most people's experience, darling."
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He's much slower in working his way around to asking: “Would you do it again?”
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Trouble just grins at the first question, because Wade has no idea how right he is.
"...I might. If the need arose."
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“You wanna walk me through it?” An offer as much as it is a prod.