[No, not really, but a little voice with clearer speech than his own suggests to him that maybe fortune does. Luck. The door's revolved again and he's still here. Poor Freddie, stuck in a rut. He thinks to explain but the words clog up his throat like they'd choke him.]

She chose. [He knows that much. Though it's still an accusation, if leveled at the wrong person.] And you. And I – can't. I can't because fucking Lance is fucking dead and if I fuck off now then I'm the prick who killed him.

[Laughter hacks from his throat, dissolving into hissing giggles at the sheer fucking irony of it. Catching breath again, his attention's distracted by the hand - too tight - around his arm, and where its attached. His head dips almost helplessly to Cassidy's shoulder again, mouthing against the cotton of his shirt.]

Haul your wind. You talk some fucking nonsense.