[ for a moment after freddie's disappeared, cassidy remains seated on the bed, the bottle of whiskey in his hand. there's more blood on his shirt now, though it's less of a large blot and more of a frantic smear. it's late, or early, depending on one's perspective. the sky outside jem's window is lighter than it was when cassidy woke with a start, and the adrenaline is starting to wear off.

he wonders if he should even follow freddie this time, or if he should leave him alone to lick his wounds. but even as the thought crosses his mind, he's already rising from the bed and trailing freddie into the kitchen. ]

Better than it rotting off.

[ moving to the sink, he sets his makeshift medical supplies on the counter and washes the blood off his hands under the tap. ]

By Christ, you'd not last a week at sea. Jumping all over like a man being stuck with a hot iron.

[ then he grabs the bottle and turns to lean against the counter. rather than using the whiskey to tend freddie's wounds or torture him further, he puts the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink. ]

Will you cease your running and allow me to finish the job?