He flinches almost in unconscious imitation at Naismith was a dead man walking, because no, dammit, he's only just figured out how to keep all this straight in his head. His head hurts, his vision starting to curl around the edges. Oh, sweet freedom of the mind. The maple mead's finally doing its trick.

But he hadn't been willing to let Naismith go. He sure as hell doesn't feel ready to. But even so --

"By what -- by self-sabotage, you mean?" he demands, and he's trying to keep his voice down but his chest only feels tighter. He can't pretend he knows what he'd do in that case, as of right now, but he knows it wouldn't be that. "And Simon -- " God. Simon would be right to fire him for that kind of horseshit. "Why the fuck would you do that?"