As her fingers thread through his hair, he turns his head and looks up at her. There's something different in his eyes. They lack the sharpness, the anger. All that's left is the sadness and regret, the weariness of life.

"Might take you up on that. But I can shave m'self, thank you," he mutters wryly with no bite.

He picks up a glass of orange juice-- and his hand is immediately set upon by a tremor.

withdrawal

He sets the glass back down before he spills it. Well, that wasn't supposed to happen.

"Or maybe not."

Sheepish, he gets to his feet, a little unsteady as his head spins slightly.