I didn't take anything.

( that answer comes quick. adamant, somehow a little petulant even between wheezes. laura's a good girl at heart, is the thing, and the line of questioning digs at some bruise that makes her feel an awful lot like a teenager sneaking back into the house after curfew, despite ian's very nonjudgemental questions.

there's just a lot happening at once — relief that she isn't alone, fear over a looming presence she's been running from for years, some vague background awareness that her hand really fucking hurts, actually. she doesn't want to sit here and chat when they're probably going to die in like three minutes, but it's--natural to defer to ian. she shifts, uncomfortable, but laura doesn't move. )

I don't even drink. Is it in the air? Jesus Christ, it's in the air. ( she kind of hiccups, helpfully, and then drops her forehead down against her knees as she tries to head off that particular spiral before it actually starts.

...actually helpful, is the quieter addition muffled into her legs. ) I think there was a plant. It told me to fuck off.