"Sure." He feels his blood like sludge in his guts, like razors in his head. His veins are pipelines too tight for all the broken glass that's getting pushed through with every torturous beat of his heart.

It takes nearly half an hour, and someone walking in might think Jason were sleeping from how still he is, how his only motion is the rise and fall of his chest, except for the fretting, pained expression on his face and Swann's quiet concern. But eventually, he swallows, steels himself, and sits up. No sooner is he vertical than he slouches forward resting his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees.

The idea of the elevator, with its bright lights and knife-like dings, fills him with fear, and even his usual sanctuary of the car is going to be agony, but it's better than here. And then at the end he might be able to climb into that dark, cool bed in that room where he wanted time to slow down.

He opens his eyes ever so slightly and a dagger of light comes through the slit in his vision, so he closes them again. "My glasses are on the kitchen counter. Can you grab them and set the setting on the side to darkest?"