He'd heard them talking, but the substance of their discussion didn't seem important enough to sit up for. Even if it was about him; certain words bounced around his cell. Words like guilty and justice. The proof of his past visitors was few and far between. Joss' Skittles wrapper near the door of the cell, some half-empty bottles of water in the corner from Isobel. That recently emptied prescription bottle in his back pocket. He couldn't remember when he'd gotten the prescription, was it yesterday? The day before? The hours just bled into a continual nothingness down here. With that one haunting light above his cell. The dark corners where he sometimes thought he could feel somebody watching him. The pills hadn't even gotten him high, not in the way he remembered. He was just tired, and they let him finally sleep for hours at a time.
But he wasn't asleep now, he was just stretched across the floor, with his head on the curve of his arm.
Get up, Trenton.
Up suddenly seemed quite far, and Trenton finally wondered if maybe he was high, after all. With a muffled sound of exhaustion, Trenton pushed himself up to sit on the floor, regarding the image of the familiar men with a squint of discomfort. He frowned at them, but even that was wane and barely detectable; he was unshaven, dirty, with heavy shadows breeding beneath his eyes. He did not get up. "Why?"
House arrest? What had they done, remodeled his penthouse into the fucking Tower of London? How could his own place be worse than this prime vacation spot in the gallows?