Waiting for James to respond was like waiting an eternity for breath. Fisher's nails made small crescents in his skin, which grew deeper and deeper the longer he waited. Finally, when those smirking lips began to respond, Fisher's breath stopped in his chest, frozen like ice. He exhaled after a moment, relieved. Even if James couldn't guarantee anything, the glint of a promise was better than nothing. It was hope, something Fisher had not felt in years.
Though the small bit of hope he'd managed to find was getting smaller and smaller. There wasn't a time when Fisher wasn't accompanied by someone, not in the bathroom, the shower, his bedroom, nowhere. Except... "When I'm sedated." He sat upright a little, hope once again glowing its small, weak little flame. "I remember one night, like three days after I got here, I split my head open on the doorframe. They threatened to tie me down if I didn't stop slamming into the walls, and I didn't want to be, so..." He shrugged, meekly. "They gave me a shot and then they all left. I came in and out of consciousness a few times in the night, but I couldn't move. But I was alone." That was something, wasn't it? He looked up at James hopefully. It was something they could work with.