Henry/Open
There was a certain irony in an Londoner celebrating Saint Patrick's day, but there was a certain irony in everything nowadays. Plus he was still trying to bury the feeling of loss at Vox' death. He knew he should have done more, dragged those kids out of their environment because unlike some he'd known what was happening to them. But Vox had asked him not to, and now he was stuck with knowing if he had he could have spared those two. Could have saved them, maybe. That if he'd stepped up, he'd be dragging Vox here now, just to see the kid get smashed because it was One Of Those Things.
He'd grown quieter when he thought of it like that, gave quiet answers in class and tried pulling his walls up again. He'd never get used to this, and he could see the darkness looming. So going to the bar had sounded like a good idea, because there'd be people and noise and he wouldn't be tempted into something stupid. Not that drowning his sorrows wasn't stupid but in the grand scale of things it wasn't as bad.
He'd noticed the two colleagues and he knew he should say hi, but then the ugly thought of 'they'll die' crept into his thoughts and he knew he wouldn't be the greatest of company right now. So he found a seat near the end of the bar, surrounded by noise and happy (if not drunk) conversation and he just listened and sat a bit on the edges like he tended to do when he felt he didn't belong.