In his mind Lee was asking MacClery question after question but in reality he was slumped onto the floor like a pathetic drunk, groaning and drooling. He could only wonder if he had pissed himself as well but all he could smell was flowers....flowers and musty wool....not piss. On one hand he was relieved, on the other hand he just wanted to shake the memory of Addison's perverseness towards him in his youth. He still had questions but by the time he was truly ready to ask them, MacClery was long gone. Lee wasn't even sure when he'd left. A quick look out the window informed that it couldn't have been long. It was still quite dark and the streets were still quiet. The window was broken and he didn't remember that. Was he injured? He adjusted himself to sit up straight enough and gave himself a sort of examination. He seemed intact; but there was blood...so much blood. Where did it come from? Had he hurt Andrew? Was he really feeling a pang of worry over it? MacClery had tried to kill him, he was sure of it. Had MacClery forced himself on him? Lee thought about it long and hard but he had no physical indication that MacClery had touched him at all.<br/><br/>Slowly he gathered up the nerve to try to move. He wanted to be in bed. He wanted to be under covers; out of sight, hiding. He was still terrified even though he tried to push it all back into place with thought and logic. He looked across the room and his eyes settled on the bar. He could take a bottle to bed and wash the pungent taste from his mouth and the mental images from his mind. Did he still have a job? Christ he had no idea what he had anymore. He had money, he knew that much. He could get the hell out of town as soon as possible. MacClery's people could kiss his ass. Did they even know their middleman was a crazy man?<br/><br/>He crawled to the dry bar and grabbed the bottle in question and took it with him as he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled into bed. The sheets were warm but did little to comfort him. He set the bottle on the bedside table and fumbled out of his clothes. Only a short while ago the idea of being naked in the bed had been erotically riveting, but not now; now he felt injured and vulnerable. Even so it was better than being in those clothes with that smell. The smell of that blood that did't smell quite like blood. Whisky. He picked up the bottle and drew a long gulp which he quickly chased with a second. If there was one thing he was well versed in it was how to drown unpleasant things from the mind. Step one: drink. Step two: drink the rest. It wasn't long before exhaustion and 'Step Five' put him under for the night.