"Elliott, as your doctor and your friend. Are you thinking about hurting yourself?"

Elliott laughed, the sound full of mirth as he swirled his gin in his glass.

Harvey watched him carefully.

"I'm a writer, what do you think?"

"Come again?"

"I said, I'm a writer. What do you think?"

"I think you're playing with me when I'm trying to be serious."

"And I think you know the answer."

"I know nothing until you tell me otherwise."

"Is that so?" More amusement.

Harvey's eyes were on the writer's bandaged hands, Elliott knew he was staring but still refused to meet his eyes.

Instead he looked out the window at the crashing waves.

It reminded him of peace.

Of nights when thoughts didn't race.

When gin didn't taste as good as it does now.

When mornings didn't feel like headaches.

Was he okay?

Was he actually okay?

He knew the answer as well as Harvey did.

Fine.

He was fine.

He was actually very fin-

"Ellie?!" Harvey's voice cut through his thoughts, breaking them apart like already fragile glass.

Elliott looked up at him from his window sill seat at the good doctor's concerned face.

A small, slightly broken smile graced his face as he reached out to Harvey, lacing their fingers together.

"I'll be okay. I'm just getting there...slowly." He chose his words carefully, not wanting to risk the doctor going into emergency mode.

Harvey shook his head, sighing.

"You're making me feel like you're a ticking time bomb."

Elliott turned back towards the window, his heart aching.

He didn't have anything to respond with, no witty remarks.

((("I feel like I can't trust you.")))

The writer continued to watch the ocean, his eyes fixated on the churning sea.

He'd wait until Harvey left tonight to stew on this.

Doing it now would do no good.

He turned back to where Harvey was making another drink.

Happy face and happy smiles were needed.

A mask is a mask for a reason after all.