[ There may be an irony between his words and the sound of them when he wheezes out: ]

I'm not an invalid.

[ While being maneuvered to the couch. He does, in fact, sit up on his own - curl halfheartedly really - to take the glass and ease some water down. Small, experimental sips at first. Testing how much his throat can handle.

It's not that bad. It'll ease off in a day or two, he thinks - though there'll be a hand spread of bruising around his neck. He doesn't hate that so much, frankly.

The glass goes down, the peas come up, and he props his back against the arm of the couch so he's reclining rather than laying. Gently drapes the peas across his neck. ]

Not out loud.

[ They're obviously recording, or listening, or... something. ]

We can write it. Come up with a hand sign for it too, because I don't think you- heard me.

[ The smallest little hitch at the end, but the water's helped. His voice sounds an octave deeper, and he's always had a subtle rasp when he spoke. It's just more pronounced now. Sounds like he just got throat-fucked. ]

Something we can-- feel.

[ When pressed against skin, because just flashing it doesn't help if you aren't seeing hands at the time. ]