snowblindrpg | [log] Grave Men, Near Death [closed]

[ He breathes out a shaky sigh when agreement comes so quickly. The hand on his head is very grounding. ]

The... the bugs on Pandora are bigger, badder, a-a-and much grosser. Awful planet. Miss it.

[ He's looking away from Beckett now, ability to focus back yet refusing to make eye contact.

He's shaking, just a bit. ]

...I-I don't. [ Stops. Swallows. Looks like he's lost his nerve, then presses on anyway. ] I don't know if I can ask you...

Edited 2018-07-08 18:59 (UTC)

You can ask me for anything. Though I might not let you capture it on video.

[Beckett gives the first response while still in Distracting Nonsense mode. It seems to make sense. It takes him a moment to clearly interpret Rhys's shaking as something more than weakness and pain.

Then he goes very still and quiet. The scary vampire kind of still and quiet, where life is given away only by the most minute of shivering on his own end. Always, the cold and fever. They're both so used to it. They just slog through.

Everyone is entitled to draw their line.]

What do you need me to do, Rhys? I'll do it, but I need to know you want it.

[ Want, now that is a dangerous thread of conversation. He knows how vitally important that is to Beckett, would even if he'd left it unsaid. It's less of a want (significantly less) and more of a need, isn't it. He doesn't want to, but he should. No reply right away. ]

I wouldn't have b... brought it up, or started down this route without... wanting it, Beckett. I'm just, I'm a... a-a -- I'm not as brave as you give me credit for. I could do it myself. But I really can't.

[ Rhys presses around the wound, the harsh sting and the fear of it all drawing tears. He makes a sound of frustration before wiping them with a sleeve. ]

I used to be better about that, if you can.... if you can believe it.

[ You don't cry on Helios. The corporate life was easier on him, though dangerous in its own right. A danger he knew how to navigate. ]

[Beckett's eyes follow his hand to the wound. Their mutual intent is unfortunately clear, he thinks; if he'd been hoping he misunderstood, now he sees that chance slipping.]

They're different kinds of courage. [And actually? He doesn't know if he'd have had this kind. Oh, he's said it plenty of times. Put me out of my misery, if. But this is the kind of thing about which distant theory and immediate practice are really not the same.]

But if you want what I think you do, [he doesn't so much leave that door open, as decide he needs Rhys to say it. Death is like sex in this way. If you're not ready to talk about it, you're not ready to have it.] I won't... sacrifice you, Rhys. This won't happen because you'll slow us down, or because you feel you deserve it. No. Whatever I do, I do to stop your pain.

[And that's the only thing want means, as far as he's concerned.]

[ Rhys' face is completely unreadable. Maybe not a first for him, but definitely a rare occurance. There's those troubled knit eyebrows of his, yes, but his jaw is set and he shuts his eyes, letting the dumb-coward tears fall freely.

He takes the hand on his head, grabs for it if Beckett's drifted away, and holds it, however awkward the position may be. ]

I'm not -- n-not asking for sacrifice. Just. Mercy. And not just for m-me, you know that's the truth. The ugly, ugly truth.

I don't care about the ugly truth. [It seems highly counterproductive to snap at Rhys just now, but Beckett does it anyway. He used to err on that side of utilitarianism and he still does in many ways, but not in this. Certainly not with Rhys. He refuses. Sometimes his contrarian nature has to stand for something.

His hand tightens about itself in Rhys's grip, painfully so, and he forces himself to loosen it. To return the clasp instead.]

I can't tell you you're wrong. It'll be - quickest. But I - [He breathes in. Damnit, this isn't about him and the lines he draws.]

It's bad enough with Angel, this bloody willingness to give yourself up. I'll do it for you. The mercy, it's for you. Do you understand? [Another breath. He needs them to keep his hand steady, but he does keep it so.] Do you want to speak to Angel - or are you ready now?

[ It looks like he wants to argue, but he stops himself and bites his lip hard to match the painful grip on his hand.

No, better not. He's agreeing, isn't he? So no giving the guy second thoughts. Or third, or fourth, hell -- this isn't something the poor vampire is doing enthusiastically. Take what you can freaking get.

Rhys shakes his head quickly. ]

No, she'll... sh... sh-she'll want us to wait for her. And to do it herself, probably, she's. You know her, we know her.

[He doesn't like the quickly part, not a decision to be made in anything but absolute certainty - but Rhys is right about Angel. That's exactly how it would be with her. And they can't let that happen. Neither of them can.

And he understands not wanting to lose the courage of the moment, too.]

I understand. [He swallows hard again. He doesn't want to let go of Rhys's hand, but he's going to have to. To get the knife.]

Rhys. There's nothing useful I can say. It's better, to go quickly when it's just more pain otherwise. But it still takes - it's - [Oh, bloody hell, just say it.]

I don't think I could've made that choice, in your place. Close your eyes. It'll only hurt a little.

[ That's surprising. Surprising enough to show on his face before he forces it back into something resembling stoicism. This is harder for Beckett than it is for him.

Knowing that doesn't stop his voice from breaking, of course. Keep still, dammit, don't make this worse. ]

Thank you. For this, for... uhm. For always believing in me. Even when I don't believe in mhm... me.

[ Shoulders hitching, no no no, breathe, it's okay, it's going to be okay. He'll wake up and they'll all be okay.

Rhys shuts his eyes. ]

See you late... la-late...

[ No more talking. ]

[It's going to be okay. Beckett tries to tell himself the same thing, that this is not a cold flimsy gamble on a failing system. Tries not to feel what he knows is coming from the darker places inside him - the sense of an ending, the ending. They've made it beyond everyone before them to the bunker and this is how they've wound up. He knows this is just the casual cruelty of the world. It's not a punishment.

It's a mercy he's giving. A mercy. As he slowly, silent as the reaper he's bound to be, takes the knife from his pack and kneels back down, knees to either side of Rhys's head, he keeps talking, softly, softly -]

Wonder what we'll do when we make it out. What do you think? I can't imagine anything would seem daunting to you or Angel then. Maybe wait a while before the next great adventure, though, even I could use a break. Just for a little while we can find a nice planet full of, oh, puppies and good alcohol, and rest -

[With rest, the knife slides in, an expert stab under Rhys's ear, into and across the artery. Beckett knows nothing about mortal bodies except how to kill them.

Blood bursts across his face. He opens his mouth and tries to pretend he tastes anything but ashes.]

[John's been drawn by the strange sounds in the room, and he opens the door just as Beckett stabs into Rhys' neck. For a moment, he has no idea what to do.]

Beckett, what the hell are you- [No. It's obvious what the other man is doing. John drops his tablet and lunges for the vampire to tackle him off.] Get away from him!

[The shift is so sudden, with Beckett's heart twisted in his chest and tears and blood blurring his vision, that it takes him a moment to consciously register what is happening. Instincts snap into place at once, though, old and deep instincts.

As soon as Beckett is tackled he lashes out in return. The knife goes swinging, indiscriminate in its aim at the attacker he doesn't entirely recognise as John. He snarls similarly indiscriminate words.]

Not your damn business!

[The knife buries itself in John's shoulder, the blade punching deep. He'd taken off his many layers of clothing to wash them. Now, he's regretting that. It's just a cardigan and his shirt to go through. Fire and blood spread from the point, but John ignores them for right now. He needs to disarm Beckett, knock him unconscious and get to Rhys.]

You bloody bastard! I trusted you!

[John's going to attempt to headbutt Beckett to stun him to give the doctor time to extricate himself.]

[The headbutt connects with a hard crack, and Beckett sees stars on top of everything else. He reels and falls back. His grip on the knife is fierce and he keeps it, yanking the blade from John's shoulder. John. Now he realises what is happening. Pushing himself up form the floor with his free hand, he snaps - ]

I did what he asked me to do, and it was a mercy!

[He can't bear to hear otherwise. Already his control is wavering, the Beast rising to the surface at the fresh blood spilled.]

He's recovering! He's in pain, and he's not thinking rationally!

[John hisses when the blade is ripped out, but he pulls away and staggers to his feet, aiming a hard kick and Beckett's head again, just trying to get him down and out of commission. John's attention is divided, though, as he turns to look back toward Rhys--his patient.]

Edited 2018-07-13 21:47 (UTC)

[ It's fast. Fast. Curled fingers under throat, chewing tongue, gargling blood, eyes open. Then shut. Eerie, isn't it, how that eye glows through the lid?

He's processing until distress turns into vague alarm and then quiet alert and then nothi ]

He was dying, you delusional fool!

[Beckett knows dying. If he knows nothing else he knows it intimately. He manages to pull out of the worst of the kick, but it still sends a shot of pain into the centre of his brain, dazes him for a blind moment. He shakes his head animal-like as John turns to Rhys. Just as Rhys goes truly quiet.

It's bizarre how protective instincts work when you're hurting and breathless and half-madder than usual. Somehow it's when Rhys stops that they snap into the highest gear, in a burst of inhuman fury. John gets perhaps five seconds with his patient. Then Beckett is on his back, putting his full weight behind the knife.]

[John doesn't bother to respond to Beckett. He wishes he had. Because very suddenly there's a knife in his back, sliding through his ribs. The doctor reaches back and tries to grab for Beckett's head. His hair. He struggles to get the vampire off as blood fills his mouth.

'John. John, listen, my darling. Your lung's been punctured. There's no coming back from this. You need to call for Enoch.']

'och!

[The call is watery, quieter than he means it to be as he starts to hack blood. Damn it. Damn it! The sense of betrayal is powerful, poisonous. Literally stabbed in the back.]

[The noises were beginning to rouse Enoch out of the stupor he'd sunken into, in the first place. Sink, yes that's the best way to stop causing such harm, sink, like that nightmare of the flood.

But he could not will himself to vanish into his own mind so readily, not when he was still needed, and before he was truly aware of what he needed to do he was moving for the door in clumsy, groggy steps.

He stops in the doorway, stricken at the sight. Blood, everywhere, fresh, pooling beneath Rhys, splattered over John and Beckett - Beckett, gripping the handle of a weapon, shoved into John's back.

The sight of a weapon should spur him to fight, too. Neutralize danger. But that last part refuses to resolve itself in his mind. Instead of action aside from a sluggish lurch forward, all he has are words, horrified monotone of shock. He has not considered the Beast would think to use weapons.]

Beckett? John? What- what's-...

[Usually, the red rage burns itself out with the kill. Too energy-intensive if nothing else, too much, or the feeding instinct takes over. There's certainly a lot of blood happening. But the hunger isn't aroused, even as Beckett pulls back, yanking out the knife to let the blood drain out faster. And the red doesn't retreat, even as Enoch appears in the doorway.

Beckett's consciousness, Man and Beast melted together in something both clear and twisted, is still focused entirely on Rhys's cooling body. That is all he knows and that is what he stays with, and woe betide anyone else who comes near what is his. Anyone. Even Enoch. Even Enoch gets the bare-fanged snarl, a warning rather than immediate violence only by merit of distance. The knife gleams red in his raised hand. Mine.]

[He hadn't thought of it, that the Beast would use weapons, but there is no mistaking that reaction for anything but. Adrenaline finally rouses him from the brain fog and he holds his hands up to show he's no threat, hoping the Beast understands that too. He's not feeding, he notices, the danger bringing his attention to a sharp focus. So what spurred this? Without being able to get close enough to either Rhys or John, there's no way to tell what happened.]

Easy now, Beckett, it's fine. [He backs up, sidestepping slightly so he's still in the room but against the wall. He's tense, and he feels confident in being able to turn the gesture of nonviolence into a grapple if Beckett does lunge for him. But for now, it's only the gentlest, soothing tone he can muster in spite of the danger. Even animals respond to tone of voice.]

It's only me, it's Enoch, I won't hurt you. Lay down the knife, now. Come to your senses. It's only me, only Enoch. Speak to me.

[It'd be an interesting experience, if Beckett were more in a position to be aware of it. Rarely if ever do those two parts of him, the human and the very much not, align so completely, even while one part drives him far past the imposed limitations of the other. It's a harder frenzy to pull out from, without that inner conflict. But it does mean he's focused. He can recognize what is and isn't a danger, for his current twisted perception of what danger means.

Enoch isn't a danger. That's pretty much by default. He shouldn't be near Rhys because no one should, but Enoch isn't a danger. He can lower the knife, then, gradually, come to the conclusion that he's willing to hand it over. He holds it out, hilt-first, arm outstretched. The tip of his fingers signals the limits of permitted approach.]

[It's different, Enoch knows. He's seen a more typical frenzy, seen him lose all track of who was friendly and help from harm in a single-minded instinctive focus. That Beckett had snapped at him when he'd tried to prevent him from hurting himself. This one, this one's handing the knife over.

Somewhere, it registers as a deeply touching display of trust, and he unconsciously seizes that and pulls it to the front. He'd only asked him to put it down. And yet he's handing it over. He feels safe with him, even like this. Focusing almost entirely on Beckett means he doesn't have to process the horror of what's happened just beyond him, and the longer he can put that off, the longer he can continue to project that air and voice of calm and comfort that he is certain Beckett needs.]

Thank you, Beckett. It means so much to me that you trust me so.

[He steps forward and reaches for the knife, taking it gently and backing up again, until he can set it down behind him against the wall.] Now I'm going to place it here...

[And he steps forward, away from it, though not farther than he'd advanced before. See? the gesture says, Your faith was not misplaced.]

There, you see, now it can hurt no one. Can you tell me what happened now? It's all right if the answer is no.

[He gets the gist of the words, though specifics, and words of his own, still elude him. There's a limit of intensity beyond which words simply don't work. But there is also the gesture, and the way Enoch puts the knife aside rather than keeping it. There's the silence. Utter silence beyond the two of them. Beckett listens with the Beast's hair-trigger attention, and hears nothing else alive.

He shakes his head, a great animal gesture, like he's trying to physically clear it out. It makes him a little dizzy as the adrenaline fades and leaves a spent feeling in its wake. No words, but he moves, he turns aside and takes a deliberate step out of Enoch's way. Sensing, maybe, that the sight speaks for itself. Rhys with his opened throat, no sign of struggle. John's prone body, plenty of struggle there.

Still silent, Beckett drops to a crouch and puts his heavy head in his hands.]

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[ Puppies. Angel freakin' loves puppies. She hasn't seen any in the flesh. She'll freak out. He's about to die. He shouldn't have alcohol, probably will though, make like Beckett and drink a whole -- was it a keg? Barrel. Something about sneezing fire, something like that. It's only going to hurt a little. Rest -

He can't help it, his eyes open and he jerks as blood soaks the front of his shirt, his cardigan; it's too much, even if there was a doctor with full access to clean, modern medical equipment nearby.

There is a doctor, though. No. Nonononono, shit, no. All he can do is gurgle a distressed gurgle while gray tinges the edges of his vision. ]

[log] Grave Men, Near Death [closed]

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Sorry that this is so late!

Life happens!

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