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

[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.]

[He sees it, pieces it together bit by bit, but an eye remains on Beckett, concerned. That's his defense against the horror, bolstered by its practicality and emotional weight - Beckett is here, still here, and in distress. This semi-lucid behavior only brings to mind the memories of what he saw in the false future, the withdrawn Beckett, composed and in control but not, just like this, and God help him, if this has caused him to revert to that state all at once...

He knows how to break him from it. He knows. But it would feel wrong, to force him from this state right now.

So when Beckett crouches, Enoch slowly approaches, crouching down with him. He reaches out, but doesn't quite touch him, leaving a bit of distance between his fingers and Beckett's shoulder. He can lean into it if he wants, but Enoch isn't going to risk startling him.]

I understand. I'm still here. I always will be.

[No leaning happens. Beckett isn't looking for tangible comfort right now; he isn't looking for comfort at all. As clear consciousness returns, it brings with it a matching clarity about the state he'd been in, which is perhaps the hardest thing to process. Frenzy, he can understand, and exist in an uneasy but ultimately resolved balance with. This is alien. This is...

What was he, just now? Who was he?

The effort for control makes his voice grate like metal on stone when he speaks, still behind his hands.] Are they both gone? How - how long have we been squaring off? I can't tell... [If it's taken them seconds to die, or hours.]

[When he speaks, Enoch closes the distance and rests a hand on his shoulder. Speech means awareness, at least of the more human variety.]

They- they are. We weren't squaring off, though, not in any real sense. You never truly threatened me. I know it would be foolish to think this made it any-...

[He sighs, and leans his weight into him. He's here. It's all he can do that he is sure of, and all the implications of their deaths are beginning to creep into the edges of his heart, blizzard cold and sharp.

All the more reason to stay with him. Because how must he feel?

So he waits for Beckett to say more, now that he can speak for himself.]

No, I... I didn't. I wouldn't have.

[Does it make any difference? He's not sure. It would have, if this had been an ordinary episode of lost control. But like this...

It certainly matters a lot less than the time question. Even as Enoch makes contact he growls, cringing-stiffening under it. There is exactly one thing that will help him here and by God if it isn't the case - ]

Just tell me if it was quick. Please.

It must have been.

[That is without hesitation - at first a purely emotional instinct to give comfort, but soon bolstered by facts, by truth. It wouldn't have occurred to him if he didn't have something solid to show for it.]

I heard John's voice, but he was gone by the time I reached the door. And Rhys - a wound like that is always quick to- bleed out. It must have been.

[It does comfort him, and he's a little appalled by that, but after a moment he gathers it tight. It's the start of seeing - if not meaning, then something to put up, a story to tell himself. Perhaps a lie, but he's used to those.]

John, he was - when he tried to stop me, it registered as a threat - a threat to Rhys. Even though he was gone. I thought, I - I couldn't think.

Pain drives even humans beyond reason. With the Beast's instincts...I think I can begin to imagine.

[He's seen it before, in a way. The Beast's instincts turned towards human desires, when he threw himself at the door that kept them inside and had locked Angel and Rhys out.

This time it had cost someone's life. And though it had originated from Beckett rather than Norfinbury, that it was not his conscious, premeditated choice - aside from Rhys, which he understands whether or not he agrees, is enough for Enoch to instantly forgive.

He wonders if talking about it like this is what Beckett needs. If Beckett even knows what he needs...who would after something like this, human or vampire? He keeps his hand on his shoulder, the contact meant to say he's still here, he's staying.]

No, it's not - [he wants to deny that pain was involved, as though pain makes things too simple. Too great a concession to the plain animal nature of the action. When the only claim to anything else he has is that he was acting to end another's pain, not his own. But after a moment he has enough shame, enough humanity to stop that particular denial. That it was necessary does not mean that it was noble.]

I meant for it to be clean. For Rhys. As clean and quick as I could make it. I went too far. Once there was the knife, and the blood... as soon as John was in my way that was all he was. In my way.

[If Beckett hasn't already wiped any blood off his face, neck, or hair, Enoch will start to do it for him, careful and gentle as he listens. It's all he can think to do.]

I'm sorry. [Because what else is there to say? What can he say?] It's- I-... I know this must... I'm sorry.

[There is no comforting from this, he knows. Nothing will ease the pain of taking a person's life. And nothing will ease the pain of having control taken away.

He still has to do something about them,. Say prayers for them in case of the worst, make sure their belongings are nearby. But he will not abandon Beckett to do these things.]

[It takes Beckett a moment to realise what is happening when Enoch starts wiping the blood off his face. He recoils, a harder gesture this time. No. Even if this makes Enoch feel better - not this time.

This is strictly his mess. And he doesn't want Enoch touching that blood.]

Stop. Don't feel sorry for me. You should - if you have to do something - them, do it for them. Clean them up.

[He doesn't say pray, but it's on his mind. He hopes Enoch will.]

[He jerks his hand back as if it's been struck by Beckett's recoiling, but the look on his face is not hurt so much as it is equal parts worry and apology. He understands where the sentiment comes from. If given comfort after having to kill the Watchers' martyrs he would rather not have it, either. But on the other hand, he also knows from repeated experience he can't seem to break that letting guilt feed on itself in isolation does more harm than good.

And yet, doing something for the dead might be what he needs, too.]

And what should I feel if not pain for you? You're hurt by this too.

[He wants to hug him. He hears you should hate me in there, true or not, and knows he never can. But in Beckett's state, it might be unwelcome. He leans slightly towards him, eyes solemnly closed, gives his shoulder another squeeze to try to comfort, and only then does he pull away.]

I'll see to them, and give them proper respect. You have my word. And if you need me-...please.

[Don't hesitate. Don't think yourself undeserving. Tell me. I still love you.

So many things he can say that he can't quite bring himself to, and maybe that's for the best. Maybe.]

[log] Grave Men, Near Death [closed]

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Sorry that this is so late!

Life happens!

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