[log] Grave Men, Near Death [closed]

[jumpthegun]

Characters: John Watson, Rhys, Enoch, Beckett, Stephen Strange, Nathan Young, David Bouchard
Location: Building 327 and Building 317
Date: Day 377 and Day 378
Summary: Meeting up with Stephen and co for antibiotics and then mercy killings in the clinic.
Warnings: Possibly character death, violence

Comments

[warriorscribe]

"Huddling it is, then." Something in him seems to relax, and the rest of him unwinds gradually in kind. It results in a much less desperate cling, something much less afraid to lose. Somehow, this refusal of his generosity hasn't sparked the worst imaginings his beaten mind can come up with - in all likelihood because he is staying, because he's here, and that means more to Enoch than anything.

"That isn't giving, after all, but sharing."

[bookofnope]

Only Enoch can make huddling sound positively cheerful. Beckett doesn't remark on that, though - not sure if it's going to lead to real laughter, yet, or just ring bitter - and instead starts moving, slowly, gently, to untangle them and get off the shower floor. It's more a suggestion of movement than anything else. Whether Enoch likes it or not, for the moment, he's still being considered fragile.

It's without pity, though. Just with care. The recognition that sometimes fragility is a fact. He offers Enoch a hand to help him up before he even as much as climbs to his knees. "Come on, then. Before rumours start to fly about us and our long showers."

That should work for laughter, surely?

[warriorscribe]

There's resistance to breaking the contact, token and entirely reflex and nothing new - he has the same hesitance when breaking up sleeping piles in the morning or even simply removing a guiding hand from a shoulder. Enoch is starved for touch, always, and that reflects in all he gives and receives. But he does allow it, and takes Beckett's hand with a grateful squeeze when it's offered. It's probably no surprise that he doesn't let go when he's on his feet.

The joke, well, that hits another reflex entirely, and he does laugh, albeit soft and somewhat reserved. There's that secret he never got to share. And he has too much of his senses now to do so.

"It would-... We're too old to care about transient gossip, aren't we?" he says, in the same tone he laughed, a reserve of warmth from within touching his eyes as he smiles. That falter at the start's as far as he'll go, though, as things are. He tilts his gaze, still one of that distant warm something, towards the shower door.

Strangely, it doesn't seem like the prison it did now that Beckett is here. It's cold and painful out there. It's with reluctance that he gives his hand a gentle tug as if to say let's go, despite the fact that his movement towards it is just as hesitant.