Then maybe he should be getting help with that condition, [Beckett mutters sourly, not made more cooperative by the intervention of another well-meaning soul. Except that ignoring two of them is twice the effort.

He shrugs the blanket off just slightly, glaring at both of them from under it, not for the first time wishing that his eyes still glowed the predatory red of his bloodline. No such luck. At close quarters, he looks just like the animated corpse that he is, a disturbing grayish pallor to his olive skin. It's frightening, but even he acknowledges that probably not frightening enough.]

Resources, not cures. And if I were spitting out blood, that would be much more normal. [Just try to tell him you don't believe the vampire story. He dares you.] I can't be sick, I'm - not - even alive. [This would be considerably more convincing if he could stop coughing through every other word.]