[Drown in his own fluids is a very... vivid way to describe it. This isn't mockery anymore. Beckett looks between the two doctors, and it strikes him that they are agreeing with each other when they clearly aren't used to. He goes very quiet, except for his ragged, rasping breath, coming in and out too fast, too shallow. He feels every bit of that - breathe, heartbeat, the shivering of a living body that reacts to the world around it, nothing like the sealed safety of Unlife. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't a gift...
Abruptly, in a kind of fight or flight instincts, he pushes up to his feet, but getting away doesn't work as planned. One hand bracing himself against the wall, he at least makes an effort to turn away from them before the inevitable throwing up. At least his stomach is already mostly empty, after a day of queasy disinterest in the rations. It's some comfort. These are the kind of comforts he's reduced to.]
no subject
Abruptly, in a kind of fight or flight instincts, he pushes up to his feet, but getting away doesn't work as planned. One hand bracing himself against the wall, he at least makes an effort to turn away from them before the inevitable throwing up. At least his stomach is already mostly empty, after a day of queasy disinterest in the rations. It's some comfort. These are the kind of comforts he's reduced to.]