Jul 26
After this long and Beckett still hasn't mastered patience. The same second ticks by again and again. He still feels the same. A fire under his skin, death at his back, the clarity of being conscious.
“I don't think this stuff's working, man,” Beckett complains. Or whines, more like, something eternally childlike trapped in the back of his throat. Sometimes he thinks time got stuck when he first died, falling because he was trying to fly. “I don't feel anything.”
Except for the fire. Burning, always.
“Y'know, you always felt more like a fox than a wolf to me.”
@adulterines