There's nothing like the cold. The chill after the heat disperses, after the fire is extinguished. Beckett picks himself up off the ground, trembling, ash in his mouth and smoke in his lungs and death still stuck to his back teeth like caramel.
Across the floor, is the b—is Oliver. Oliver, who's going to start changing back any minute. Nothing seems to satisfy the thing in him, whatever's in charge once the sun goes down, like blood. Like a kill. Like sinking his teeth into Beckett.
He ignores the inappropriate little thrill he feels at the thought of being desired, even through appetite, even through sharp teeth, as he shuffles over to where he keeps the spare clothes. (Being a beast's favourite meal is no blessing. Now if only he could get himself to believe that.)
The ash is gone by the time Oliver, the thing underneath the other thing, resurfaces. There's a blanket on him, and Beckett crouches by his side, concern running along the tight line of his jaw, as Oliver comes to.
“Are you, uh... okay?”
@ollieaylen