╳░ BECKETT :
The still-healing SNAP in his clavicle protests every STRIKE of fists against the hard body of the punching bag, but it's not enough to drown out the ACHE of the hole in his heart mind where his co-pilot used to be ... Eight weeks. Eight LONG weeks of this restless ITCH under his skin. He's never been good at doing NOTHING & now he'll do ANYTHING to distract from the memory of his father's last words over the LOCCENT comms. He'd thrown himself into deconstruction as best he could with only one functioning arm, but he'd been given the all-clear this morning & THIS is the first place he'd come. Taking things apart is all well & good, but what he really wants is to DESTROY ... & he'll settle for the already split-raw flesh of his knuckles.
The sound of footsteps pulls him ( unwillingly ) from the steady thud of his fists, the muscle under his eye twitching under the strain of holding back some kind of SNARLED warning to BACK OFF, though his control lessen a little more when he catches sight of exactly WHO is interrupting his painful pity party.
❝ The fuck do you want, Beckett ?? ❞
