Like I have to roll for this relationship...werewolf_hackerOctober 2 2012, 20:58:55 UTC
[Ben is just sitting in the room with a poleaxed expression. His entire world just came crashing down on his head (again), and he can't deal.
But he has to. He shakes himself out of it a few moments later, because he needs to be strong for Maria. His hand gropes across the blanket, searching for hers. His voice is a hoarse rasp.] ...Honey?
[Maria's had her eyes shut for the past hour. She isn't sleeping, she sure as hell isn't resting, she's just got her eyes shut. She can't deal with the rest of the world existing right now.
She's always known this would happen, or something like this. She's a doctor, she knows how the odds work, how every passing year things break down, cells divide badly, systems wear out. Hell, she should have died years -- decades -- ago, with a bullet in her brain, with her leg and back torn open in a ditch at the side of a road with no name. In the big picture, she is damned lucky to have lived long enough for a prognosis like this to even be possible.
She has her eyes shut partly because the big picture is more than she can deal with looking at right now. But her fingers find Ben's and entwine with them, and she swallows the lump in her throat enough to at least answer him.]
I don't know how we are to bear this, Volchok moy.
[Not that John's said a word. He's just over there, watching. Watching and not helping. Well, hindering. Sherlock nearly knocks his vial over in haste.]
It'll do no good to distract me.
[He's a genius. He'll find the answer. There's always an answer, for the most clever at least. And that's what Sherlock is.]
[John, really. Distracting him now is the worst thing imaginable. He's trying to do something beyond brilliance. He's trying to touch perfection. He can save him. He has to.]
Sam? [Lucifer obliterates the angel that had just stabbed his mate. His vessel, his Sam . He sinks to his knees, cradling him in his arms. It's not given to him to heal a wound this grave. Denial chokes him.] Sam, can you hear me?
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A few hours
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But he has to. He shakes himself out of it a few moments later, because he needs to be strong for Maria. His hand gropes across the blanket, searching for hers. His voice is a hoarse rasp.] ...Honey?
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She's always known this would happen, or something like this. She's a doctor, she knows how the odds work, how every passing year things break down, cells divide badly, systems wear out. Hell, she should have died years -- decades -- ago, with a bullet in her brain, with her leg and back torn open in a ditch at the side of a road with no name. In the big picture, she is damned lucky to have lived long enough for a prognosis like this to even be possible.
She has her eyes shut partly because the big picture is more than she can deal with looking at right now. But her fingers find Ben's and entwine with them, and she swallows the lump in her throat enough to at least answer him.]
I don't know how we are to bear this, Volchok moy.
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No such luck.
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[Not that John's said a word. He's just over there, watching. Watching and not helping. Well, hindering. Sherlock nearly knocks his vial over in haste.]
It'll do no good to distract me.
[He's a genius. He'll find the answer. There's always an answer, for the most clever at least. And that's what Sherlock is.]
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Sherlock.
[He rolls his head to the side to watch, but he can't quite focus his vision, and it makes his head hurt.]
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[John, really. Distracting him now is the worst thing imaginable. He's trying to do something beyond brilliance. He's trying to touch perfection. He can save him. He has to.]
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Lucifer?
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