If I should suddenly start to sing, or stand on my head or anything

Seeing Emma--

Let's start over.

Seeing Beth was probably one of the hardest things he's done in the past year, but he doesn't regret coming here. He doesn't care about the looks he gets from everyone, nor about the whispers or the tension so thick you could cut with something suitably sharp... And yet, it's getting to him despite his best efforts; he needs air, he needs open spaces, and more than anything, he needs a mini marshmallow.

Or twelve of them. Badly.

Only problem is, once he's outside, there's this thing... getting the bag out of his (very manly and stylish) traveling suitcase is one thing. Getting it open (without using his teeth, thank you very much) is kind of difficult if you've only got full use of one of your arms. In short, life sucks on all levels today. Why can't Deathwoks have sharp claws like every other demon? Or fangs. Actual fangs would be nice.

He is not going to use his teeth for this. Not gonna happen.


His problems, so huge, aren't they. So huge even his narration jumps on the sarcasm wagon.

The noise is too much. The noise is too much and it's eating its way inside his head and there's nothing he can do to keep it out but to pretend absolutely everything is all right, everything's fine.

He makes it to his office and the private bathroom in the back, cold and clammy and burning up from the inside out. The door slamming behind him is enough to keep the noise out, but the fire keeps bubbling too deep down and he can't keep it in, losing what little he had for breakfast in the big, too bright white sink seemingly suspended in the air below the oversized mirror. It feels like an interrogation room. Standing there, head bowed over the sink and everything from his arms to his legs shaking it feels as though everyone's eyes are on him despite the fact he's alone. Outside, Doc is tending to Seth, and then to everyone else who had the distinct displeasure and lack of fortune to be here, tonight of all nights.

His throat burns. His face burns, and water rushes from the tap to maybe sweep his shame away with the unsightly evidence of it. But it doesn't.

He can't breathe. Gripping the sink tighter, he can't breathe from the way his throat's tightened on the inside like a noose. His face burns. His eyes burn, and his jaw's locked so tight, his teeth clamped down so tight he doesn't even notice when his chin starts trembling. It just does, and already it's too late. It's worse than being sick from the abrupt adrenaline drop; it's darkness, nothingness threatening to swallow him whole; it's losing control, and there's nothing else that scares him so much.

His eyes burn. His face burns, and his silent, trembling sobs do nothing to cool him down. When he covers his face with his big cold hands, he does it for one reason alone.

He can't look himself in the mirror anymore.