The passage of time after that was sketchy at best. Creed might have measured it by how many times he had his canines and claws yanked out, but even that wasn't entirely reliable. Most of the time he spent in oblivion, which was more than fine by him. At least there he could escape the humiliations and hurts, and find some semblance of comfort. Be it in the few lighter moments of his otherwise violent and hateful past, or in simple blackness, he still preferred it to the cell.
To describe the torment would have been beyond him anyway. Rage had a lot to do with it, but so did humility. The Dark Beast wanted control... and he had control. Victor's most precious defenses were yanked away; the fangs and claws that were his last resort and best weapons. That, in truth, did more damage to his will than the rape -- not only was he tormented, but he was defenseless against it. Even if he were to escape, he couldn't honestly expect to win.
Sabretooth's entire world comprised of that small space. Even the sewers that he could still smell seemed so far away, as though nothing had existed before this torment, and nothing would exist after. He didn't taunt anymore, didn't even have the strength to struggle when McCoy played his games. The only defiance he had left was not crying out at the pain... that was all. He didn't bother going tense, and the attacks became less frequent as the Black Beast found other things to occupy himself.
Though Sabretooth did finally find out what his little dead woman walking could do. He found that out the first time McCoy took a pair of pliers, just like his own father had, and yanked his canines. One touch from her, and he was frozen like a statue. Prone and completely at the madman's mercy. It didn't do anything for the agony, though, and for some reason he found it very disheartening to know that she would have his healing factor.
All but brief periods of consciousness were spent curled in the corner of the cell, his body shielded as well as it could be from the cold and torment. And he nearly wished for death. McCoy didn't really have any use for him anymore, and they both knew that, but Creed had a sickening feeling that he kept him there simply for his ego. Even in the near empty tunnels, Sabretooth wasn't unknown. To have not an army, but only one twisted scientist breaking him so easily was a boast.
It changed one day, though. What day he didn't know, and he really only noted the change with mild interest. One day, he wasn't alone anymore.
Doctor Henry McCoy was an X-Man, a renowned biochemist, a philosopher, and a dreamer. Unfortunately, now he was a prisoner as well, of his alternate self. He had been grabbed alone, on his way back from the local pharmacy. Normally the Shi'ar technology of the mansion could deal with most injuries, but the need for simple band-aids couldn't be remedied by alien means, only good old-fashioned trips to the store.
He had been shocked. Well, that was actually understating it quite a bit. He didn't even have time to begin to decipher the jumble of thoughts and theories before his dark twin leapt on him and beat him unconscious. When he woke up, he was aching right to the tips of his blue fur, and he wasn't alone.
The second shock. Sabretooth. The last time he had seen the man was eight or nine months earlier, just before the animal nearly disemboweled Betsy Braddock. Henry was a gentle man, but even he hated Victor Creed for that atrocity. He stared balefully at the still body across the cell, streaked in dirt and blood... apparently Creed had seen far better days. He had lost quite a bit of weight and his healing factor wasn't likely working well under the brutal conditions -- there were still deep cuts scoring him right and left, healing fast but not nearly so fast as normal.
Keeping a good distance between them, Hank tried to ignore the fact that he was a captive and instead thought about who this twin of his could be. Several ideas were discarded quickly, and he was just about to work through the next when he caught a breath of movement from the opposite corner, and heard the deeper intake of air. Looking back, though still full of anger, he found himself looking into Creed's eyes.
If he didn't know better, he would have thought perhaps this wasn't the same man. He didn't have any of the insanity that Hank had grown to recognize, but instead looked just tired. Worn down and near broken. There wasn't much life left in him, Hank realized with a slight frown... even with the natural hate he felt, he also felt a sort of sympathy. Then the green eyes slid closed again.
Jaw knotted, Beast finally asked softly, "Creed?"
Victor didn't open his eyes again to answer, "Beast."
"What happened?"
"Damned if I know."
"Charming as always, I see," Hank said, sarcasm lacing his voice. He couldn't help it. His mind flashed back to Psylocke, laying in Boomer's arms with blood gushing everywhere and her intestines starting to slip out. He waited for a reply, but there was none, and in a way, he was disappointed. He couldn't harm the other man for his crimes, but part of him wished to.
Part of him didn't. The part of him that was a doctor, a healer, felt pity on the other man trapped there. After a moment, he swallowed his anger again. "Is there anything I could do?"
"Not 'nless ya wanna off me."
"I can't do that."
"Figured."
Henry settled back into the silence. He wasn't chained himself, but he had no doubts that once the alternate version of himself could come up with some strong enough shackles, he would be trussed up like a dog. Frowning, he finally got to his feet and tested the door, throwing all of his nearly three hundred and fifty pounds at it. It didn't give under his heavy shoulder, merely stood in metallic grace, undamaged.
"I tried that," Victor commented, opening one eye to watch. He smirked slightly to himself at the action, but even that was hollow. He couldn't honestly say he felt anything solid towards Beast. Not anger, not compassion, not even amusement. "Ya'd think that if there was a way ta escape, I woulda found it by now."
Hank sighed heavily, leaning against the door. "I prefer to keep some hope."
"As you should," his black twin said from behind him. Hank leapt away from the door, turning, and the other Beast grinned in mockingly. "Making friends? Getting along well?"
"Well enough," Hank answered mildly. He wasn't about to tell the madman about just how much contempt he had for his cellmate... it could make life unbearable very quickly.
"Wonderful. Victor?"
Sabretooth didn't answer -- he never did. He knew that it would only lead to some sort of anguish, be it mental or physical, so he kept his mouth shut and ignored McCoy. Only then could he honestly say he had any real feeling, and that was hate. Unguided hatred.
"Still giving me the silent treatment? I'm wounded." McCoy smirked, throwing a few pieces of well-rolled bread into the cell, as if to feed birds. "Nonetheless, it's of no great concern. I'm afraid I'll be leaving for a few days, on personal business, if you could call it that, but I will be back to check on you."
"Where are you going?" Hank asked, though he had a sneaking suspicion he already knew the answer.
"That is none of your concern." And with that, the monster walked away.
Nearly a day passed in complete silence. Victor wasn't about to start any sort of conversation with his unwilling roomie; it would probably lead to some sort of anger or some sort of pity, and to be honest, he wanted neither. He did stay awake more, though, mostly for the sake of watching Henry try to find a way out. It was almost interesting, the way the scientist's mind worked... if there was one thing Creed respected about Hank, it was his intelligence.
Beast was more talkative by nature, and eventually tried to strike on a topic. "How long have you been here?"
"Since 'bout six or seven hours after I got away from you," Victor replied, finding no need to be dishonest. It wasn't as if it mattered either which way.
Hank frowned. That was a long time to be trapped, tormented, and otherwise miserable. Still, he had a sneaking suspicion that most of Sabretooth's life was miserable, so it might not have made a difference anyway. "That long?"
Creed didn't even bother answering that. He really wasn't in a talking mood, especially with one of the people who held him captive before this.
"I don't think we mistreated you," Hank said, softly.
"Prison's a prison," Sabretooth answered, flatly. "Not a whole lotta difference."
"Isn't there?"
"Nope."
Hank let out a frustrated sigh. Thickheaded, that's what Creed was, and always had been. The differences between his incarceration at the mansion and in this place were vast. "Why not?"
There was a flicker of annoyance in his voice as Victor replied, "Don't you have anything better ta do than psychoanalyze me?"
"Not particularly," Beast said, civilly but bitterly.
"Find somethin'."
Hank sat back down from his anxious pacing, rubbing his eyes. He wanted to be back in his lab, working diligently on the cure for the Legacy Virus, not locked away underground by an evil 'twin' with a murderer as a cellmate. Rather than let himself get discouraged, he let his mind slip back to his latest calculations. There were so many things left to try, so many things left to do; it angered him to have to lose precious time away from a cure that could save millions of lives.
Kwannon died of that disease. Though he hadn't gotten time to know her, he knew that beneath the arrogance and sex appeal, there was a woman of honor. Illyana had died of that disease; a little girl who had seen more life than so many others, and who had seen life as children often do, as it truly is.
And Moira, a normal woman with an extraordinary will, who would die if a cure was not found. She was a brilliant scientist, and even more so, a surprisingly sympathetic human being. He was hard pressed to imagine many with more love for their work, and yet more respect for life. Perhaps that respect was hard learned, but even at that, it was still to be admired.
It made Henry McCoy want to rip down the walls, to tear away from the miserable prison. He wanted to go home to his family and his work. Without actually daring to think it, he hoped that they would look for him, but he kept the true nature of his captivity hidden even from his own thoughts. In his heart, he knew that the other Beast was going to steal his life, his identity, and take his place for some evil means... but he dare not think of that.
He dare not think of that monster sitting at the dinner table with the people who mean the most to him.
Standing again in agile frustration, he went back to pacing the small confines. Hank had a temper, though it rarely ever got out, and he could feel the helplessness and the anger at that helplessness building up in him. He tried... Lord, he tried not to think about what would happen to them, but it came anyway. Horrible images of death, and worse, of slow cruelty. He could imagine what they would look like when it turned out to be him who was hurting them, even if he was actually elsewhere.
The anger hit a breaking point, and Beast slammed a massive fist into the wall, feeling the pain fly up his arm as the bones absorbed the impact and the skin on his knuckles tore. It just made him more angry, and he hit the wall again and again, until finally, spent and half-sobbing, he slid to the ground.
"Waste o' energy."
Hank snapped his head up, locking gazes with Victor. He didn't know what was worse -- the flat tone of voice, or the complete lack of sympathy in the other man. Grinding his teeth to keep from doing something he'd regret, he answered, "Unlike some, I prefer to fight rather than to cower."
Something unreadable crossed Creed's face, then he smirked. "Yea? What good's it gonna do ya? Make ya feel better?" His tone grew colder. "Or did it just remind you that yer trapped in here, an' that thing's out there takin' yer life from ya?"
Hank couldn't think to ask how Creed might have come to the same conclusions. The words stung, like lashes from a cat o' nine tails. "Damn you, Creed."
"Damn me?" Creed raised one eyebrow, a mocking grin crossing his sharp features. "How's it feel ta be on the other side o' the fence, Doc? Ta be the one who's helpless an' humiliated?"
"You were never helpless, or humiliated." Hank answered, fighting with everything he had to keep from losing it.
"Yea?" Victor sat up slowly, still curled up as well as he could manage. It took more effort than he'd let on to pull that, but he would be damned if he was ever going to be on anything less than equal ground with any of the X-Men again. "I came ta you fer help. I got locked in a basement fer that trouble. Add salt ta the wound, every time I did somethin' you didn't like, I got kicked around. Real easy ta fight back chained, ain't it?"
"You didn't want to be helped," Hank spat back. "You wanted an easy fix with no trouble to yourself. Sadly, Sabretooth, real life doesn't work that way."
The same unreadable look. "Fuck you. I was more'n willin' ta do fuckin' anything I could, but then I got treated like a dog. Jus' like I am here."
"Treated like a dog?!" Beast's voice rose a notch, as he looked at the other man incredulously.
"Like a dog, McCoy," Vic answered, voice low, as he leaned forward slightly. For the first time in months, he felt anger at someone other than his captor. "No better'n what I'm treated like now. Taken fer a walk, kicked around when I misbehaved, an' tossed a bone when I jumped through hoops for ya."
"Hardly."
"Yea. Exactly like that." A cold sneer snuck up on him. "Wanna know why I gutted that purple-haired bitch? 'Cause she had it comin'."
Hank howled in anger, hit right where it hurt. Before he could even stop himself, he was across the cell and staring down at the face of the man who had caused him and his family suffering in so many ways. "How dare you?' he asked, softly, tears welling up in rage.
Victor narrowed his eyes up at him, wishing he had the strength to throw Hank across the room... Hell, he wished he had the strength to even move the heavier man. "How dare I?" He scoffed, then snarled, "How dare you! Yer a fuckin' hypocrite, an' nothin' more."
Hank clenched his fists, jumping away before he lost control of his temper and put Creed out of his misery. Over and over in his mind he repeated his Hippocratic oath.
Creed picked himself up again, crouched low like a tiger. "She thought she was th' shit, didn' she? Miss ninja telepath. Not like she was takin' on a better foe, eh? Jus' an animal."
"A monster," Hank whispered, remembering the sole and most impacting glimpse he had into Creed's mind.
"Yer right," Victor said, frighteningly calm. "A monster, McCoy. A brutal killer who never felt a single thing fer a single person he took the life of."
"Why...?" It was all Beast could do to ask that.
This time the look became recognizable; a mixture of regret and longing, a touch of honest anger, and of bitterness. "'Cause that's exactly what ya want me ta be."
The mirror flowed together, solid. Yellow-blond hair, green eyes, white fangs as sharp as well-kept knives and easily as deadly. High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, heavy jaw, and a nose that had been broken more than once. Stick him in the right gear, he could have easily passed for a Viking.
Shattered.
A piece of silver here, there, some coated in blood.
Flowing.
Distorted, but clean. Purified silver, reflecting light in a dance. Constantly in motion, little whirls and streams of it making myriad patterns. Almost enchanting.
Solid.
A man. Late twenties, wearing flannel and with an ax hanging from a belt. No feverish bloodlust, no wild insanity, just a sort of normal, live and let live type of look. A quirky grin, relaxed and almost peaceful. Reconciled man and animal, all in one.
Cracked.
Fire. Yelling in the night, smoke so thick that it choked and blinded without so much as a break, black and rolling. Anger and rage, monster screaming for blood and man just feeling betrayal.
Shattered.
Blood everywhere, a red haze. An arm here, an arm there, body parts strewn halfway across a clearing. Sirens far off in the distance, whimpers from the few who would be dead before they could ever get there.
Flowing.
Solid.
Consciousness was never a terrific thing. As far as Creed was concerned, it was hugely overrated, and frustrating to boot. He couldn't really remember a period of his life he spent more time unconscious than the past few months, but then, he couldn't really remember being that helpless and vulnerable either. Except maybe in the basement.
Hank was pacing about, as he seemed to do more often than not, trying his hardest to keep from getting too depressed. He glanced over, brow furrowing in a manner that bespoke frustration. "Welcome back."
Victor scoffed, "...to Hell."
"Are you always this cheerful, or is this a special occasion?" Beast asked tiredly, sitting down against the opposite wall.
"Who, me? Mr. Sunshine all th' time." Sabretooth smirked. Ask a stupid question, expect a stupid answer.
Hank sighed. There were probably a million people he would rather have been locked away with. Any of the X-Men, Magneto... even the Blob would be better company. At least he could appreciate a good joke, or tell a good joke. But Sabretooth? A creature who killed without regret, pure violence in human form. What happens when the perfect hunter and animal is combined with a very flawed man.
It was going to be a long incarceration.
"Yer twin back yet?"
"No."
"Prolly makin' nice with the rest o' the X-Geeks," Creed commented, almost to himself.
Hank scowled across at him. "I understand that you're naturally a foul mouthed, taunting bastard, Herr Toothmonger, but I would appreciate it if you could refrain from being a complete ass for just a short while."
That actually made Victor smile slightly. He couldn't help it -- Beast was amusing when he was pissed off. "Why? Offendin' ya?"
"Annoying me, frankly."
"Awwww," Creed said wickedly, "poor baby."
Hank sighed again, a world weary sigh. Harris's Hannibal Lecter would be better company. Jack the Ripper would be... wait, for all he knew, Sabretooth was Jack the Ripper. Imitating Creed, he asked, "Don't ya have anything better ta do?"
Vic snorted in contempt. "Nah, ya gotta get more of a rough tone."
"I think you missed my point."
A grin. "Yea, so?"
"Well, I'm glad one of us is amused." Henry settled back further, closing his eyes. The bread hadn't lasted long, they still didn't have any water, and he could feel hunger eating away at him. It made a bad situation seem even worse and he frowned to himself. "What are you to him?"
"Eh?"
Hank opened his eyes, looking across again. "Guinea pig, hostage, trophy?"
Creed actually flinched, and replied after a moment, "Conquest."
Beast frowned deeper, puzzled by the reaction. It was sort of cryptic, really, and he left it at that, trying to figure out exactly what Sabretooth meant by 'conquest'.
When the Black Beast approached, a tidy few days later, he was no longer black and just barely a beast. Actually, more accurately, he was the Beast... a near perfect copy of the Hank McCoy he was holding hostage. He grinned in at his two captives through the grate, eyes sparkling in an almost mischievous way.
The sight of him brought anger burning into Hank's throat, worse than vodka on it's way back up. It was like looking into the mirror in one of those fun houses... seeing his own features twisted in an evil smile, his own eyes alight with a coldness he could never manage. It made his stomach turn to think of how easy it would be for the monster to stroll into the mansion, simple as walking into a grocery store.
"What, no congratulations?" McCoy asked, looking in on his two animals. "It took me quite some time to manage this little miracle. It's quite a handsome color, I think... perhaps I'll keep it."
Hank sneered at him viciously, and Victor made no effort to reply. Saying anything would just add to the madman's gloating, and neither of them wanted to give him any more joy than he saw fit to take by force.
The Dark Beast chuckled to himself, taking out a set of keys. He needed to provide them with at least enough water and food to survive, though he could have honestly cared less about Sabretooth. But Hank was a valuable hostage, should his ruse at the X-Mansion fail, and he wouldn't be worth much dead.
Hank looked up at the sound of keys, going tense. Here was his chance to overcome his dark doppleganger. Shooting a glance over at Creed, he noted his cellmate wide awake, though still keeping relatively motionless. If worse came to worst, the both of them together stood a chance to overthrow their captor.
When the door opened, Hank McCoy was in motion. He was as swift as a man could be, even more quick and agile than Sabretooth was at his best, and it reflected in his movements. He was across the space in the blink of an eye, thrusting his hand between the door and the frame, opening the space.
The pain when the door forced down on his fingers nearly lifted him out of his skin. He cried out involuntarily, feeling the bones break under the pressure, and tried hopelessly to pull away from it. A moment later the door opened abruptly, smacking him in the face and he felt his nose give in as well.
The monster followed quickly, leaping on Hank with a snarl. Still reeling, Beast did what he could to defend himself from the rain of blows and keep from falling to unconsciousness. But blackness was overtaking him, and with failing eyes he could barely see the flash as Creed called on strength born of pure rage and will, roaring and leaping on his assailant. Then there was nothing more.
Life filtered back slowly to Hank, beginning with his own pain. He felt it radiating through his heavy body, as though a good half of his nerve cells were on fire. His face hurt quite a bit, reminding him of a broken nose. He couldn't really flex his right hand, and it likewise was screaming in protest of the injuries. It was all he could do to open his eyes and look at the ceiling.
The lighter and thinner fur on his face was matted through with blood that had come from his nose, but other than that, there were no breaks in his skin that he could feel. He reached up with his left hand, very lightly feeling the extent of the wound, but stopped when his stomach heaved from the torment.
A few deep breaths made the pain fade to a more tolerable level, and gingerly he picked himself up, doing all he could to keep from moving his hand more than necessary. It came as some relief that he still wasn't chained, and that his dark twin was gone. A jug of water sat nearby, along with most of a loaf of old looking bread.
Blinking in the almost blackness, he could just make out Sabretooth against the opposite wall, still and silent. His memory came back, and he could vaguely recall the other man leaping on McCoy before he had blacked out. But Hank knew on gut instinct alone that it wasn't for his sake that Creed had decided to attack -- it was because he had had the opportunity to spill blood, and used it.
Even with that knowledge, he felt a pang of concern. Slowly he made his way over, his eyes finally making use of the light that was coming in from beyond the door.
With the trained gaze of a doctor and the sudden rush of realization that made him retch, he realized exactly what Victor had meant by 'conquest'.
It wasn't much to assume that Sabretooth was hanging on by threads. He had been torn down the back, long slashes that still bled slightly, even with his healing factor doing what it could to piece him back together. That was bad. What was worse was the blood running across his thighs, all of it collecting in a pool. And what made Hank feel like he had been knifed through the heart wasn't that, but the blood dried on his bottom lip... where he had bitten through in a last ditch effort of pride to keep from crying in pain. Suddenly 'conquest' became crystal clear.
Moving as quickly as he could with his own injuries, he began assessing the situation more clinically. Heart beating, but weakly... still breathing raggedly. Deep in shock, probably dangerously close to falling into a coma. Bleeding internally, no doubt, but without equipment, Hank couldn't do anything about that. Beast tore the long sleeve of his shirt off, doing what he could to stop the blood streaming lightly from Creed's ruined back, hoping that it wouldn't be too little, too late.
Shattered.
The mirror lay in pieces so small they weren't much more than glitter on the ground. Red tainted glitter, catching light, reflecting it, thrown pinpricks of it across the otherwise black place.
Slowly, much more slowly than normal, the mirror shifted, flowed. Sluggishly it began the process again.
Shouting for backup became audible, but it was distant, as though in a long tunnel. As the mirror solidified, it became a clear image. An older Victorian-style house in Virginia, where he had been hired to kill the owner for intruding on another's drug run. He hadn't had any trouble with the guards... they died swiftly and violently, the last thing they knew of existence being agony.
The feeling of rage and bloodlust pounded through his veins, dazing him. The man retreated and the monster came forth, spilling blood, and the man laughed at it while the monster needed it. With every kill it became more intense, more crippling. Suddenly he wasn't enjoying it anymore, he was fearing it.
He ripped through a little girl before he even realized it, and then turned to her parents. Both of them were dead in moments, and he was literally covered in blood of at least a dozen people. It soaked through his hair, turning the blond into a dirty red and matting it into lashes. He had accomplished his job, but he needed more.
The man was afraid. He wasn't in control anymore, not even remotely. The hunter and killer was -- taking back every hurt he had ever suffered in blood and still craving more. The man retreated, grasping hopelessly for existence. Then it happened.
*Let me help...*
A voice...? Soft, mild, in his mind. Normally he could shield his thoughts, but he wasn't even able to control himself, let alone shield against telepathy. As though watching through a hazy window, his body whirled in the sensing of someone else.
A slender blonde girl, long hair, seemingly unbothered by the carnage around her. She was probably in her mid-twenties. Her expression was unreadable, but even as he felt himself start towards her, the image became clearer and clearer. Just like a flash, he was back in control.
Blue eyes looked up at him without a flinch. She was a witness, she could be problematic. But her words still rang in his mind...
*Let me help.*
Shattered.
When Sabretooth woke up, it was as an animal, not as a man. Everything was reeling and distorted, all of his senses out of whack, and he was actually afraid -- honestly and truly frightened. He forced his eyes open, but the whole world danced like a mirage, sickeningly. His head was resting on something soft, he could tell that much, and he could feel the too close proximity of another living creature nearby.
His body tensed, and the dull throbbing ache that had been running across his back externally and through his lower back internally hit a crescendo. Gasping, fighting back the blackness that started chewing away at his vision, he tried to move.
The person who was laying somewhat against him said something, but he was really too dazed and confused to understand it. For a moment he tried to move again, but was once again forced to submission by pain. Breathing hard and feeling it sear through him with each inhalation, he tried to find coherence.
Hank frowned, having been startled out of his light doze by the movement. Most of the past several hours had been spent watching a man fighting hard for his life, doing what little he could to help. The doctor hadn't thought so much as went on instinct, doing what pathetically little he could to tip the balance and give Creed a better chance. Stopped the bleeding from his back, wrapped what was left of his cotton shirt around him, and then used his own body heat to warm.
It had worked. The small acts were enough to let Sabretooth's incredibly efficient healing factor compensate, and eventually when it become evident that the man would live, Hank had drifted off. He was exhausted, not only from the battle and days of constant stress, but from the fight he was waging inside of himself as well.
He was at war with his own conscience. On one hand, he could have left Sabretooth to bleed out, and that would have ultimately been a mercy in many senses. Not only would it have ended his suffering, but if the time ever came where he was loose in society again, many other lives would have been saved. On the other hand, there was a doctor... a healer. Animal or man, monster or not, Creed was still a living creature, and one that needed help. In the end, that had won. Perhaps it was because of Hank's oath as a doctor, perhaps it was compassion. Deep down, it was both and neither. Deep down, it was Henry McCoy's way of making up for what the twisted version of himself had inflicted, and proving to himself that he was able to look past hate and stand on his own convictions like his dark twin never could.
Keeping his voice low and even, he tried to get Victor to listen, though from the way the other man was tensed and half-wild in fear, he wasn't sure that he would even understand. "He's gone, you know... I highly doubt he'll be back any time soon."
The voice that answered was not much more than a shaking, desperate whisper, "Let me go..."
For a moment, Hank actually considered it. Then he pushed it aside, clinging himself to his beliefs and his compassions. "Let me help."
The words hit Vic like a knife, cutting right through the haze with a clarity that would have startled him if he wasn't concentrating so hard on them. His jaw knotted in pride, albeit wounded pride, and the moment hung in eternity as he fought himself. The animal screamed 'run', the man screamed in protest, for every kindness came at some price or another. But in the end, simple desperation won. He didn't want to fight anymore, didn't want to do anything but rest. Someone offered to watch out for him, and that was good enough. Slowly, setting his dignity aside, he let himself relax and slip back off into oblivion.