[ He wants to grumble, "Speak English," but the words are stolen from him when another wave hits him, sending him to his knees. His hand is still twisted into the fabric of Vasquez's shirt, but Faraday feels Vasquez's grip on his elbow, providing him an anchor. He flashes Vasquez a grateful look, his eyes that familiar shade of gold. ]
Step back.
[ A warning, rather than a desperate command, and even in that brief statement, Faraday's voice shifts from human to something strange. His breathing sharpens, grows ragged, as he forces himself to release the vampire's shirt, wrapping both arms around himself.
It's never pretty, the transformation. It's never easy, either, even with all the years of forced practice. His health being what it is, these days, doesn't help in the slightest, but it seems the whiskey certainly does.
His bones crack and shift beneath his skin, his muscles and tendons stretching and lengthening – but his shouts and groans aren't quite as sharp as when he first stopped taking the laudanum. He's certainly not quiet, because short of being fully unconscious for it, the change will never be anything but agonizing – but he's quieter, which is— something.
Not much, but something.
And when the transformation is over, when the last rays of daylight have been snuffed out, he collapses, a heap of fur struggling to catch his breath. He aches like he's roused all those faded bruises, like he's torn open all those wounds again, even if a logical corner of his brain knows that physically, he's probably fine. ]
no subject
Step back.
[ A warning, rather than a desperate command, and even in that brief statement, Faraday's voice shifts from human to something strange. His breathing sharpens, grows ragged, as he forces himself to release the vampire's shirt, wrapping both arms around himself.
It's never pretty, the transformation. It's never easy, either, even with all the years of forced practice. His health being what it is, these days, doesn't help in the slightest, but it seems the whiskey certainly does.
His bones crack and shift beneath his skin, his muscles and tendons stretching and lengthening – but his shouts and groans aren't quite as sharp as when he first stopped taking the laudanum. He's certainly not quiet, because short of being fully unconscious for it, the change will never be anything but agonizing – but he's quieter, which is— something.
Not much, but something.
And when the transformation is over, when the last rays of daylight have been snuffed out, he collapses, a heap of fur struggling to catch his breath. He aches like he's roused all those faded bruises, like he's torn open all those wounds again, even if a logical corner of his brain knows that physically, he's probably fine. ]