*forces himself to gain his feet, staggering, lunging for the nearest solid surface* *grips the edge of the stove to keep himself upright as his vision greys and the world tilts to the left*
*tasting the sticky warmth streaming down his face, finds himself briefly thrown back to black eyes and splinters under his nails (ain't nowhere to run, Jack-a-lene!)*
*drops his gaze to the stovetop (Carol's cast-iron, bacon burned) and curls his lip—no Quendë of Arda ever fucking ran from the likes of you* *grabs the skillet and whirls to meet you*