[ The moment the creature stops, he's dropping to his knees, half curled over the grass with one arm propping him up (relief, reluctance, exhaustion, the last feelings to flow between them). Back in one, single body, the blue glow fading from them. He'd dodged the attack, and they pincer their creature-- but it doesn't matter anymore.
Catatonic isn't the right word. Its eyes are half-lidded, its position almost comically similar to the way Steve had lain on the ground so many times before: head resting on its forepaws, completely non-threatening.
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Catatonic isn't the right word. Its eyes are half-lidded, its position almost comically similar to the way Steve had lain on the ground so many times before: head resting on its forepaws, completely non-threatening.
And something else, understood instinctually.
Defeat.
What they ripped out of it--
He struggles to his feet.
This is their cue to leave. ]