Beckett's not thinking about the blood. She hasn't thought about the blood since Raglan was shot and died on the floor of the diner, since the moment she realized it wasn't her who had been hit.
What's more important now is trying to figure out what Raglan wanted to tell her after all those years of silence, and whether or not it was that information (of course it was, it had to be) that actually got him killed tonight.
She starts to slump onto a barstool, brushing her hair away from her face with a hand, when she senses movement along her side and turns to see Jack - looking as though he's seen a ghost, his face completely devoid of any healthy color, struggling to speak.
The reason for it - the blood she still happens to be wearing - hasn't yet clicked for her.
"Jack," she murmurs, but she can't put on a convincing smile - or even say much of anything else, for that matter.
no subject
What's more important now is trying to figure out what Raglan wanted to tell her after all those years of silence, and whether or not it was that information (of course it was, it had to be) that actually got him killed tonight.
She starts to slump onto a barstool, brushing her hair away from her face with a hand, when she senses movement along her side and turns to see Jack - looking as though he's seen a ghost, his face completely devoid of any healthy color, struggling to speak.
The reason for it - the blood she still happens to be wearing - hasn't yet clicked for her.
"Jack," she murmurs, but she can't put on a convincing smile - or even say much of anything else, for that matter.