[Prior listens faithfully through this, even the parts that make him bristle, even with Richie's thumbs pressing their prints into his arm. He doesn't pull away - lets what's got him manic work its way out. Anyone looking at Richie now couldn't help but believe that whatever insanity's tripping off his tongue is true, at least to him. He's not recalling so much as reliving it, images painted bright enough to read off his retinas, no matter how long forgotten before.

There's an ache to that grin that makes Prior's own jaw hurt.]

I hope you realize that's terrible advice. [It's benevolent. A gentle let down.] You're a good idiot, but an idiot all the same, if the best suggestion you can give a lame duck is to run.

[He runs the next sentence on quick, voice preemptively raised over any protest.]

I'm not too proud to run from an impossible fight: I'm not that kind of dope. But I've tried running, all it does is run me down. And I am damned if I'm letting Bozo the Butcher catch up to me from behind. So, assuming it wakes - which it won't, but just in case–

[He made this promise first, months ago now. Who knew this was what he was getting into.]

Then I'm sorry, but at least it's not – it's never going to be just one. [I'm tougher than I look is what he'd said back then. And maybe that was a lie, but the one thing Prior does have is an unshakeable sense that Heaven's got no plans to let him die until they're done with him. And his work is long-off over. So. Like he promised –]

We'll kick the shit out of it. We'll find a way. And you're a dark horse, I thought I imagined what happened in the alley. I'm still not sure what it was.