[Ugh, that look. Beckett almost shudders to recall how much he'd bared his soul to this man - how he looked at him and saw Anatole, the memory of whom, just now, is infuriating. His instincts tell him to end the conversation, because who knows what Enoch might say - might say in public.

But then this is Enoch. He's not even capable of hurting another at that other's request. Pathetic. Beckett knows he can control this.]

Stop babbling. You don't want a friend, you want a crutch. Or a pet you can look after. And I am not the fool that Epps was. So please, leave me out of your public displays of angst.