Javert lurches forward too, going for Beck's other side. He wants to get Beck's elbow, get his wrist, bend it behind him and incapacitate the man's arms so he can't flail around and possibly put someone's eye out. Maybe R's. Maybe his own, Javert realizes. It's begun sinking in lately how very fragile this body is, how he could just fall apart and then be stuck rambling around in a broken shell.

His lips draw back into a feral snarl. It looks creepily natural on his face; it was once an expression he wore when on the hunt for criminals on the run, for vagrants and escapees and fugitives. He doesn't know that, of course, but he feels that the muscles move naturally into that position, easier than into other formations.

He grabs for Beck's wrists.