( closed )

[imaginate]

Characters: Kyle & various.
Date: Catch-all log for July.
Location: All around.
Situation: Various.
Warnings/Rating: War horrors, child abuse, mention of torture, physical and psychological.
Notes: [Action] or prose are all good. Ping me if you'd like a specific setup/threadstarter.

Comments

july 2nd/aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?

[cowled]

Every spare moment that presents itself is an opportunity, to push, get better. Improve. Meditate, plan, reason, rationalize. It's been nearly a year. Twenty-nine days less a year. And Bruce - Batman has yet to solve this mystery. Has yet to get everyone home the way he'd swore to himself he would.

So in his free time, he trains.

If he hasn't managed to get everyone home yet, it's because of something he's doing wrong. Something that can only be corrected through vigorous self-improvement. He sinks into it, lets the strength and the determination of his will sweep him out in a riptide.

He's grown too comfortable. He needs the drive and fire of his youth, the push that saw him traverse the world and learn all its sundry secrets so he could apply them in Gotham. It feels a little like the quake all over again, coming to the realization he'd grown too accustomed to having technology at his beck and call. There was no excuse for imperfection.

Not for him.

He can accept it from others, grudgingly, though he pushes them to do better. But in himself, there is no room for it. He has already failed enough.

(He thinks of a little girl, drowning because he wasn't strong enough. A death that made him spiral into drug addiction, back when he was still young enough that an easy way out seemed like a viable option--)

There's a pommel horse set up in a corner of the warehouse, and Bruce - with taped wrists - is using it. More specifically, he's posed on it, one hand gripping one of the bars. He's holding himself there by that alone, feet pointed at the ceiling, body loose and flexible but completely unmoving. His eyes are closed. He's thinking about the chemical composition of the Lazarus pit, going over it in his mind in three languages simultaneously.

He's thinking of Jason with a soul like a sunset, something bright and blazing that'll turn dark and cold all too soon.

He's thinking about Damian, and Stephanie, and Cassandra -- god, his breath catches in his chest when he thinks about his girl -- and Favrielle and--

Something in his mind stutters over the Ancient Greek he's transliterating everything into, and he frowns.

The tendons in his wrist flex, a bead of sweat slides off his cheek and hits the pommel horse. He's been holding this pose for ninety minutes now and his shoulder (he got shot there once, three times, he still remembers stumbling to Leslie's clinic and asking her to remove the bullets while he put his glove between his teeth and refused her anesthetic) is aching and mentally, he rebukes himself for the weakness.

So he'll do it again. And again, and again, until he's chased all signs and sources of it away entirely and when he's halfway through his memorized recollection of Il Principe, he's suddenly no longer alone. The presence is a familiar one, the way the body disturbs the air. Quiet, but not quiet enough. It's one of his, but not one of his birds. Not Clark, who knows better than to sneak up on him. There are only three others that know the location of this place and none would approach him so candidly.

So,

"Kyle."

[imaginate]

He feels sick. It’s nothing physical - pain is a near constant when you are attacking things fifty times your size with only a ring. As easy as it looked, it still took a toll. He was flesh and bone, his willpower was the real battery. That’s the tool that’ll serve him best in the recovery period, the sheer capacity to overcome.

This isn’t the first time he’s been tortured and it won’t be the last. He knows what to do. He takes a hot shower, keeps to himself (fends Zatanna off, somehow, it helps that she’s mostly out). The first night, he spends on the roof, outside, breathing in the (fresh?) air, dangling his legs over the edge, trying to understand freedom.

The second night, he climbs to the highest point he can, and stays there. Or he wants to, at least, but his hands are still injured, and the healing process will be delicate. He can’t paint, he can barely cook, all he can do is stare at what he considers the most important part of his body completely destroyed (and he feels so sick). It’s so different from his vision being taken, and he hates himself for dwelling on it so much when it’s just a matter of waiting for it to heal.

All the same, he doesn’t miss Bruce’s training. In fact, Kyle takes his little escapade with the cult as even more reason to train harder. It hadn’t been his fault that Jim’d jumped in, and Spock had followed, but he still took responsibility for it. If it’d been only him taken... he’d have managed.

Enough of that. Failures happened, when the sky broke, a Lantern picked up the pieces and moved the hell on. If there was going to be an army of the undead in his future--

He can’t use a bow and arrow, obviously, luckily it’s not Monday when he shows up at the warehouse. He’s learnt to be quiet, but really, very few people can sneak up on the goddamn Batman so he isn’t surprised at being addressed first.

‘Hey.’

His voice lacks its requisite cheer, and he is already dressed in workout clothes. There is no ring anywhere on his person, he’s just Kyle.

But just Kyle is also who he says he is, when he’s out there, just an artist, not a physicist, or a diplomat, or a geneticist--, and just Kyle is every bit the force of nature, ring or no ring.

His hands are clumsily wrapped in bandages, and he looks determinedly at Bruce as he steps onto the mat, ready to begin. Broken hands aren’t an excuse.

[cowled]

Bruce lowers himself into a plank, and from there to the ground in one smooth motion, still using only one hand. It takes a phenomenal amount of strength and control to make it look so effortless, but he's not showing off, he's testing himself. Pushing.

Once he's there, he chalks his hands once more and turns to look at Kyle as he comes onto the mat.

He's injured. The hands are obvious, but Bruce sees other signs of it. His breathing is four or five litres per minute shallower than usual. Broken ribs. The way he's holding his shoulders suggest a recent dislocation on the left side. His weight isn't evenly distributed between his feet, a light injury to either the ankle or knee. But the hands are the worst, and Bruce studies those clumsy bandages without comment.

Going after an artist's hands is something he would do, in his more vicious moments. After all, he blinded this boy once upon a time.

"When your hands are out of commission in a fight, use your elbows. It shortens your reach, but increases the strength and force of your blows. You have to accept the risks involved in getting in closer to your opponent, but the trade-off is that you can usually put an end to a fight quicker. If you can concentrate." He slips into a Muay Thai form without conscious thought, his movements flowing and natural. "Approach."

DAMIAN;

[imaginate]

He’s never been a light sleeper, but he learnt to be, especially now, when he’s still in danger mode and anything could be out there. These times, he usually lies awake, staring at the ceiling, with Jenny nearby or asleep. She isn’t here, there’s only the blanket curled up on his legs like a lazy octopus. He kicks it off. As Ion he barely needed food or rest, the bed at Kaaterskill’s Notch was a formality.

To go from that to being human again had been a shock, but he’d adjusted.

And then he’d spent a few days in that cell and, as he squints at the window in the half-darkness, he realises he misses the cacophony. There was always someone awake, someone singing, or crying, or dreaming, and he could latch on, follow it.

Here, there was only silence, of the belligerent kind.

He hasn’t adjusted to being back in a bed, and for the first few nights, he sits, back to the wall, keenly staring at the various objects in the room (Zatanna fixed his paintings. Kyle makes a note to buy her ice cream of her choice, and then more, for healing his hands). He doesn’t start at any of the sounds outside, instead, he nearly dares them to enter. Come, he thinks, jaw tight, tone fierce. I don’t need an army. Come and test me, if you dare.

His ring doesn't leave his sight for several days. In fact, he’s fiddling with it when he starts. There’s no noise, there’s just... an instinct. Honed sharply from years of being the only person watching his own back in a strange place (and the room is strange, he still smells the blood and sweat of the cell). Kyle starts, even more on edge, takes the knife from under his pillow and treks slowly to the window, intent on hurting whatever is outside, if it intends to hurt him.

KYYYYLE

[demon_brat]

Damian's known that Kyle has been back in his room for hours. But he had to make sure they were all safe and secured before he can take time on his own. (Knowing that Zatanna is safe and secured is how he's certain the Lantern has returned.)

So it's a really really late (early) hour of the night when he shows up. His motions are quieter and more precise than ever; he's paying a lot of attention to them. The lack of sleep has brought him to the point where everything is etched inside his mind in odd clarity, each moment like a separate reality that he comes into and leaves, the boundaries distinct and bright.

He's been there before. He can go on for a while, yet, before it gets to be dangerous. Maybe 48, 60 hours yet.

He'll deal with that when he comes to it.

For now, there is Kyle Rayner, approaching the window of his own room with a knife in his hand in the night.

Ah.

"That bad."

Not a question, an observation.

It's only his body that half eases at the sight, saying, I'm glad you're alive.

LITTLE BAT ❤

[imaginate]

Kyle stops, blinks, tilts his head curiously. There are precious few people in the world who can mimic that utter noiselessness this Robin has, and even fewer that could replicate his size, weight, and tone of voice.

(He hates that he's thinking like this, but he is, and he wonders if he's all the less himself for it.)

Kyle doesn't reply at first, he simply holds out his free hand to touch Robin's shoulder, to ascertain he's not hallucinating, and this isn't a shapeshifter.

JIM KIRK;

[imaginate]

After Jim’s call, Kyle heads there. If it’s another not emergency, he’s... not entirely sure what he’ll do. They were fine, in the cell. It’s being outside - away from each other for a few days, Jim’d said - that messes with them both. And maybe it’s their pride, or the tired defensiveness that comes from not understanding how to accept something freely given, that prevents them from being as in sync as they should be. Kyle doesn't know.

(If he were more self-aware, he’d laugh at how pathetic the entire situation was.)

It had been a few days since... escaping, or if one could call it that. Kyle had mixed feelings about what had happened to the kedan eventually, but he couldn’t deny a vicious joy at the outcome. Maybe that was too hard, too cold, but life had made him that way. Pain was just pain, and there would always be unnecessary death.

He glances at his (now-healed) hands. Jim had become delirious by day two, so Kyle and Spock had taken turns. Each time the guards came in there was a silent war between them, each refusing to let the other be taken for too long, and yet both of them noticed that they spent far more time in there trying to protect the others. Once, he'd simply given up and stood between the guards and the other two. Jim had retaliated by sleeping in between Kyle and the door. He'd noticed, and he'd said nothing.

The leg, though. He knew about the surgery, and frankly he was glad Sora hadn’t had to browbeat anybody into anything. For his part he’d refused her treatment entirely, not out of spite or lack of faith in her competence, but simply because he wasn’t too proud to ask a magical healer to do it for him (there was little pride to be had when he was so out of his league, usually).

That’s yet another difference, he knows. Jim Kirk already has all the tools he needs to lead, everything Kyle doesn’t - but the only thing Kyle has that’s his and his alone is facing the worst the universe can throw at him and still getting out alive, somehow. He doesn’t hold it over Jim but for some reason it just rubs them both the wrong way. My self assurance is lecturing, he thinks. And he said I sound like Pike. What does that even mean?

He stops at the door to Jim’s house, holding up a hand to knock, and it drops to his side. He frowns, wondering if he should call Spock, and then to hell with it, he raps twice sharply.

Re: JIM KIRK;

[jirk]

Jim, stubbornly (determinedly, willfully, pridefully) gets up to get the door himself, despite the fact it's not even locked. Jim doesn't lock his doors, ever. It's a sign of fear, to him. A symbol.

(He used to jam chairs under the door handle in his bedroom sometimes, never again)

So the door's not locked but he gets it anyway, knuckles white where he's clutching the walking stick he's spent the last couple days whittling down. It took his mind off the pain, and the fact that he wouldn't take anything for it. Jim's always been good with his hands. He's not creative, per se, not artistically, but he's got a knack for creating something out of nothing.

It's not like it's fancy. Just something he can lean on.

He pulls the door open and he steps back and away from it. He notices the hands before anything else (he'd bandaged them, Kyle had let him bandage him) and he exhales a bit. Some of the tension goes out of his shoulders. Good. He's glad to see he's recovered.

"Come on."

[imaginate]

The door's not locked. Huh. He could've told Kyle to just open it instead of walking all the way but-- it was too much like Guy, doing something for the sake of doing it, rather than any logic to the matter. Guy would actually probably argue a tree into falling over, if that were even possible.

Kyle stands in the doorway, studying the man in front of him cautiously (no painkillers. Well.), before he closes the door as he steps inside.

'How are you feeling?' He could try awkward small talk, that would work, wouldn't it?

SPOCK; they got their first real six-string

[imaginate]

Powers are back on and the first thing Kyle does is spend time messing around with his ring. He gives the rest of the team a few days to get their act together, while he spends his own just trying to adjust to outside (civilian) life again. Neither Donna nor Jen are here (he doesn't know what he'd do if the latter showed up), so he manages, as he's always done.

Then he gets an idea. He and Spock need to talk, anyway, a lot happened in that holding cell (he'd never expected to argue with somebody about who was allowed to be more self-sacrificing, it was just stupid, but he could cancel it off his bucket list, he supposed). Spock had used his first name, something Kyle never really expected to hear from at all, ever, before he'd gone and overloaded his friend's circuits with hope.

So he shows up, hovering (because walking hurts), and knocks on the door at precisely 15:00, or so he thinks. What kind of clocks did Spock use, anyway?

'Hey! It's me.'

[selfsacrificing]

Spock mostly spent the time trying to piece himself back together. He ducked out of the hospital at breakneck speeds: it wasn't logical, of course, to insist upon tending to his own wounds, as severe as they were. Despite all of his tendency towards self-sufficient stubbornness, he never would have done so back home, either.

But he couldn't stand the thought of more strangers with their hands all in his personal space. Not after days of it in that little cell. So he excused himself and holed up in his big, sprawling tree house, instead. He's been sitting still for days, ignoring the Network and the world around him, willing his bones to knit back together and the internal bleeding to clot. It hasn't been easy, he's much more accustomed to the ease of dermal re-generators and instant bone bonding agents, but he's nothing if not determined enough to see it through.

So when he opens the door up to Kyle, he can walk again without a limp or feeling his bones grinding against one another, raw. The smell of incense is thick in the air, tumbling out through the entrance-way as he steps to the side to let his friend in, and all the lights inside are off save for a few small, controlled fires: ideal conditions for meditation. The whole thing probably looks strange and archaic for someone usually so at home surrounded by sleek metal and fantastic technology, but despite their collective love of science and advancement and discovery, Vulcans have culturally always treated their bodies as things far less clinical. There's a distinct air of tradition and mysticism still prevalent in their society which frustrates xenobiologists to absolutely no end, especially when they have a worrying tendency to keep a stranglehold over what sort of information gets out about themselves and into the universal scientific community.

But that's neither here nor there. "May I ask why you wish to know what a Vulcan lute looks like?"

MIRIA;

[imaginate]

He meets Miria out in Wood Sector, in the open air. There's space, even if it's quiet. He has a pair of practice swords with him, in case she might want to use those. He sincerely doubts he could hold up against any sword of hers, but he's never been one to back down from a challenge.

He is seated, waiting for her. It's not out of impoliteness, he's merely listening to his surroundings, for the rustle of leaves, and how movement disturbs the air around him. It's oddly soothing.

[saved7]

The rustle of the leaves announces her arrival before any sound that could be attributed to her. With her body back to its normal strength, once she is out of the streets Miria doesn't waste any time. She moves towards him with a speed that causes a wind to rush through the trees around her, like a personal wind tunnel.

Shortly after the sound can be heard, there she is at the edge of the trees, in the armor he saw her in, but carrying on her back a sword that's nearly her own height in length. Whether from that or the return of her strength, her entire bearing is somehow changed. She's complete now, even if she's definitely not human anymore.

She nods a greeting. Her eyes - now silver from the return of her power -rest briefly on the swords before returning to him.

"Hello."

After Korra

[demon_brat]

Damian doesn't bother to answer over the network. That tone? Yeah, he can hear the tension and control and he-- well. Doesn't worry.

He just goes and finds the Lantern.

"What do I do?"

How do I help? and What happened? all at once.

[imaginate]

Kyle's standing on the roof, opposite. Green constructs are holding up the side of the house, the insides open like a gaping maw. He looks at Damian, and smiles, thank you for coming, but it fades.

'I'll need money to get materials for repairs.' He hates it. Asking for things like money. He knows Bruce usually paid for their collateral damage back home. Here, he'd managed: he hadn't gotten angry, he hadn't gotten into fights.

'And maybe a construction crew, but I'd like to handle that myself. It's our house, after all.'

He exhales, irritated.

post-bones' arrival

[jirk]

He gets Bones settled in, stuffs the heaviest thing he can find in his apartment (which turns out to be all those cans of paint) on top of his icebox, and sits down on the couch with the last beer he'd fished out from amongst the sluggishly multiplying tribbles.

It's hard to know what to think or how to feel. Finding out he was dead was one thing. Everybody dies. Dying for his crew, well-- there were worse ways to go. Finding out that Bones was always going to bring him back? That he could only bring him back? That's... that's a whole other ballpark.

Jim sips the beer slowly, and stretches out on the couch, bad leg propped up on a crate. He's slouched, it's mostly dark, and he's just. Quiet. Drafting consolation notes in his head. I'm sorry to inform you your son/daughter/brother/sister/husband/wife/father/mother was killed in the line of duty against a Federation Admiral.

Christ. He wishes he had enough alcohol in the apartment to get drunk.

[imaginate]

He spends a few days a week at Jim's place. It's too big, and too empty, but he tolerates it for the space. Kyle's learnt not to complain (when the sky breaks, you pick up the pieces, get on with getting on). Fixing Sora's house is going better than expected, even if she still glares at him from time to time.

His head is swimming. It's been a long day at the clinic, as well as the backup, not to mention the busy training schedule he now has. He'll have to ask for hacking lessons next, and he shudders to think how long that's going to take him to learn. While he's confident he'll get there eventually, it was always the process that he hated. Having to slog so hard to earn something-- sometimes he's honestly jealous of talented people.

But all mountains needed to be climbed, he supposed. And it meant more to him that he'd fought harder than anyone else ever would. What didn't kill you... shouldn't have to happen, he added, thoughtfully. He'd been bitter, talking to Sep about it, and he hadn't even bothered locking the conversation. There was no reputation to protect, nothing to build (or rebuild, when they broke the orbital defences and came, overwhelming, the sound worse than what he thought a real banshee might sound like). So he just... didn't. If Damian Wayne could accept that he was worthy of the ring, everyone else would just have to get with the programme.

And anyway, he was who he was: an artist. (A pretty damn decent artist.)

A fighter, too. Those came naturally to him. Training's taken care of, Kyle's been using the time at Jim's place to really focus on his art, and it's... relaxing. He's comfortable around the man now and prepared to occupy at least a little space in the apartment with something that's his, so it looks lived in.

He pauses at the door, the light's not on, maybe Jim isn't home. So he doesn't knock, he just opens the door, turns on the light, and freezes at the sight.

Well, that gave new meaning to 'emo kid', but that thought is fleeting.

'Should I turn the light off?'

July 14th; after Superman's network post.

[hackingyoursensors]

Dick is so unbelievably mad. Not only did he get into fights with two people he really cares about, but Wally hit a very sore spot along the way. Suggesting that he couldn't think for himself. (Under better circumstances, Dick would've reacted more rationally and just brushed it off. These aren't better circumstances.)

Which is why it's not much of a surprise when Dick shows up at Kyle's house. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. At least his hands aren't shaking with rage anymore.

[imaginate]

They've only just managed to relocate everything to the clinic, and he's nearly clearing up for the day. A few patients will be staying overnight, but overall, most of them are taken care of, and asleep. A few are scared, but he did his job. He kept them safe.

It's the building that's another story and he's not looking forward to having to deal with it - or people, for that matter. He's long since used up his quota for patience.

He's about to sit down and have dinner when there's a knock on the door. Frowning, he goes to open it, and his expression of surprise immediately turns to concern when he sees Dick.

'Come on in. Dinner's on the table.'

SHAYERA;

[imaginate]

[It's been a while since somebody indulged him in a good bar fight. With the turtle healed and thing getting a little easier, after his shift he called Shayera and decided to have a good time.]

[The race to the bar's a tie; neither of them are willing to let the other win. It's still mostly empty, but people start coming in almost immediately after they order, like they're expecting something to happen (and it will). A few minutes later, his glass is already half-finished and he's eyeing a few of the kedan in the corner expectantly, grinning at her.]

On your mark?

[wingedwarrior]

[She's had an incredibly pleased smirk on her face since they sat down and ordered. There's only a few sips left in her glass by the time she looks out of the corner of her eye at the same kedan Kyle was glancing at. Oh, she was born ready for this. It's been a good while since she cut loose, and this is one opportunity she is not going to pass up.] Normally, I don't wait for marks, but in your case, I'll make an exception.

JIM KIRK; july 20th

[imaginate]

He's horribly drunk. He doesn't realise this from knowing the feeling, it's basically the ring yelling in his ear about how irresponsible he's being, and the words slur in his mind, becoming a mechanical flatline. Halfway through it changes to John's voice (and is he saying something to Dick? He's not sure.)

Somehow, he ends up at Jim's place. There's another feeling when he gets to the door (and doesn't throw up) that's routine when he's around here but he hasn't got a name for it yet. If he thinks, sits down and really thinks, it's security. Safety. (A little serenity.) He ignores it in favour of the rapturous joy he's hoarding like precious stones, and knocks on the door. Finding it open, Kyle grins deliriously at the figure in the room, attempting to identify it. It's Jim-shaped, so he decides it's him.

'Hey. You'll-- neverguesswhat.'

[jirk]

All the tribbles in the world couldn't get him to relax right now. Coincidentally, it's because of them that he can't. He's been working steady alpha-gamma shifts trying to get the bastards under control, but when you lack the technology to mass-freeze the damn things, and people insist on terrorizing or stressing them out (which inevitably creates more of the damn things) it's like fighting a losing battle against an avalanche of fur and purring.

What he needs to do is find a way to combine the technology and the magic of the population into a blitz advance that takes care of the problem in one fell swoop.

He's working out the logistics of it in his head as he paces through the living room, occasionally up and over the back of the couch, because his leg's healed and he just can. Everything that could be on his mind is on his mind, from Korra's abilities to Bones' arrival to Spock's quietude to Kyle, and one hand drops against his throat, fingers working at the faint bruising there.

And then there's a knock on the door, and it opens, and Jim, who's always been an explorer first, drops a hand to his phaser.

But it's not a threat-- at least not one directly to him, and he relaxes a little. It's Kyle, and he's off-his-ass drunk.

"Hey, whoa, probably not, let's get you sitting down. How much have you had to drink?"

24th

[jirk]

Before the Academy, Jim was used to being and living alone. He had his own place, bought and paid for with what he'd scraped up and earned over a few years of under the table employment. He never did bring a lot of women over there - usually he'd go back to their place, specifically so he could leave whenever he wanted without obligation.

He had a roommate in the Academy, and that was a pain in the ass. Having someone constantly in his space in a little box room that was barely big enough for two beds and a shower? Yeah, not his idea of a good time. He ended up spending more and more times crashed at Bones' place as the months went on, because the place he got assigned to was way better than the freshman dorms, and Jim kind of liked his couch. He went from living alone to barely ever being alone, and it was an... interesting transition, truth be told.

Jim was a people person, sure. But he liked being his space, too, and sometimes the silence of his own company was the only way he could deal with whatever life had thrown at him that week.

(He sat in the meeting room in the near-dark of the stars for a long time, after Mitchell. Asking himself how everything had managed to go so wrong)

He's been so busy lately he hasn't had the time to even think about solitude. He's just... adapted. Kyle's more or less living with him now, crashing on the second floor most days, and Jim's gotten used to navigating his way around paint and various other supplies of artistry without much fuss. It's comfortable, in a weird way. Guess that was one thing being in kedan custody and getting worked over for a week did for them - it ripped away all the fighting and arguing and the vitriol. Jim set his fingers and Kyle kept the shock he went into after his leg got fractured from outright killing him. Jim's always forged his best friendships through adversity anyway. Kyle's comfortable, he's safe. Jim trusts him. Actually trusts him, the same way he does any one of his bridge crew. As much as he sometimes wants to shove Kyle out the door for a few hours to clear his head, he's family too.

Which is why when Jim wanders past the open, studio-style second floor on his way to the stairs to his own space and finds Kyle packing, he actually pauses. Assesses. He's packing essentials. Trip-essentials, not... leaving-essentials. The abrupt spike of alarm he'd felt dissipates, and he leans against one of the decorative pillars, arms folded.

"Got a hot date?"

[imaginate]

If the him of six months ago could see himself now, he'd say he was getting complacent. Keeliai was... respite. There was a nightmare he had to go back to and he knew that now - exactly what kind it was, too. When Bruce calls with information Kyle's first thought is excitement. Finally he can do something. The slow information gathering is an exercise, too, but he's always been a person of action, and he leaps into this situation.

Then, his caution kicks in and he calculates the risks. There's a balance, between keeping yourself alive and expecting that you might not come back.

He writes a note to Damian, in code, with coordinates, and "Back soon". It was important, to let the kid know the small promises would be kept, so he'd believe the big ones would be kept too. Baby steps.

He leaves one for Jim, too, just as terse. No one else, he kept the circle small. Kyle was used to his friends saying nothing, just noting that he was in one of his moods and needed time away. Wally sometimes berated him for running but that was about it. They were... patient.

(Jim was different.)

He hears the footsteps but doesn't stop what he's doing, only replying when addressed.

'Jealous?' he teases, putting in a bottle of water and sealing the backpack.