This is really not a conversation Jim wants to have while Kyle is drunk. This is not really a conversation Jim wants to have when Jim has to be sober, either. He rubs a hand over his face.

"Being broken is the same as giving up." Giving up wouldn't know what to do with you. His mouth quirks at the internal comparison. "You aren't broken. You get hurt, and you learn. Use it until it's a strength. You pick up the pieces. That's not being broken, that's being strong."

For some reason he can't quite name, he thinks of his mother. More specifically, the picture of her that someone took when she was coming out of the shuttle, Jim a swaddled bundle in her arms. He wishes, sometimes, that he'd known the woman she used to be and not the one she became after his dad died. She got harder. Remarried a man that didn't give a shit about her sons, kept doing her job, her duty. But for all that, he's never looked at her and thought she was broken, either.

"Saying that," he continues, slowly. So Kyle can follow, because Jim knows just how little gets through when you're that drunk. "Overrides all the credit you deserve for what you've survived. Okay?"