tushanshu_logs | ( closed )

'No, no, he's good people. All of yours are.' Why were you worried I wouldn't like him?

He slides a hand up to Jim's thigh and lets it rest there.

'I just don't do doctors. And hospitals.' They made him feel helpless, and useless, far more than anything else ever did. It was always the ring, or healing rays, or magic. Something that got him back on the job quickly. 'Even Sora, I didn't allow near me.' And she was the kind of person who wouldn't hesitate to hold her patients down, but that much was obvious from anyone looking at her.

Jim smiles a little, in pride. Ducks his head. There's a reason there isn't any other ship out there quite like the Enterprise. They're a family as much as a crew, but Jim is gaining his on the heels of Kyle losing his own, and that sobers his expression after a moment.

"Yeah. Me neither. Bones is the exception to the rule, but it took a long time to get us there. I get it."

Edited 2013-07-16 20:07 (UTC)

'Maybe, eventually.' He sighs, softly. 'I'll have to give him my medical history, when Sora vanishes.'

When, because they all vanish at some point, presumably to go home.

'Hope it won't stress his heart.' Literal and figurative.

"'If'." The correction is careful, but he reaches out to -- do. Something he isn't entirely sure about. There's the slightest hesitation and then he drops his hand down on top of Kyle's against his own leg. "I'm not arguing with the contingency, but let's stick to 'if' for now, all right?"

And then he purses his lips. "Bones' is a lot tougher than you might think. He'll be okay." Will you?

Are you asking me as a friend, or telling me what to do? The words ring clear and Kyle studies Jim's hand on his, like he's received a coded message.

'If,' he says, agreeing. Conceding.

Then, 'Probably not so soon. It's - weird. Looking at their anger or the pity. Nobody really bothers hiding it at all.' His other hand absently goes to his wrist. He doesn't want it hidden from him, but he would very much appreciate people not looking at him like he was broken. He wasn't. He was stone and steel and every drop of water in an oncoming tsunami. He was everything unbreakable.

A long pause, before he looks at Jim hesitantly. 'Do you want to see?'

Edited 2013-07-16 20:23 (UTC)

Jim smiles - it's genuine, if a little tired - when Kyle makes the concession, and doesn't answer the other part. You even have to ask? How many times are they going to toss that line back and forth between each other before it becomes a broken record? So maybe it's hard-won, but they are friends. Jim doesn't know how to go back on a friendship, because he's had so few in his life and the ones he knows now are precious.

To the question, though, he just tilts his head. Curious. There's a little bit of 'are you asking me because I have to ask, or because you want to tell' in the way he does it, but after a moment he compromises and goes, "Hm?"

Yes or no question.

Kyle returns the slight tilt of the head. Jim will have to see them eventually, and Kyle might as well get used to the idea of letting him. It was a way of giving willingly when before, they'd just used every weapon in their respective arsenals against each other. 'Will you be angry?'

He knows better than to suggest there'll be pity. But neither of them are strangers to fury when others are hurt, especially when it's one of their own.

He sees that slight admonishment, and it sparks a sense of rebellion that he quashes in short order. "Yeah," he says bluntly. "It will." He doesn't try to excuse it or lie. He's pretty sure he'll want to make sure whoever did it is dead. But it wouldn't be the first time he's seen Kyle hurting, or the marks other people have cut into him.

He wants to take his hand back, the sudden thought of being touched hurts like hell when contrasted against the memories of their week of interrogation, but though his fingers twitch a little he doesn't otherwise move.

Maybe out of consideration for that little piece of hell in the interrogation room, or maybe even he feels a little overwhelmed at the contact, he slides his hand away (but doesn't move Jim's leg) and runs it through his hair. Anger's fine, even acceptable, but Kyle doesn't want to see it. Part of him wonders if he just wanted to see sadness more.

'When you can hide it from me,' he says, carefully. 'Then. You can see.'

"That's not how it works. You want to be equals? That's part of it." Does it hurt you, to hear that? Of course it did. Compassion was Jim's fatal flaw. There was nothing he hated more, that helpless feeling of watching someone else get hurt or killed when he couldn't stop it. His mind twists violently, and he thinks about George, walking away down that dusty road. Jim called him Sam, as a kid. His middle name. Never again.

He wants to pull back, but that might be taken as a punishment, so instead he just quiets his voice. "If you want me to see, I'll take it. But you can't ask me to hide what it does to me. It's who I am. You know I'll be mad-- Christ, didn't you see it in that room? I don't like other people's pain. I would take this--" and he knocks his hand against the cast, "A thousand times over before I'd put you or Spock back there even for an hour."

He exhales once, sharply. "There's no way you can't see it when you look at me. I'm not that good."

Kyle glances at him in complete surprise. Honestly Jim just... seems to rant at him a lot and he wonders if it's just how he is or it's what they discuss. Either way, he hadn't been expecting to set him off and for a moment he tenses defensively.

He had seen in the room, yes, but the context was different. Specific things that might be in the same category: it was like being tied down with cuffs versus ropes. But Jim didn't get that, not yet.

Or maybe Kyle had to accept he'd just asked the man to hide the fact that he was affected by his people in pain. (It was weird, to think of himself as one of Jim's people.)

'No, I—' he hesitates. 'I'm— so tired of having to see it. To remember all the pain.' I'm being selfish, I want something for myself.

His jaw works for a moment in thought. Because that is selfish, and he knows it. It's Kyle wanting (needing? he's still not sure) to share his pain, but without seeing the effect it has on him. What does friendship mean to you? And he thinks about old corridors and dusty rooms and his brother's narrow shoulders.

Kyle's seen and done enough. Jim can help him shoulder the burden, even if it's only for a little while. It won't take that much out of him. He exhales.

"Show me," he says. Soft. Despite what he said to Kyle, he's every bit good enough to mute his body language, and he does. It's a complete, systematic shutdown, essential functions only.

He closes his eyes, puts his hand on Jim's and squeezes it gently. Then, he focuses on his breathing: one, five, ten, twenty.

Is he ready? To be selfish?

Well, he's going to find out. He reaches for the hem of his shirt and slides it off, his movements belaboured and slow. Hunching slightly, he sits, and stares at the table, before he can manage to fix his eyes on Jim's.

He knows he's instinctively twisted slightly to prevent Jim from seeing his back first, but the front is no less horrific. Most of the injuries have faded, silvery on his skin. They're centred on his shoulders, upper chest and one or two are on his arms. All of which, to an observant eye, are deliberately inflicted by sharp implements, and went in deep. Badges, he would say, if he was more cruel. Proof that he deserved the ring, and rank.

Kyle rubs his wrist, and then he waits.

Jim's got his fair share of scars. He was a stupid kid, and he did stupid shit, ran with the wrong crowds, got bounced through enough juvenile detention centers to know the staff by name. He's been in bar fights back before he even knew how to spell dermal regenerator, and he's hated hospitals most of his life. Ever since--

Well. A long damned time, anyway.

He's got his cuts and bruises and battlescars that tell stories of a reckless youth, but very little that talks about systematic and intentional infliction of pain.

Jim says nothing for a very long time, not trusting himself to speak. He's keeping everything to a sort of clinical detachment, the way he gets when he's examining or thinking about his own pain, and it's easier that way. For both of them, probably.

After a moment, he reaches out for Kyle's wrist, the one he keeps fussing over, and he traces a finger over the scar there. "What's this one?" His voice stays calm, neutral. There's not a trace of anger, but there's an ache to it, fathoms deep.

That hurts, now that Kyle thinks about it. Like he's being examined. But it's also... easier, not to deal with someone's reaction to seeing his suffering. (And the bruises too, he doesn't heal those. Bruce and Damian only strike places that can be hidden by clothing, anyway.)

All my mistakes are written onto me.

He doesn't respond to Jim's gesture of— what is it anyway. Comfort? Kyle doesn't know anymore, he can't read anything.

'Failed cloning attempt,' he answers, his voice flat, distant to his own ears. 'Manhunters.' The second word is said with more venom, and unconsciously he gestures to his shoulder, where another scar is, to indicate that they were both from the same time.

His attention flicks back to Kyle's shoulder, but it's not the scar - he's seen that already - that catches his attention, it's the mottled skin. He'd thought they were just left over from their torture, god knows he's got his fair share, but it's not. Some are older, some are fresher, they're all overlaid, colours bleeding together. It's been years, but-- "Kyle--" and suddenly he feels like he's been doused with ice water. His mouth is dry and his vision is swamped with red at the edges, he has to blink it away. "This is-- who's been hitting you?" I know those marks, he doesn't say, doesn't have to say. I know what it looks like when someone's relying on your clothing to hide the bruises.

His first instinct is to say no one because none of these bear remembering, but he glances down, frowns. The sadness in Jim's voice is palpable and maybe... he wants to see it. Maybe he wanted to all along, because it meant somebody cared.

'Training,' he replies, simply. His voice lacks the bitterness it usually does when he refers to his experiences, which indicates this is a choice, and he's learning from someone who means well. He's not merely putting up with being hurt or letting himself be hit for the sake of feeling pain. He derives no joy from that.

"Jesus." It's an exhalation more than it's an actual word, and Jim leans back in his original spot on the couch, one hand half in front of his face, fingertips pressed against his forehead and his thumb braced along his cheekbone. And then he draws in a bracing breath and flips a proverbial switch, he's back to normal, everything buried and deep.

"You survived," he says, his tone simultaneously quiet but fierce. "Everything--" and he reaches out, traces his fingers along one of those scars. His hand is gentle, firm. Unflinching. "All this. Scars are just stories on your skin. They tell me you're still here."

He savours what he saw, and he puts that away too, for another day. When he needs to remember.

Then, he stills, utterly unable to move when Jim touches him, and eyes his hand warily. A few minutes later he relaxes, accepts it. Not pity.

'Yes.' A pause. 'That's... poetic.' He exhales, and then he half turns, so Jim can see his back. There's less there, compared to his front, but it's fresher, and far deeper.

"Don't tell anyone," he jokes, but the sentiment is hollow. He'd seen the marks on his shoulder before, but not the whole thing, and he has to remind himself not to show the anger that surges to the surface. The universe is a cold, cruel place, and sometimes people get hurt where no one can hear them scream. That's just how it is. He's known it. He's always known that.

But seeing the reality of it hurts. Just like it did with Pike, and Spock, and George (I can't be a Kirk in this house--) and Jim represses a very strong desire to find out who did this and pay them back in kind.

(Cuff him.)

Finally, "I could use another beer."

He flicks his wrist, and a construct crane raises an unopened bottle for Jim. Kyle stays where he is for a while, breathing slowly again, before he reaches for his shirt and slides it back on. He never thought of it as armour. The marks, that's the real protection. They show the world he's not to be trifled with, that he's been made by things they can't touch.

He's tempted to say thank you, to Jim, for clamping down on the anger, but he doesn't. He lets it show in the slight sag of his shoulders, and the brief squeeze of a hand.

Jim takes the beer and reaches over to smack the cap of it off against the edge of an end-table. One day he'll introduce these people to the concept of a screw-on cap, but apparently that day isn't today.

He takes a swig, settles into the couch until his elbow's braced on the back of it and he can press the bottle against his temple. He's not thinking about war or pain or being alone throughout, he's thinking about dusty, endless roads in Iowa and everything they mean to him. Sometimes it felt like freedom, that he could walk anywhere and end up anywhere, and sometimes it felt like a cage, because there was nothing to find no matter how far he went.

Their world is brighter than Kyle's. With its Eugenic Wars and its systematic oppression and its political corruptions (It's got to be more than Robert April and Alexander Marcus and Commodore Daniels, how high up does the rot go?) and its hunger and thirst for war, it's still brighter than what Kyle faces.

It's why he doesn't say a word. He just takes another drink.

He takes another unopened bottle for himself, and a few quick seconds with a construct get the cap off. He puts it down on the table meticulously. He's not a tidy person, usually, but he is careful. Anything can be tool. Anything can be a weapon.

He pays attention to himself first, pouring in half a glass and taking a sip, vaguely remaining aware of Jim in his periphery. Maybe it's a good thing the telepathy's gone, he'd be tempted to brush the man's mind to get a feel of what he might be thinking.

Instead, he uses the old fashioned way. 'Headache?'

"As in, 'Not tonight, honey, I've got a--?'" Jim laughs, shakes his head. "No. Just been a long day."

Kyle reaches out, cups Jim's cheek briefly with his hand, before he lets it drop to his leg again. Jim doesn't like prolonged contact - or, he isn't really used to it, and the first time he met Kyle it had meant violence. Now it had to mean something else.

Changing connotations took time. He knew; he could wait.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject