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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.

He doesn't visibly react to the gesture, save to meet Kyle's eyes, but afterwards he swings his legs to the floor and takes another long pull of beer, then he stands and heads to the kitchen. He is starving.

Edited 2013-07-17 14:09 (UTC)

Kyle doesn't move from where he is. He lets the ring set up the easel and paintbrushes, and prepare a fresh canvas. He's got time to paint but for some reason he always ends up burning a lot of what he makes when he's at Jim's. Not to be deterred, he just kept trying.

For now though, the beer was a better option.

He's never been much of a cook. Never had a need for it. It was cheaper to buy the bar special of the week than it was to get the fresh food to do it himself, and the Academy had a cafeteria that was open twenty-four hours every standard day. He knew how to make a few things, and those things he did damned well, but that was the extent of his culinary skill. Having someone else in his space was making him feel claustrophobic, and half of him just wanted to tell Kyle to leave. It's better on the Enterprise, if he needs to be alone he can just order people out of whatever room he's in and that's that.

He misses it, he realizes. Being in charge. Jim's not one to abuse his power but damn does he like having it, and the revocation of it hurts way worse than any broken leg, any torture inflicted. Jim rubs at his arm as he fries up eggs, focused a little too intently on the snap of grease in the skillet. Everything aches, suddenly, and Jim... Jim has to grip the countertop and remind himself to breathe.

McCoy's going to have a field day with his mental health when they finally sit down to do a mandatory review. Jim has every intention of putting it off as long as he can, but he knows that he's Not All Right, capital letters strictly for emphasis. He knows that any sound like snapping bone can throw him right back into the injury, it makes him break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. Being trapped-- hell, even being around Kyle or Spock in silence makes it hard to escape from that little room in his memory.

He flips the eggs. Pokes at them. Lets them settle.

Breathes. Counts the seconds. Releases it.

Then, "Hey, you want eggs?"

Jim's learning silence, or Kyle's forcing him to. Either way, he enjoys the peace and quiet, and having someone around. Space, when one got down to it, was infinite, black, and empty. Silent, too. The crushing, belligerent silence that made one think of an eerie calm before thunder.

He likes quiet, sometimes. He uses it, because it means real power, and not something that people just like to flaunt. He learnt that the hard way, when he stopped yelling and started doing, when he carried another man's sins (an entire Corps' sins). It's when the rookies ask Hal or Guy for stories and get an entire hour's worth, but the same question posed to John or Kyle would get one word, one sentence at best.

It's not victory if you're the last one left standing.

He starts at the question, and calls back, 'Yes, please.'

Jim slides the eggs onto a single plate with a couple of forks and pieces of toast, and then comes back out into the living room, hefting the whole thing aloft.

"Here. Whenever you want."

'No time like the present,' he says, cheerfully, and takes a plate, before he glances at the leg, wondering if he should ask about it.

But Jim's not really in the mood to beat around any sort of bush at all, so he arches an eyebrow. "What?"

'I was wondering if I should ask about your leg,' he says, simply, and honestly.

"Bones said it's healing straight, though, and there's a very good possibility he'll dedicate a cult to Sora's surgical abilities. But it's fine. I'll be wearing this cast for months, but it's fine."

He cuts up several pieces of egg with his fork and drops it onto the toast, folds it over and eats it. There's a bit of anger now in the way he moves, restrained but there regardless.

You're not fine, you're angry, he thinks, and doesn't know how to fix it. He himself went straight to a healer, he couldn't afford... pride. Like this.

He eats quietly, his own movements tidy, and serene. Still waters.

And in annoyance, "What?"

'Hm?' Kyle looks up, fork half in his mouth, tilts his head curiously. Words. He needs words. 'I didn't imply anything?'

"Oh my god, will you stop." Jim lifts a hand and just sort of shakes it out in frustration. "Just stop. That. Whatever that is."

He winces. 'Bad time, huh? Should I give you some space? Or.. do you want to talk about something?'

He's trying. Damnit, he's trying.

There's too many thoughts warring for higher ground in his mind.

(They tortured Spock, someone's hurting you, I only know what I can do, I can't be a Kirk in this house--)

And he doesn't want to think or talk about or address it at all, and he doesn't want to be around someone who's seen his scars and can read him well enough to know what they mean and where they came from.

How's our ship?

One of the lessons that keeps getting hammered into his brain here is humility. In a lot of ways it's less like moving forward and more like regressing to childhood, getting perfect grades and being perfectly silent in that old house and letting Sam be the target for everything.

Survivor's guilt? Christ, that was barely the half of it.

Jim stares down at his plate and then drops the toast back onto it. He's not hungry any more. "I'm losing my mind being here." There isn't much overt emotion tacked onto the statement. He might as well be talking about the weather or the turtle's health. Every line of his body language is screaming I'm fine! in a desperate bid to make it true, but it's only half working, and he sets the plate calmly and carefully on the coffee table.

Edited 2013-07-17 15:42 (UTC)

It's a bizarre situation, them being able to read each other. It had caused clashes because both of them hated it - being known - figured out so simply, but Kyle's learning that it's a double-edged sword. He knows when Jim needs help, but he's not sure if there's a door in between, whether he should offer anything in return. And Jim has his pride.

Kyle puts down the slice of toast but chews the fork, thoughtfully. He doesn't think of Jim as Corps, precisely, because first of all, Lanterns are hardened, sturdy people, taught to fight, survive and go on, and they'll keep doing that no matter where they are or who is (or isn't) with them. They expect bloodshed and suffering. Jim, on the other hand, he's an explorer. His world is bright, full of colours and sounds that Kyle doesn't know and can't touch, no matter how many times he runs his hands along the cracks in the walls.

And Jim's more volatile. He's a conflagration that needs Spock and McCoy to keep it in check, and Kyle knows Jim's not going to be talking about that because Kyle... doesn't have his people here.

But it's windows and blizzards again, and Guy is standing on a balcony saying You're a better man than I am. Gunga Din. And sometimes, the wind whistles through the leaves and sends ripples through the waters so they are no longer still.

'How can we ease it?' Because fixing it completely won't happen, not unless Jim's entire ship and crew get brought here, or he is sent home. Kyle goes for the next best thing.

"We don't," he says flatly. "I deal." And I learn how to go on. It never hit him, before, how much of his energy had gone into being prepared for his own death, the aching inevitability of it all. Now that door is closed and a million others have opened but he feels... cheated, in a way, of all the work that went into the acceptance, and worse by the fact that he's the only one.

He's the only one that gets to come back.

He didn't want to die, that much was true and real. But he didn't want-- he didn't want to be the only exception. Not for this. For everything else the world over, yeah. Of course. That's what he's been fighting for ever since he set foot in the Academy. Four years? I'll do it in three.

But this is the wrong kind of exception, the wrong way to break the rules, and it feels like the chance to change things, to make everything right has been ripped away from him entirely.

There's a vicious, bitter thought in the back of his mind, barely an echo, I wish I'd stayed dead.

But he squashes it, drowns it out amidst the anger and helpless rage.

He takes the fork out of his mouth and taps it on the plate, pursing his lips, as he studies a very fascinating (ha) part of the wall. There's a million things he can do, and maybe that's the problem. He's always had few options (learn or die) and the choice was clear. But with Jim, there's too many variables. One step could lead to a slippery slope and Kyle's not sure he's willing to face the consequences of this, even if he's willing to face everything else in his life and carry it with him.

'I've experienced true serenity,' he says, surprising himself with the words. 'I offered it to Spock, should he need it. It's yours, if you want it.'

Peace wouldn't know what to do with you, but he wonders if that's still the case now.

Jim stills. There's something about this that seems like a trap, and he wonders briefly, fleetingly, if Kyle's still playing chess. 'True serenity'? No, Kyle was right, peace doesn't know what to do with him. But maybe the reverse doesn't have to be true.

He doesn't want it, that much is clear. He shifts and it's in his body language, loud and screaming, because he doesn't deserve to have this burden eased, it's his and he needs to carry it. All those deaths and all the pain and the tremor in his voice when he said I'm scared, Spock. Help me not be. No one and nothing should touch that. It's become part of the foundation of who he is. He'll build on it and get stronger, but for now it's bare concrete and rebar and he's studying the architectural schematics that belong to the future.

But Kyle's offering something new. A challenge. Something to explore, something that isn't this damn, too-small city and the floating turtle and Jim tilts his head. He's not thinking, yes, this'll help me because he doesn't want it to help, he doesn't want to be less aware of everything that's brought him here. But it's new.

That's probably not the right reason to want it. But he raises an eyebrow. "If you're offering," if you mean it, "then yeah."

Edited 2013-07-17 16:39 (UTC)

Whatever the reason (and he ignores the silent disagreement, the I don't want to be at peace), he accepts it. They were different in this respect. Kyle needed it, to quiet the storm, to hold back the ocean of anger and sadness and guilt and terror or else his power would go out of control. And he needed peace of mind - focus - to do his job. The right level of detachment, because he dealt with solar systems and galaxies and sometimes it was just down to mere numbers when you had six distress calls within half an hour and not enough time to decide who to save.

He chews the spoon this time, distancing himself, and considering the facts. 'Hm. How does this mind-meld thing work, exactly?'

"It's psionics. It's supposed to bring two minds into one, it's-- a really personal thing, you don't do it with just anyone. And they never leave your mind once you're there. All those thoughts, memories, feelings, everything's transferred. Sometimes it's used as an interrogation method, if there's no other way, but Vulcans don't like it. They're peaceful. More than us." Humans, he means. He felt the way the elder Spock's mind reacted to the violence in him - sadness, understanding. A little pity. But warmth, too. At the friendship he had with Jim's counterpart.

He scrubs a hand through his hair. "But I'd rather not bring Spock into it, if he turned you down it was for a reason, and he'd get both of us at once. If there's no other way, forget it."

Kyle gives him a troubled look. 'Everything?'

Spock had turned him down because they were both unstable, but this... this was worrying. He still had mental defences and dark things inside his own mind, which he would rather keep locked.

"Not--" Jim exhales. He's not explaining it very well. "You can pick and choose specifics, but sometimes other things... bleed through. It's a powerful tool, but it's dangerous, and they don't like to do it outside their own race for a reason. Not a lot of people can handle the telepathic contact."

'Hm,' he says, thinking out loud, calculating the risk. He'd been trained, he was sure he could keep the doors shut, but he was also a little unstable, sometimes, when he was here.

The issue was if anything bled through they'd be saddled with his trauma, and it broke most people. Even other Lanterns.

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