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'It was the supermodels, wasn't it?'

He doesn't return the physical contact, but the cheerfulness is reciprocated in his tone.

"Definitely the supermodels." Jim sits back in his chair and laughs, hands braced on the shoulder rest of the chair. "Why's he got you learning all this stuff, anyway?"

Because I asked, Kyle doesn't say. Because I wasn't taught this, when I'd needed it.

'I was reliably informed it impressed the ladies. So here I am.' He gestures outwards with both hands, in a sort of "ta-dah".

"Hey, leave some for the rest of us, thanks. At this rate I'm going to have to give you a handicap." Jim salutes with his coffee cup and swings his leg over the chair seat so he can get up and saunter towards the kitchen in search of a second helping.

Kyle takes the time to pack up and put the books aside. He's had more than enough for one day. His messy notes, he stares at, debates torching them like he does with paintings he's not satisfied with. Eventually he decides that tearing them up works just as well.

Then he fetches a sketchbook and pen, opens it on a blank page, and ponders.

Jim, meanwhile, goes to do the morning's dishes. He's cheerful as he works, whistling off-key. He knows when Kyle needs his space, and doesn't have a problem letting him draw.

He takes a long time to think of a subject. His mind is still full of planets and gravitational fields and-- he thinks of the white sky on Thanagar, when he'd been there with Kilowog, attempting to clean up a mess that wasn't even theirs. Disobeying orders. That'd cost him Jen.

He almost starts to draw her, then decides otherwise. It's better to choose a different subject, he was drunk last night already.

So he picks one of the frontier worlds. and begins to sketch a few of the strange plants he'd catalogued there. Fully absorbed in his work, he doesn't notice anyone come in or out of the room, he's simply living in his own world.

Jim finishes up, slings a towel over his shoulder and saunters back into the living room, biting into an apple as he throws himself down on the couch. Just watching as Kyle draws.

It's interesting to watch him like this, it reminds him of the way Chekov gets absorbed in his work. Maybe it's a genius thing. He chews absently on a piece of apple and then shrugs to himself, grabs a book off the coffee table. It's one of the few that's in English, something by Joseph Conrad. He skims through the pages, but it doesn't hold his attention, so he just drapes one hand over his eyes and waits for Kyle to be done so they can go do something about the tribbles. Jim's on the verge of impatience, but it's not yet manic enough for him to need to move.

While drawing, his movements have always been liquid in a way that only shows when he's fighting. The latter has been learnt, hammered in by years of training and suffering, the former has been there since childhood and it innate nature shines through when he's at work. He brings the sketch to life slowly and purposefully, like he does a construct; a rolling ocean, its winds buffeting the onlooker. But not strong enough to blow them over, there's no storm.

Sometimes he stops, and chews on the end of the pen absently, but he always continues, forging onwards. He finishes what he starts, regardless of the result. Before this he was always hyperaware of Jim's presence, but now the man is simply.. there. Not threatening, or judgemental.

The sketch comes out with relative ease, before Kyle closes the book and puts the pen on down on top of it, looking at Jim expectantly. What now?

The closed book gets a curious glance, but Jim doesn't feel the need to ask to see it. The same way he doesn't feel the need to look, rifle through the book Kyle had given him in trust.

He swings his feet to the floor and then stands, with less immediate energy than what he's feeling. He sits there a moment, hands loosely linked together, elbows on his knees, and he turns his 'Fleet ring on one hand. He had it in his pocket when he was brought here, and has taken to wearing it since.

"Listen, about last night."

He doesn't realise how automatically defensive he becomes until his knees move closer to his chest and he nearly wraps his arms around them protectively. Kyle forces himself into a position more neutral and open, and studies Jim. The hesitation isn't a good sign.

'It's weighing on you, huh.'

Jim gives him a look that very clearly says, I wasn't done, let me talk. He knows that Kyle's expecting a fight, and part of him thinks it's cruel not to tell him what happened.

Which is why he takes a breath. Holds it briefly. Lets it out again. "I need you to know you aren't broken."

Maybe that tells him everything about what happened. He's usually cheery and in a singing mood, it probably means he wasn't anywhere near drunk enough if he'd been saying things like that.

But this... whatever this was between him and Jim, it was about sharing your burdens. Kyle meets his gaze.

'I was made to be unbreakable,' he replies, voice neutral and stoic. That was the truth: he was one of the strongest there was. 'But you can't deny a few things got... twisted along the way.'

I'm damaged goods.

Jim rolls his eyes faintly. That sounds too much like I deserved it, and that's... not something he wants or needs to see in Kyle. So he pushes himself to his feet and goes to stand next to where Kyle's sitting, half-drawn up, like he's still expecting a fight. Jim reaches out as if he's going to pick up that artbook, but instead he just puts his hand down flat against it, fingers slightly flexed.

"Then that's part of you. Just like everything else. I wouldn't like you if you weren't-- you. Come on, man, I let you sleep on my couch. That's gotta count for something." He's trying to tackle it from a lighter perspective. They've both had enough darkness, and sometimes Jim thinks they're both in danger of drowning from it.

He chuckles softly, his posture relaxing. On the surface they might expect conflict but he trusts Jim completely and implicitly, and even more, knows that trust won't be broken, and if it is, not lightly.

'And I made you breakfast. You're turning me into a proper housewife at this rate.'

It hurts to get light, now. It sounds too much like his own voice telling Damian he's fine as he is, and if he hasn't been every bit him, they wouldn't have their connection. This is similar and different all at once. Above all, Kyle just feels so damn tired. Of having to fight to get to know someone, to keep them, and to keep himself together when they eventually left. He'd somehow comforted himself with the knowledge that Jim dying was him leaving, too (because everyone died) and now that it wasn't there as the safety net he wasn't sure what to do at all.

Edited 2013-07-27 00:34 (UTC)

"You'd be a terrible housewife." Jim gives him a considering look, one arm folded across his torso with his hand cupping the opposite elbow all for the sake of him being able to prop his chin on his open palm. "Too tall, for one. And let's not get started on the fact you look like somebody who hogs the blankets." Jim drops his hand against Kyle's shoulder, a light pressure, there and gone. "Come on, let's go corral up some tribbles."

Surreptitiously, Kyle squeezes Jim's hand briefly before he gets up and stretches.

'That sounds awfully like a challenge. You be careful with those.'

His expression is the very epitome of 'who, me?' "The blankets or the tribbles?"

'Being a terrible housewife,' he remarks. 'Or the blankets, it's true, I do hog those sometimes. And I'm a cuddler.'

"Oh god, anything but that!" Jim laughs and steps away from him, heading for the door.

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