boldygoing | The Party's Over [for losthunter]

Hunter feels lost about what to do right now.

He does not know what happened to Jim in the Nightmare realm. All he knows is that it appears like Jim went through literal Hell.

And every five seconds, he is glancing over his shoulder to see if Jim is still there. To make sure that the Starfleet captain does not disappear again. So he sees that Jim is still dealing with shock. He sees those hands trembling. He frowns at how unrecognizable the Halloween costume is... not because he worked so hard on it, but because it is a clear sign that Jim had faced a fight. Not once. But many times.

Jim has barely said a word since they left the Nexus cafe where the Halloween party had been held. And Hunter is still trying to make sense of it all. He was just so damn worried. It had been hard to really concentrate on anything else, once everyone else was returned to the Nexus cafe.

He doesn't know what to do. How to help.

The one thing that sticks out the most is how filthy and blood Jim is. And perhaps the offer of a shower would be a good start.

Hunter gently leads Jim into the bathroom, a small frown on his face when he notices how the other man fidgets. "Here... let's get you in the shower."

Jim doesn't fight the guiding hands, uncharacteristically cooperative. Even if it weren't for all the other copious clues to his mental state, that would be a dead giveaway to how Not Okay he currently is.

It's a good thing there isn't much clothing left to remove, because his hands are shaking a little too much to sort out the tangled mess of cloth around his shoulder enough to get it off. Beneath the bloodstained fabric is a series of deep punctures, an elongated crescent that looks unmistakably like some sort of animal bite mark. It's not actively bleeding anymore, but it's still raw and new, something that definitely wasn't there this morning.

Jim flinches at the hiss of the shower turning on, the warm water softly striking him and immediately turning pinkish-brown where it swirls down the drain. Beneath the rusty brown stains, there are dark bruises forming in scattered places across his body, including small marks on his face, and there's a cut on his right forearm that is too straight and deliberate to be made by anything other than a small blade of some kind. But there are no broken bones, no other injuries that would be responsible for the blood that's slowly washing away from his skin.

He holds up his hands, where the worst of it still clings under and around his fingernails, and shudders. "We killed him." He doesn't plan to speak, but he does anyway, his voice almost too loud in his own ears, in the confines of the shower.

There is no savaging the bloody clothing. So Hunter just drops each article in a little pile, planning to deal with them at a later time.

He frowns deeply at the sight of the crescent-shaped deep punctures. And as the shower starts to clean off the rusty brown stains of blood, he notices the dark bruises covering Jim's body. Hunter moves to the medicine cabinet, to find a tube of Polysporin that he could be used on the wounds, later.

He looks over at Jim, when he finally speaks. And moves back to the shower. Standing just outside of it... to give Jim a little space right now.

"Who?" He is not sure if Jim will answer. "Who did you kill?"

Jim had almost forgotten there was someone else there, but he doesn't jump at the sound of Hunter's voice, quiet and hesitant. He just keeps staring at his hands, his pulse beginning to race, breath quickening as he sees his own hands plunging the boot knife into Kodos' throat, soaking his hands in that monster's blood.

The blood still staining his hands, becoming stickier as the water rains down on him, pink rivulets running down and dripping from his elbows.

Who's the killer, Jim?

"We killed him," he repeats, a note of delayed panic creeping into his voice. Until now, he hasn't had the luxury of letting it sink in, letting himself truly realize what he went through, too focused on survival. But now that adrenaline is wearing off, the warm water washing away his single-minded focus on survival along with the filth of the Nightmare, exposing fresh raw wounds on his mind as well as his body. He starts to scrub at his hands, ineffectually, the motions slowly becoming more frantic as he tries to get the blood off.

"We killed him. We had to but we killed him," he rambles, only partly aware that he's answering at all, stuttering over his own words as he becomes more agitated. Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him... "He gave the order, we were too late, we had to stop it but it was just him, just him."

Edited 2017-11-25 23:55 (UTC)

Hunter watches, a little scared for Jim, as the other man frantically starts to scrub at his hands. And he knows that Jim is still in shock.

He has to try to get Jim to focus on what is real. So he moves slowly, stripping off his own clothing. And then enters the shower, inching forward carefully so that he doesn't accidentally trigger any of Jim's fight instincts.

He finds a wash-sponge, and gently pulls Jim closer to him, so he can help wash off the blood from the other man's body.

He doesn't know how much of what Jim faced was real... or not. So he doesn't even try to comfort Jim with false hope.

"It wasn't him. It was but it wasn't. It was him. He wasn't there before."

Well done. Well done. Slow, pitifully slow. But effective. How does it feel captain? How does it feel to be Just. Like. Me?

Jim shudders as hands grab at him, cruel squeezing fingers that shoved him through the mirror and into - no, no, it isn't Khan. Not Kodos either. These hands are gentle, careful. Taking his fingers and scrubbing softly at the stains there, gently washing away the physical reminders of what he did. The steam swirls up around them from the heat of the water, easing away some of the shivers, but it can't erase the memories, the feeling of hot blood spilling between his... claws?

Not claws. Soft pink human hands, tender and furless, the little scars around his knuckles familiar and comforting. His hands.

What... what happened? The last clear memory he has is the pain in his shoulder, a growing weakness spreading through his limbs, and then something rose in him howling and hungry and... and...

"I don't remember," he whispers, not resisting as Hunter pulls him closer to clean the bite wound on his shoulder, scrubbing in soft circles so it won't start bleeding again. "It's all mixed up."

Hunter has paused very briefly when Jim shuddered slightly, reacting to the first sensation of his touch. But when there is no defensive action, he continues with his goal. To try to clean the blood of Jim's body. It is all he can do right now.

He has no idea who Jim is talking about. And Jim is too confused right now to speak.

Hunter can't help with the mental anguish... but he can clean the flesh. He can be gentle and tend to the wounds. To get the stain of blood off Jim's body.

"I am here Jim. Try to focus on me." He whispers.

Jim gathers himself enough to try to help, fumbling hands combing through his hair and beard to rinse out the gunk of that horrible place. God, he can still smell it, even through the sharp menthol scent that he's pretty sure is burned into his sinuses, and he doesn't have any idea if it's real or in his head.

"It sent us back there," he says, stumbling over his words, horrified at himself but struggling to make Hunter understand. "Me and other me. Lived it all again but worse this time. Then I..." He stops, looking down at his hands again. "I don't... don't remember if I... ate."

He can't even begin to articulate what little he remembers of the last... hours? Days? ...that they spent in the Nightmare. The excitement of chasing someone through shadows and stark moonlight, the taste of blood on his tongue, a hunger that wouldn't stop. Feral. Monstrous.

Not the first time.

Hunter reaches to the shower caddy that holds all the lotions and soaps that he uses, to find a small bottle of shampoo that he bought a few months ago. A small sign of his acknowledgement that Jim spends some of his time at the apartment.

And pours just a little in his hand, to help massage it through Jim's hair, and help lift more of the grime and gunk from the other man.

There is only one place that Jim would consider enough of a Nightmare to be reacting this bad. Tarsus IV. And he leans forward just a little, to show Jim that he is still there. No matter what needs to be said.

And he knows that he can't comfort Jim right now. Because trying to tell Jim that he did eat might cause the wrong reaction. It might surface a memory that Jim really doesn't need.

Because even though Hunter doesn't know the whole story, he has seen enough of the pieces of what happened to connect the dots. The way Jim reacted during the cannibalism scene when they watched Pirates of the Caribbean Dead Man's Chest. Jim's reactions when he was forced to relive his nightmares, due to Austin's magic. He knows, without being told.

"Fuck... Jim. I'm sorry you had to live through that again."

The familiar touch is somehow strange now, but still soothing, and part of Jim takes some solace in the fact that Hunter understands. Not everything. Not even close. But enough. Because there's no way in hell he's with it enough to give a proper debrief. The captainly persona he normally projects is shattered and broken into a million pieces, and all that's left is just Jim, feeling as small and lost as he was when he came back from Tarsus IV the first time.

He takes in a shuddering breath and lets it out. "It wasn't... just that. Something... happened... to me. I don't..." He stops himself, aware now just how scattered his thoughts are, trying desperately to pull himself back together. His hand drifts up to the bite mark on his shoulder, wincing at the memory of being shaken like a ragdoll by the massive beast. The other captain's friend.

He swipes his tongue over his lower lip, nervous and dreading the answer. He vaguely remembers insisting on not going home earlier, too frightened by the thought of the full moon waiting to greet him on his own Earth. "What... what's the moon look like now?"

It is so strange to see Jim acting so differently than usual. His emotions are so raw. He seems so vulnerable.

And Hunter listens carefully when Jim speaks. He is not sure what the other man is trying to say. But notices how Jim touches that bite mark on his shoulder.

"The moon?" Hunter doesn't understand why that would make Jim nervous. "I didn't really stop to look..." He was honestly too worried for Jim.

"Do you want me to go check on what phase it is in?"

Edited 2017-11-26 05:36 (UTC)

The moment Hunter says the word go, Jim's heartrate immediately spikes and he grabs the other man's arm to stop him from moving away. "No. Don't... don't leave me alone. Please."

Part of him is still afraid that this isn't real. That if Hunter walks away and leaves him by himself, then he'll wake up back in the Nightmare, starving and desperate. Or worse. He hasn't been alone since before the party, not that he remembers. Hunter isn't his counterpart, didn't experience the same horrors that they relived in living, nauseating color. But after spending what feels like weeks sticking close to the only person he could trust, the idea of being alone is unnerving at best.

At least by now, he's pretty much clean, the paleness of his skin making his injuries stand out all the more. And he's actually responding to Hunter now, not just rambling hysterically without any context.

Hunter bites his bottom lip when Jim grabs him. And moves forward to gently wrap his arms around Jim. "I'm here. I am not leaving..."

He wants to promise that he would never leave. But he doesn't know what Jim experienced in the Nightmare. Did someone else make that promise? Did someone else leave?

So he just keeps that promise in his heart, while he embraces Jim gently. Letting the shower wash over both of them.

Jim shivers despite the warm water softly striking his back, clinging tightly to Hunter. You left him. You left him you left him you left him...

"Stop it." His voice is small, a whisper to himself muffled against the body of the man holding him in his arms, disturbed by the vague impressions he remembers from... whatever came after the bite. It wasn't him. He was there. You didn't leave him. You didn't eat him.

"How... long... were we gone?" he asks, once he can trust his voice not to crack or waver, to choke down the screams that still howl in his heart. To force them down into that dark place where he buried those memories before, out of sight but not out of mind, the ghosts of that horrible place clinging to him damn near every day of his life.

Hunter knows that Jim isn't talking to him, when he says Stop it, so does not let go of the other man. He stays close, so he can just try to ease the other man's fears as much as possible. He strokes his hands down Jim's back.

"A few hours." Hunter responds softly. "None of us really knew what happened. Steve and Faris went after a spider creature, who we had thought had taken the cage. And then April told us about the Nightmare realm. There was a small group that gathered to try to open up a gate between the dimensions. So they could try to rescue you all."

That startles him, cutting even through the pain and shock that still wracks his body, and he pulls back enough to search Hunter's face for the truth. "What?"

Only hours? The fuck? How is that possible?

There's the barest hint of the Captain briefly clawing his way to the surface, trying to assert himself in the shreds of what remains of his psyche, still shaken and battered and broken. "We were... it can't just be hours. We were starving." That couldn't happen in hours, could it? No, he's been there. That wasn't even the nagging hunger of a few skipped meals, it was the roaring, gnawing emptiness of going weeks without, driving him towards the most difficult decision he's ever made in his entire life.

Edited 2017-11-26 19:30 (UTC)

Hunter gently touched Jim's face. Concerned when Jim is startled by his answer.

"From what I understand, those in the Nightmare realm experienced time differently than the rest of us. Sort of like how, in the Nexus, a few days can pass... but you go home and very little time has passed."

"So you could have been gone... longer."

Okay. Okay. Don't panic. It's fucking over and there's nothing you can do to change it, Jim.

It doesn't matter, apparently, his pulse speeding up again, vision skittering past Hunter and into some middle distance for a moment as Jim fights to pull himself together, to keep himself from flying apart. He was so hungry, then. But now he isn't, not like that. Just normal hunger, like he's a few hours late for lunch.

What... what did I do?

He doesn't remember. But... nobody said that anyone was still missing, right? When they all... got back. But maybe someone had gotten pulled into the Nightmare and no one noticed, and when they didn't return... But maybe it's all just paranoia, and it haunts him that he doesn't know.

He swallows hard, forcing down the nausea before it gets any worse, old fear gnawing away at him not to waste anything he's already eaten, no matter ~~who~~ what it was. "I... I think I'm... ready to get out now."

His hands are clean, the blood scrubbed out from under the fingernails and from the cracks in his palms, even though he can still see it in his mind's eye. Won't stop seeing it for a while, he's pretty sure. What, will these hands ne'er be clean? But staying here in the shower longer won't help, won't wash away the black marks from his soul, just as it can't wash away the bruises in his flesh.

"Okay..." Hunter steps out of the shower first, moving away for a moment to grab a couple of towels. He wraps one around his waist.

And he guides Jim out of the shower. "I am going to put some Polysporin on you first..." He tells the other man. Then proceeds to use the ointment to gently cover the bruises and new marks that cover Jim's body.

Then with that done, Hunter wraps Jim in a towel, and pulls him close for another embrace. He hates seeing Jim like this. So lost. So uncertain of himself.

The hot water has helped ease the shock a bit, Hunter's efforts helping Jim keep himself anchored to the here and now, grasping for any purchase on solid ground as the storm of his own memories try to sweep him away. The sting of his wounds as they're touched and treated is as much a reminder as the gentle hands tending to him, not sealed up like they would be with modern medical technology, without even a scar to mark that they were there in the first place. He flinches only slightly as his arm is wrapped up to protect the deep cut there, as a large, soft square of gauze is settled and taped onto his shoulder over the bite mark.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror over Hunter's shoulder, and for a moment, it doesn't make any sense. Doesn't match what's in his head. But he doesn't know what he expected. A scrawny, stick-thin thirteen year old boy... or the hulking, hungry monster that clawed its way out of human flesh to roam unfamiliar streets in search of prey.

But no. It's just Jim. White bandages and dark bruises boasting of his war wounds, but still an adult, still human. Still himself.

Whoever that is.

Those gentle arms wrap around him again, and he leans into them, utterly lost. His whole world has been turned upside-down and inside-out and he no longer knows which way is up anymore, and all he has to hold onto is the warm body held against his. "I don't know what to do now," he confesses quietly.

Hunter doesn't know what to do either. All he can do is to try to keep Jim safe. To keep him close. To embrace him. To love him.

And it stings a little knowing that Jim went through Hell, and there is nothing he can do to make it better.

"I can make a small lunch." Hunter doesn't want Jim to try to think about the last time he ate. Instead, offer him food right now.

"Yes." His answer is out of his mouth almost before Hunter is finished suggesting it. Anything to chase away even the slightest hunger pangs, to quiet the ghosts that have risen up from walking the streets of that awful place. Food, real food, not the scraps he managed to scavenge on his luckier days, or... what he had when things were worse.

He lets himself step back, desperately trying to act normal, to scrape up what's left of James T. Kirk and pour it into the shattered vessel that remains. This is normal. He can do this. He can. For Hunter's sake.

The tremor in his hands is still there, but far less than it was, and Jim runs a hand through damp hair as he tries to compose himself. What's step one? He knows that he knows this one. He takes in a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. Step one. Clothes. That's right. A towel will only get him so far. And while he has no shame in his body, right now he needs that extra layer of armor to protect him from the world, something comfortable and familiar. Normal.

"I need... clothes." He doesn't want to stray too far, to let Hunter out of his sight, to be alone even for a moment. Not yet. But the apartment is so open, wide open spaces that maybe he won't have to.

Despite the fact that most of Hunter's apartment is open concept, there is no sight lines between the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. And since Hunter doesn't want to make Jim feel abandoned, he makes a plan in his head.

"Clothes first." He guides Jim into the bedroom first. There is a drawer in Hunter's dresser that is dedicated to keeping Jim's clothing. There are small signs of Jim all over the apartment, if one wants to see them. The shampoo in the shower. The extra toothbrush by the sink. Jim's clothing in the drawer. A selection of holo-novels that Jim has left behind. The ration bars that are still stored safely in the kitchen.

Hunter too decides to get dressed into a comfortable pair of pajama bottoms and a simple muscle shirt. He will wait until Jim is dressed, before heading towards the kitchen. And pulls some fruit and cheese out of the fridge.

He doesn't know how much to make. He doesn't want to overload Jim, but just give him enough to feel that he has real food in his stomach.

All of Jim's outfits he keeps stored here are civilian clothes, but that's all right. He doesn't feel much like a Starfleet officer at the moment, let alone a captain, even less than he did when he was still in the hospital after the Vengeance incident. He stares down into the drawer at the folded shirts and pants, damn near overwhelmed by the choice, before he just reaches into the drawer and pulls out the first items that meet his outstretched hand. Black sweatpants, a soft cotton tee-shirt with the faded logo of the Academy command division across the chest. He hisses through his teeth when he raises his arm, pulling at the bite on his shoulder, slipping the soft material over the bandages.

He leaves his feet bare, and there's something weird about the varnished wood under his toes, like his body had forgotten how this is supposed to feel. His steps are hesitant as he follows Hunter back out into the main apartment, staring down at his feet. Not paws, no claws, the pads of his feet more sensitive now. Human.

He pauses for a moment at the kitchen, watching Hunter rummage through the refrigerator to find something for them to eat, before his gaze is drawn to the nearby cupboard, its door just like any other, but behind it... Jim opens the door and pulls out the small crate, setting it down on the counter and opening it up. Still almost full, only missing two, pilfered from his stash during the curse he'd endured... how long ago?

Doesn't matter. Still mostly full. Jim quickly counts them under his breath, making sure they're all there. Not compelled to eat any, just... look. Reassure himself that there's plenty here if he needs it.

Edited 2017-11-26 23:09 (UTC)

Hunter just glances at Jim briefly, when the other man pulls out the small crate of ration bars. He does not say a way as Jim counts them. He understands why. And anything that might help calm Jim right now is only a good thing.

He starts with cleaning off the fruit. He has some apples, peaches, oranges, grapes, watermelon. He also has some vegetables, celery, cucumbers, carrots. The larger fruit gets washed and cut up into smaller slices. The vegetables also get cut up, into bite-sized offerings. Finally, Hunter brings out a few different cheeses, cubing them into smaller bite-sized squares.

He sets out a large plate for them to both enjoy. And pours a large glass of water for both of them too. "Anything else?"

Jim counts the crate of ration bars three times before he feels reassured enough to latch the lid and put it back in the cupboard, hiding it behind the door. Safe. Just in case he needs it, in case the worst should happen. But the sight and smells of freshly cut vegetables and fruit helps ease those worries, giving him the fortitude he needs to turn his back on the hidden stash and walk away.

There's plenty of food. He's allowed to have it. Doesn't have to resort to choking down ration bars in secret before they can get taken away, well-meaning doctors on the rescue ship insisting that it's too much, too fast, cruelly depriving him of what he so desperately needs.

It doesn't even register that there's no meat on the plate, a merciful omission that he'll be thankful for later. There's only one thing he notices missing, can't have a proper meal without it, can't have it without the grain that lay rotting in the fields. "Bread. Please," he adds belatedly, just enough of his self-awareness still hanging on to try to act like a human being. Not sure if he even is one anymore.

What am I? He shivers briefly, not sure he wants to know the answer.

He silences the voice in his head as best he can, questing fingers immediately snatching up one of the apples, red and ripe and crisp, and he curls it into his chest for a moment protectively, almost like an animal guarding its food from being stolen by others. You're allowed, he reminds himself, trying to force himself to relax, biting into the juicy fruit. Sweet and tart on his tongue, nothing at all like anything he ever had to eat on Tarsus IV, not at all like the meat he fears he's eaten.

Hunter gives Jim a small smile at the request for bread. He reaches into the freezer, where he pulls out pre-made dough, that had been kept safe until the next time he wanted to prepare some homemade bread.

He prepares the oven, and pops in the dough, knowing that it won't take long for the smell of bread to fill the kitchen. And maybe that will help ease Jim's mind.

Hunter feels a little weird, watching the other man so carefully. Checking to see how he is dealing with the shock. And notices how Jim curls the apple into his chest for a moment. Possessive about the food.

Because it had only been a few hours for Hunter, he is not really hungry. So most of the food is there for Jim. But he doesn't want Jim to feel watched, or that he is eating alone. So Hunter just takes a few offerings from the plate.

There are so many questions on his mind. But now is not the time to ask them. So they sit in silence.

Despite the fear, the memories of the ravenous hunger that continue to haunt every bite, Jim does not rush to devour his meal. He eats slowly and methodically, thoroughly chewing every mouthful like he's afraid it might not go down otherwise, memories of a voice he doesn't recognize telling him he has to eat slow, take it easy, he could die if he eats too much too fast. He's not that starving thirteen-year-old anymore, not a bony little waif with skin stretched too tight over shrunken muscles, but he has the vague impression of running a lot, wasting so much energy again and again when his stomach was already so empty, and he doesn't want to take any chances, at the mercy of old habits that control his every bite.

The smell of baking bread is a soothing one, a smell they never had on Tarsus, not after the crops died. And bit by bit, as he fills his stomach and quiets the hunger, he slowly pulls himself more fully into the present. He isn't okay. But the shock is easing, letting him try to put himself back together, piece by piece, like fitting shards of a broken mirror back together. Splintered, broken, and ugly, full of sharp edges ready to cut careless fingers, but braced together in the frame, in the same shape they used to be.

Even once he reaches the point where he should stop, he continues to eat until the plate is cleared, eating whatever Hunter won't, not even thinking about the possibility of leaving anything behind. Even the apple is eaten down to the stem and seeds, not even the core left. He still feels uncomfortable in his own skin, the discomfort preferable to the nausea and bone-deep pain he'd suffered earlier, and now that there's nothing to do with his hands, he stares down at them, uncertain if he can even meet the eyes of the man next to him.

"It was a werewolf," he says at last, his voice steadier than it's been since returning from the Nightmare.

It is moments like this one, when Hunter knows that he is truly in love with Jim. He doesn't just love the 'facade' of the Starfleet Captain (though there is a certain attractiveness to Jim when he is control, in command-mode). He has seen enough of the rawness of the real Jim to know that what he feels is real.

And all he wants to do is be there for the other man. Any way possible.

So he just lets Jim eat as much as he wants. And when the oven dings, he pulls the bread out to let it cool on the counter-top for a little bit.

He looks at Jim when he mentions the werewolf. And he connects the dots between the bite mark, and Jim asking about the phase of the moon.

"And are you afraid that you were infected?"

Edited 2017-11-27 01:33 (UTC)

Jim shakes his head, not even sure how to begin to explain how he feels, the awful thoughts that still eat away at him, whispering things he doesn't want to hear. "I was. I did." He still can't meet Hunter's gaze, possibly the only thing that's keeping him from panicking again. It was real. It really happened.

"It was after... after we got out of Tarsus." His hand drifts up to his shoulder again, lightly pressing at the padded bandage beneath the shirt, as if testing to see if it's still there. Not really sure what he's expecting. "We were somewhere else. I don't know... where. But I got bit. Thought... thought it was bloodloss. But then I... it was like... something clawing its way out of me." He shudders, hunching over slightly, self-protective, arms wrapped around himself as if he's afraid it'll happen again. "I don't remember much after that. Just... pieces."

Hunter reaches across the table to take one of Jim's hands in his own. Showing support for the other man, as he speaks about one of the things that happened to him in the Nightmare realm.

And he moves closer to Jim, when the other man hunches slightly, pulling his arms around himself. His hand still stays entwined with Jim's.

There is proof that events in the Nightmare realm did leave a physical mark on Jim. So many bruises. The bite. And Hunter knows that the burning question is if the infection is still a concern.

"We could speak to Hermione. She could help..."

Jim doesn't say yes or no, just squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head. Fuck, he's so messed up, the whole of the Nightmare driving him deeper and deeper into his own horrors. He may be physically free of that place, but it'll never leave him.

Never.

"I don't wanna hurt you too. I remember chasing... something. I don't know if I..." He can't finish the sentence, its twin echoing in his head from earlier, part of the disjointed sentences he'd managed to get out past a tongue thick with panic. I don't remember if I ate.

Deep breath. Let it out. Again.

James Tiberius Kirk. Captain. SC937-0176CEC. James Tiberius Kirk. Captain. SC937-0176CEC.

Later, he'll be surprised at himself for his command training taking over, saving him from the torture of his own thoughts, inserting itself into his thought processes and taming the rising fear, forcing him into the rigid pattern. Name. Rank. Serial number. Repeat.

James Tiberius Kirk. Captain. SC937-0176CEC.

He uncurls from around himself, raising his eyes to meet Hunter's, his terror held under control by training and willpower alone, the only thing keeping him together. "Did everyone make it out?"

Edited 2017-11-27 02:29 (UTC)

"You won't hurt me." Hunter doesn't want Jim to push him away. Not now. Not after almost losing him again.

And he can't answer Jim's unspoken question. Doesn't know if he did eat in the Nightmare realm. He feels so upset about the fact that there are unanswered questions. Things that will continue to haunt Jim.

Hunter gently touches Jim's face. "April said there were 19 people who were taken in the Nightmare realm. 19 people came back out. Hermione did a head count. She made sure that everyone who was gone... had returned."

Jim's breath hitches in his chest, and he blindly grabs at Hunter. Nineteen people in. Nineteen people out. He hadn't seen any corpses. He remembers that much. "Then I didn't." The relief is crushing, still twisted with guilt but answering the question he'd dreaded the answer to most. Maybe he bit somebody else. Maybe he hurt them, scared them, trapped them in the same feral hell he'd descended to. But he didn't kill anybody. Not from the Nexus.

He doesn't even realize that he's crying from the sheer magnitude of that realization, hot tears streaming silently down his face, just holding onto Hunter like he's the only thing keeping him from blowing away in the wind. His lifeline. One fear in a countless sea of them, laid to rest. It doesn't mean he didn't kill or... eat... anything else. But he knows now that he didn't bring home pieces of anyone else from the party inside himself, sacrificed to sate the monster's hunger.

Hunter wraps his arms around Jim again. Just embracing the other man, as Jim had one of his questions answered. Hunter is just glad that he had overheard Hermione, when she was doing some field recon after everyone had returned.

His attention had been on Jim... and he had not checked on the others. He was a little selfish in that. And he wonders if he could have done more.

Hunter doesn't call attention to the fact that Jim is crying now.

"I'm here..." Hunter whispers softly. Just trying to be that reassuring presence that Jim needs right now.

Edited 2017-11-27 03:08 (UTC)

Jim holds onto him for a long few minutes, unable to care that he's soaking Hunter's shirt with tears that just don't seem to want to stop, or that the position he's in is pulling at his wounded shoulder. He didn't kill anyone. He didn't.

He finally pulls himself together, leaning away enough to swipe at his eyes. God, I'm such a mess. "Sorry." It's all he can think to say, so inadequate to make up for just straight-up fucking falling apart in Hunter's kitchen, for being nothing more than a broken shell. Not even a person anymore.

Maybe.

He takes another breath. James Tiberius Kirk. Captain... "Hermione... can tell if I'm still dangerous?" he asks.

Hunter gently uses his thumb to wipe away a few of those tears from Jim's face. He shakes his head at the apology. Silently telling Jim it is okay to fall apart around him. It will be their secret. Hunter is here for him to have someone to fall apart on.

"She comes from a world with werewolves. She would know what to do."

But maybe there is a test they can do now, without calling Hermione. Hunter takes Jim's hand. And lifts it to guide Jim's thumb over the tree piercing that is on his forehead. The piercing that is pure silver.

"Tell me. Does it feel weird? Does it hurt to touch the piercing?"

Silver.

Maybe. Maybe that will work. Jim doesn't know if it works that way. If all the werewolf stereotypes are true. The bite, yes... the moon... maybe? He remembers staring up at it as venom from the bite worked its claws deep into him, the stark light looming large overhead, hypnotic. But the one that bit him was undead somehow, and he doesn't remember that being part of the mythology.

But maybe. It won't hurt to try.

He doesn't hesitate to touch the tree, even as he braces for blistering pain. It's never stopped him before. Pain is part of life, intertwined with the identity of James T. Kirk for his entire life. And now, as his battered and bruised body complains about the abuse he's put it through today, what's one more?

But the piercing is simply smooth metal under his fingers, just slightly colder than Hunter's body heat, igniting no fire in his fingers where he's touching the silver. "No," he says, bewildered. How can that be? He knows he changed. Can still feel the low-grade fever burning beneath his skin, the mild ache in his joints. Can't tell if it's some kind of post-transformation symptom or... something else?

He pulls back his hand to inspect it, confused at the lack of burns. Nothing. He reaches back out and touches the tree again, pressing his whole hand against it. Still nothing. "I don't... I don't understand."

Hunter leans into the touch. He is still very tactile to the sensation of a gentle touch to his face. He had thought that he would never have this again. This moment of being touched by his lover. His partner. His love.

He watches Jim carefully as he pulls his hand away to inspect it for a moment. Then reaches out to touch the piercing again. "We can still get Hermione to check for any signs of infection."

"But maybe, the transformation was restricted to the Nightmare realm?"

Jim pulls his hand back again, staring at it in utter confusion. He'd thought he was getting a handle on this, but no, here it goes, pulling the rug out from under him again. He can't even trust his own body anymore, unable to trust his mind, flayed raw and vulnerable. It's damn near enough to break a man.

He's already cracked, certainly.

"But the bite," he protests, stuttering uncharacteristically, the words tripping over his tongue in their haste to be heard. "That came through. Everything else. I don't... I don't trust it."

Fucking pull yourself together!

Deep breath. Let it out. Repeat.

Think, Jim. "It's not a full moon, right? Even if... I am still... I won't turn again right now," he says, seeking Hunter's face, needing this reassurance. Needing to know that he isn't a threat, not right now. If it turns out the silver test is useless, then they can deal with that later. But right now he just needs to be safe. Safe from himself, safe to be around others - around Hunter. His body has run ragged and he should have collapsed ages ago, only adrenaline and sheer terror keeping him going.

"Then we will get Hermione to definitely confirm it. Either way..." Hunter leans forward, gently touching Jim's face again. He frowns at the stuttering. He has never seen Jim this way. He is struggling so hard to pull himself together.

Hunter glances towards the windows. He can see the moon from the kitchen.

"It is a half moon tonight."

"You must be exhausted." Hunter moves to place a tablecloth over the bread, so it will stay fresh until the morning. There is no other food that needs to be stored in a safe place. "Let's try to get you into bed..."

The food's safe. Won't be going anywhere. Hidden on the table, an obvious place to look, but... it'll have to do. Jim nods a little, not trusting his voice, unsure what he would even say. Not even confident that this will work. Hunter's right; Jim is exhausted, wrung out until there's nothing left. But his mind won't quit, and he can only dread what's coming as he watches himself get up from the table, as if he's just an observer in his own body, carrying out his nightly routine in the bathroom on autopilot.

This isn't going to end well.

But what else can he do?

He's not sure he should sleep next to Hunter tonight. Not sure if he can trust himself not to freak out, or even just disturb the other man's sleep from tossing and turning, or worse, if he starts screaming. Or... howling. But the idea of being alone is just as terrifying as it was when he was still in shock, left alone with only his shattered self for company, no one to pull him back from the brink if he tips over the edge.

He won't impose. He can't. Can't make this decision, can't push it on Hunter, even if he thinks he knows what the answer is. Can't assume anything anymore. "Where do you want me?" he asks hesitantly, not quite looking towards the bed.

Hunter knows that this will be a difficult night, for both of them. This night is a lot different than the one where Jim was affected by Austin's magic. The Nightmare realm might have brought back many of the same memories... and made Jim live through the worst part of his life again... but it also inflicted a new terror in the other man.

So when Jim pauses in the bedroom, asking where he should sleep, Hunter moves on autopilot himself. He takes Jim's hand in his own, and guides him to the bed. He gets in first, before gently pulling Jim to lay beside him.

He knows that Jim might awaken to nightmares tonight. That neither of them will have an easy sleep. But Hunter feels that maybe it would give Jim just a little security, to have someone holding him tonight.

"Here... I want you by my side. Always." Hunter finally speaks.

Edited 2017-11-27 05:18 (UTC)

Jim is used to being a leader. Embracing his independence, striding forward to make his own decisions, leading both by order and by example. But the captain isn't here right now. He goes along passively, allowing Hunter to maneuver him into bed. His body is sore, aching, uncomfortable. Shouldn't have eaten so much, but didn't want to waste it, too afraid not to eat it all. It takes him a few minutes to find a comfortable position that doesn't press too hard on his injuries, where his limbs don't ache too badly from the post-transformation stress, his body heat a few degrees warmer than normal against Hunter's side.

His body is exhausted, but his mind keeps going, floundering with what to do with soft sheets and a breathing body against his own, so foreign after the grit and blood of Tarsus and the Nightmare that came after. He needs to sleep. He has to. But his eyes refuse to close, too afraid of what he'll see on the other side.

"Sorry," he mutters into the darkness, guilt tugging at his chest. "In advance."

"You are here, with me..." Hunter strokes his fingers through Jim's hair. "Try to focus on me. Maybe it will keep the memories away for a little bit."

He knows why Jim is apologizing. That there is nothing either of them can do tonight to keep the nightmares from tormenting Jim tonight.

"I love you." Hunter wants Jim to focus on that fact. It is all he can give right now.

I love you.

What... what does he even say to that? Hunter doesn't know what he's done. Doesn't know that he took a man's life, no matter if he had to do it. That he put his blade in Kodos' throat and felt nothing, neither revulsion nor triumph, just stood there and watched the life drain from the man's mouth. Until he stood back up again and applauded their slow, inexorable transformation into Khan, a monster far worse than the worgen that took Jim's body and filled him with a terrible hunger.

Werewolf or not... he's a monster anyway.

How can he be with someone so good, so open and accepting? Someone who doesn't seem to give a shit what crimes he's committed, what danger he poses. How does Jim Kirk deserve something like love?

He lets out a breath and rests his forehead against Hunter's shoulder, guilty and selfish, undeserving of such kindness. Yet at the same time, he craves it, needs those little scraps of affection as much as he needs food, just as desperate to cling to what little he can find for himself. Always afraid that it'll be taken away. "I know."

I know

It might not be the typical response. But it is enough just hearing Jim that he knows. It means the world to Hunter for Jim to know that he is loved. Accepted.

He doesn't know the doubts that are weighing on Jim's mind right now. He can't address the concerns. The guilt. The fact that Jim views himself as a monster right now.

He just holds Jim close to him. Grateful to have the other man in his arms again. Content to give him a safe place for a few moments.

Hunter closes his eyes. They both need to try to sleep. And while he is uncertain if Jim will actually be able to find peace tonight... a part of him hopes that he can keep the nightmare memories at bay for a little bit. Just enough to allow Jim to rest and try to reclaim himself.

Edited 2017-11-27 07:05 (UTC)

Jim lies awake for a long time.

It isn't that he doesn't try to sleep. The longer he lies in one position, the more the dull ache in his bones nags at him until he has to shift, even if only slightly. The slightest soft sounds in the house set his brain to Red Alert, snapping him to full alertness until he can convince himself that there's no danger, and he damn near works himself into a panic attack when he finally realizes he's unarmed, his knife lost somewhere in the depths of the Nightmare. Never mind that Hunter is safer if he doesn't have it, never mind that he's more of a danger to himself with it than without it.

You're safe, Jim. Breathe.

It's difficult for him to relax his guard after being in survival mode again for so long. But eventually the exhaustion drags him down, like being pulled underwater and held there until the bubbles stop, darkness creeping in until it's all he can see. And for a time he sleeps like the dead, finally broken and empty of horrors that are pushed aside for later.

That doesn't last either.

He wakes more than once with an unvoiced cry on his lips, breaths wheezing in his chest, eyes darting around the darkened room without really seeing it until he finally recognizes where he is. Runs his hands across his body to check for fur and finds only smooth skin. And at least once, when he miraculously doesn't wake Hunter, he stumbles out of bed and checks the entire apartment for threats, unable to rest until he's certain there's no threats lurking in the shadows, that the bread on the table remains untouched, that the ration bars are all still accounted for. Hating himself all the while, powerless to stop the compulsion by doing anything other than what it demands, an endless stream of what if what if what if running through his thoughts.

It's not a restful, healing sleep. Not when he wakes so often, not when the fear still nags at him despite everything he's done to reassure himself. But he does get some sleep, a little at a time, and the longer it lasts, the more familiar it feels.

Edited 2017-11-27 15:19 (UTC)

Hunter is not quite aware of how little Jim sleeps. For him, the presence of Jim in the bed close to him is enough to allow him to sleep properly.

It took him a little to get truly lost into slumber, since Jim was unable to properly fall asleep himself at first. He can feel when Jim snaps to full alertness, can sense Jim looking around to make sure he is safe. In those moments, Hunter just places a hand on Jim's shoulder, reminding him that he is safe.

When exhaustion finally claims Jim, sleep claims Hunter. And he doesn't waken when Jim wakens in the middle of the night. Doesn't move when Jim stumbles out of bed and checks the entire apartment.

There is a slight movement in the shadows, since one occupant of the apartment has noticed that Jim is awake. Soon, he is being followed by Crookshanks. Who watches Jim curiously as the human checks for threats, checks the bread, checks the ration bars. And Crookshanks continues to follow Jim, until the human returns to the bed. The half-Kneazle waits for Jim to get settled, then jumps up on the bed, to curl beside the Starfleet Captain.

The half-Kneazle will watch over Jim, if that helps the man to find some rest. Nothing gets past a Kneazle, when they are guarding someone they care about.

The sudden movement startles Jim, the bed dipping slightly under the cat's weight, and he's halfway through raising empty fists to defend himself, heart pounding out of his chest, when he hears the sound of purring. "Crookshanks?" he whispers uncertainly, and fur touches his hands, not coarse and shaggy like the worgen, but soft and fluffy.

The purring is a soothing sound, and when the little feline curls up against his side, Jim's hand seems drawn to him, soft fur under his fingers. A brief, stupid thought flicks through his mind that he hopes he doesn't smell like wet dog, and the ghost of a laugh wheezes past his lips, not really funny so much as absurd after the day he's had. But it's something, anyway. A small shelter from the storm of fear and uncertainty.

He's not sure if he'll feel safe for a long time. But with Hunter on one side, and a purring cat on the other, it's the closest he's felt in a while. And he finally manages to drift off to restless, but continual, sleep. Dreams of chasing something, running on all four paws beneath the light of the moon, and the cold dead eyes of Kodos.

Crookshanks arches his head into Jim's uncertain touch. Purring even louder to remind the human that the house is protected. The Kneazle is here.

The rest of the evening is quiet. It is not until the morning when Hunter awakens to sounds in the kitchen, of Hermione preparing breakfast.

He turns to wrap his arm around Jim, and has to laugh with his hand touches Crookshanks. He is content to stay in bed, until Jim is fully awake.

Jim is not resting peacefully, twitching occasionally in his sleep, muttering under his breath but not entirely awake. It isn't until a particularly loud noise comes from the direction of the kitchen that he lurches fully awake, momentarily disoriented at his surroundings. Where...?

Oh.

He coughs lightly, pretty sure he knows whose arms are wrapped around him, and the source of the gentle rumbling against his side. "Morning," he mumbles, wrestling his thoughts in order. Hunter's apartment. Crookshanks. Must be Hermione in the other room.

James Tiberius Kirk. Captain... Not a werewolf. Human hands. Not on Tarsus.

It's a little easier to accept, this time around. He's not that rested and he's not okay, still cracked and broken, and the bruised parts of his body protest at the movement after stiffening up overnight, especially his shoulder. But the fever is gone, and he doesn't feel like he's going to fly apart at the slightest touch either. His body has made use of what little rest he did manage to get, giving him enough energy to face the day, whatever it brings.

As long as it's a better day than yesterday.

"Morning." Hunter can sort of tell that it was not a restful night for Jim. But he hopes that the other man was able to get some rest last night.

"Hermione is likely making porridge for breakfast." It has become a routine for him and her, for the last couple of days. She makes breakfast. He makes supper. They sometimes meet up for lunch, depending on their schedules.

Crookshanks stretches out besides Jim, blinking up at the two men as they speak. Are they staying in bed? He isn't moving until a decision has been made.

Porridge? Jim gives Hunter an uncertain, slightly suspicious look. That's what you feed to sick people, or someone who hasn't eaten solid food in weeks. He choked down his fair share on the rescue ship and the hospital in Iowa, no matter how much he hated it. And while he rationally knows that Hunter couldn't possibly know that, let alone Hermione, he has a deep-seated wariness about anything that treads too close to home.

Normally, it would be fine. He could just laugh it off and eat the damn porridge without letting on how much he'd rather be eating almost anything else, just so it wouldn't go to waste.

"You two normally have that for breakfast?" he asks, as casually as he can manage.

Hunter doesn't understand the slightly suspicious look that Jim is giving him. "Yes. Hermione said it is how they started the day at Hogwarts, with a warm bowl of porridge, with sliced peaches or bananas depending on the season. Milk and orange juice."

"Kept the students bellies warm while they were at their studies."

"And I am sure she will make some toast with the bread. And get out the jams and the jellies." Based on the fact that Crookshanks just sat straight up, and then bolted towards the kitchen, Hermione must be getting his dish prepared too.

Okay. Okay. It's not some kind of... underhanded ploy to treat him like some kind of... invalid. Still, the choice of breakfast's main course is an unappealing one, and he grimaces a little, hoping that Hermione didn't make enough for him. She probably did. She's thoughtful that way.

Toast, jam... those he can deal with just fine. At least it's not some soupy, mushy crap. Not exactly filling, but... at least she doesn't go for the full English breakfast. And suddenly, porridge doesn't sound so bad in comparison. Waking up to the smell of frying bacon might actually tip him back over the edge.

Jim stifles a groan as he sits up, his body protesting at being vertical again, and rubs his hands over his face and through his hair. He has an epic case of bed head and he couldn't give less of a shit. "Gonna make coffee in a minute," he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. He's got to make a pit stop first.

God, he looks like he got run over by a shuttle. Jim examines himself in the bathroom mirror, inspecting the purple bruises on his face, a bit baffled as to what even caused them. Looks like someone pelted him with rocks. He shakes his head, checks his teeth - no fangs, just normal human chompers - and pads his way towards the kitchen.

Hunter gets dressed, while Jim is busy in the bathroom, and uses the other door to get to the kitchen. He is setting the table for three when Jim arrives.

Hermione gives Jim a warm smile. She has a small bowl of porridge on the stove. Both peaches and bananas cut up on a medium plate. And is in the progress of making toast. Crookshanks is eating some dry food right now, purring loudly from his position on the floor.

"Hi Jim! What would you like for breakfast?"

Jim's smile is a bit more hollow and fragile than hers, more a facade of trying to pretend everything's normal. Pretty pointless when he looks this shitty, but he's stubborn like that, and there doesn't seem to be any annoying levels of sympathy being leveled his way.

"Um, fruit and toast is fine," he says, eyeing the porridge distrustfully. Yeah, there's... actually quite a bit there, by his standards. He sure hopes they eat it all, or he's gonna have to help. The only thing worse than porridge is reheated porridge, ugh. No one wants that.

Fortunately, Jim has visited often enough to be familiar with how twenty-first century coffeemakers work, so it doesn't take him long to get a pot brewing. And then there's little he can do but wait, using his off-hand to get a mug out of the cupboard, his shoulder not quite up to reaching above his head.

"I also have some hard-boiled eggs in the fridge. Would be easy to heat a few up..." Hermione notices the look he is giving the porridge. She knows that the breakfast porridge is not everyone's preference.

She slides over some toast to him, and gestures to the gathering of jams and jellys. There are a few he can choose from.

Hunter glances over to Jim, wondering if he should say anything about the worry of werewolf infection, or leave it up to the Starfleet captain to address.

Eggs... he stops to consider that. He needs protein, he knows that, but the idea of even being in the general vicinity of meat is so repellent right now that all the usual sources are completely off the table. Eggs may be proto-chickens, but they don't look, smell, or taste anything like meat. Might be okay.

"Sure," he says cautiously, uncertain what'll set him off anymore, stepping lightly and carefully through the minefield that is Jim Kirk's relationship with food. It's the oldest dance he knows, but suddenly there are new steps he has to learn, new twists and turns where one misstep could lead to disaster. "Cold's fine. I can get it." He doesn't want to impose more than he has already, to make someone else do all his work for him. He's not the captain here.

Hunter finishes setting the table with plates and bowls for those who are having porridge. He stays out of Jim's way, as the other man navigates the kitchen. And besides, he wants to Jim to feel a little in control of what he makes for breakfast.

He helps Hermione with the last touches, getting jams and jellies onto the table.

He still doesn't want to bring up the werewolf topic. He feels like he is walking on eggshells right now, no pun intended.

Jim knows he's going to have to mention his... problem... fairly soon. He just wants to get through breakfast without having some kind of breakdown, and then address the elephant in the room. He moves over to the fridge to find the eggs...

...and immediately closes the door again, too late to forget the sight of raw red meat on a plate, steaks thawing out for dinner. His face is a few shades paler, his appetite vanishing in an instant, backing away from the fridge. "Actually, never mind," he says, hastily returning to the table, and even though he's not hungry anymore, that's never stopped him from making himself eat. Two pieces of toast and a little apricot jam, a few pieces of fruit, a steaming cup of coffee. He takes no pleasure in eating any of it, the first few bites sinking like lead weights into his stomach.

Hunter frowns in concern. Especially when Jim seems to be eating like a man condemned...

He doesn't question the other man right now. Instead, he sits down at the table, with a big bowl of porridge, and some sliced fruit on a plate nearby. Hermione soon joins them at the table, she has a big bowl of porridge, and a few slices of toast.

Crookshanks is the next one to appear at the table. He slides in beside Jim, curling up against the Starfleet Captain's leg.

They eat in silence. It is very... stifling.

The therapeutic effect of animals is well-documented, even if it still isn't fully understood in the twenty-third century, so the warm furry weight of Crookshanks against Jim's leg is a soothing effect. It doesn't make the food taste any better, but it does help him relax. A little.

He knows Hunter's worried. Can't miss the concerned look on his face. But there's little Jim can do to reassure him that he's all right, when he so clearly isn't. He's struggled with the aftereffects of that place for his entire adult life, and while he's come a long way, it's hard to shove it all back in the dark box in his head labeled Tarsus IV and find sufficient refuge in old coping mechanisms when the memories are so freshly unearthed again, with a new horrific twist.

He manages to clear most of his plate before he breaks the silence, unable to stand it any longer. "So," he says, his voice managing to be steady despite everything, "Hunter says you've got some way to tell if somebody's a werewolf or not."

Hermione looks up at the question, her eyes burning with thousands of questions. "Lycanthropy can be tricky to detect, without a blood or saliva sample, since that is the most common way that the illness is known to be spread."

"Many of the Muggle myths and legends about werewolves are not true. Silver bullets can not kill a werewolf, but a mixture of powdered silver and dittany can cause seal up a wound caused by a werewolf."

"Unfortunately, there is currently no cure for lycanthropy. However, some of the worst effects during their monthly transformation can be mitigated by consuming Wolfsbane Potion, which allows a werewolf to retain his or her human mind while transformed."

So the silver test was bullshit. The food he's eaten sits heavy in his stomach, as it does with the news that follows. No cure. Jim's gaze drops to the table, and he takes a deep breath. Okay. He can... he can deal with this. Somehow.

No point in dancing around it. "I got bit. And transformed." He raises his eyes to meet hers, not sure what he's looking for. Reassurance, maybe. A plea for help from someone who doesn't really know how to ask. "I don't know if it was just... there, or not."

Edited 2017-11-28 04:13 (UTC)

Hunter frowns himself. He had hoped that the silver test would have been useful. He is trying hard not to just pick at his food. To actually eat what is on his plate.

"The transformation would not happen until the Full Moon. But if you were transformed..." Hermione is already making a plan in her head. "We can protect you in the Shrieking Shack. It was were Remus stayed during his monthly transformations."

"As long as you are kept away from humans, you would just pace the Shack, restless, and unable to hurt anyone. Crookshanks should be able to stay near you, since as an animal, he would not catch your attention."

"And we could speak to Bill. He was attacked by Fenrir, while Fenrir was in his human form. Bill still exhibits lupine tendencies to this day."

He's not so shaken and lost that the last part doesn't grab his attention, and he pounces on that shred of hope like a worgen pouncing on its prey. "Like... behavior? I don't have any of that. I don't think."

Surely if he did, the hunger would have been different. The sight of meat would excite him, not sicken him. He hasn't noticed any odd instinctual urges since returning from the Nightmare, besides the old familiar compulsions he's lived with for thirteen years. It's not much to go on. But it's something.

"Is there... some kind of test we can do? To see if I'm still... affected."

"Yes. Behavior. He often exhibits a great liking to raw steaks." Hermione answers.

She holds out her hand to Jim. "Your hand. Please."

This time he can't hide the shudder that comes along with that mental image, so innocently ordinary. It's just a steak. He likes steak. Prefers them done medium-rare, or cooked up in a hearty stew, but just the idea of biting into one now... well. It might be a while. "Not me."

He's not sure which hand she wants, whether it even matters, but he doesn't hesitate to reach out with the arm that got bit, putting his hand in hers without hesitation. Without question. If she told him the only cure was to just straight-up amputate his arm, no matter how illogical that would be, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Crookshanks... if you would be so kind." The half-Kneazle jumps up on the table, walks over to where Jim and Hermione are sitting. And then reaches out to put his paw on top of Jim's hand. Completing a circle of connection between witch and her familiar.

"Lycan Revelio..." Hermione waves her wand over the hands (and the paw). "Lycan Revelio... Lycan Revelio..."

Hunter stays out of the way, quietly cleaning up the empty plates, needing to do something as he watches and waits.

"Homenum Revelio..." Hermione casts another spell, a bright light emits from her wand, circling herself, Hunter and Jim. She nods, putting her wand away.

"Three humans. No Lycans revealed." Hermione digs out her runes. She knows that Jim would want more proof. And she immediately sends the runes representing James Tiberus Kirk into the air. She flicks her wands, watching as they float in the air. She adds a few other calculations into her equation, watching as the numbers are calculated and the odds are decided. "Your Arthimancy runes have not changed either Jim."

"Based on my evaluations... the transformation was restricted to the Nightmare realm. You do not carry the illness with you."

Jim lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the relief almost as oppressive and heavy as learning that everyone who'd gone missing was accounted for. He pulls back and puts his hands over his face for a long moment, not even sure how to feel. He'd been mentally preparing himself for the reality of trying to live like that, uncertain that he would even be able to keep his captaincy, if he would be a danger to his crew. His friends.

To learn now that he's going to be fine... it's a huge blow to his expectations. But he doesn't regret it. Not for one second.

A moment to pull himself together. Compose himself. Inhale, exhale. Repeat. Jim drops his hands, breakfast settling a little easier in his stomach. "I... thank you."

Crookshanks jumps back down beside Jim, once he puts his hands over his face. Hermione watches him carefully. Letting him take it all in.

"You are welcome. Let me know if there is anything else I can do." Hermione means that.

Hunter takes this moment to place his hand on Jim's shoulder. "I am glad to hear it."

He gives them a shaky smile, absently reaches down to twine his fingers in Crookshanks' fur. One more doubt laid to rest. He won't be free of the memories, of the nightmares. The irrational fears. But that... that's something he's used to. Maybe not the same details. And he still has to grapple with a whole new set of horrors that have settled deep into his subconscious, an infestation that will never truly leave him, leaving their mark on his soul.

But it's a start.

Jim glances over at Hunter, feeling like he should say something, but the words die on his tongue. He's not a kid anymore. Accepting help doesn't mean he's weak. And nothing that either of them have done really reminds him of the almost desperate care given by his grandparents, all those years ago, like they wanted to wrap him up in soft cotton and keep him apart from the world so nothing could ever hurt him again, not realizing that the sharp edges were inside of himself, trapped inside the scrawny body of little Jimmy Kirk forever.

Hunter doesn't treat him that way. Hermione either. There's nothing to run from, no reason why he has to hide himself away, to bury his shame and weakness until even he can sometimes pretend it isn't there, that he doesn't still bear the scars. He doesn't have to be alone. But his heart tugs one way, and a lifetime of habit pulls in the other.

"I didn't really want to find out how the whole werewolves in space thing would work anyway," he jokes weakly, falling back on old reflexes. Deflect. Hide the pain.

Edited 2017-11-28 06:13 (UTC)

Hermione gives Jim a weak smile. She recognizes what he is doing. Telling jokes to deflect the pain. She put up with Ron doing that for several years.

She has lived through a war. Lived through torture. In her eyes, he is dealing with this situation as best as he can. And he doesn't need to be sheltered. She is only a word away if he needs help. Crookshanks will make sure that she knows if he does.

Hunter on the other hand feels nervous, and uncertain of what to do. He has never dealt with a situation like what either Jim or Hermione have lived through. The worst he had to deal with was the New York drug dealers.

He is trying so hard not to trigger one of Jim's memories. To not make Jim feel helpless because of what he went through in the Nightmare realm. He just wants to help Jim find himself again. Any way possible.

"Good thing we don't have to find out. I am sure McCoy would hate having to deal with you, all howling at every moon you see out there." He lets the joke spark conversation. If it is what Jim needs right now...

Edited 2017-11-28 06:20 (UTC)

Jim isn't terribly surprised to find a kindred soul in Hermione. Her war has left its marks on her too, and she never got psych help either. You cope or you die. That's what Jim has learned, tackling his issues on his own since the day he left the hospital, unwilling to let some shrink poke through his head. Learning for himself what works, and what doesn't.

But his old coping mechanisms meant packing up what little he owned and hitting the road, cutting himself free of all ties to his past. He can't do that anymore. Not when he's worked so hard to build something for himself, pushing past the hardships and achieving something to be proud of. Command of Starfleet's flagship, the five-year mission... He wouldn't be there if not for the literal blood, sweat, and tears that he and his crew have put into this.

And then there's Hunter.

No. Jim couldn't do that to him. Not after everything he's put him through, after how attached they've gotten to each other. It frightens him a little to think that he's tied himself so closely to anyone, never even noticed it was happening until it was too late, and now... now Jim has hurt him.

He may not have meant to. But he can see it in those eyes, confused and afraid, a splintered fragment of the loss that Jim has known. And what's worse is he doesn't know how to fix it either. He can't stop being broken. It's who he's always been, the facade of The Captain ripped away, exposing Jim underneath. Just Jim. But Hunter hasn't left. Hasn't run, even seeing a glimpse of the ugliness that lies at his core. And it would rip the heart from his chest if Jim were to leave now.

He can't do that to him. He won't.

"I get enough shit about the beard as it is," he says, raising a hand self-consciously to scratch at his chin. Checking its length, even though Hermione assured him that he's clean of the infection, unable to shake the impression he has of feeling fur beneath growing claws. Just human hands now. Just the same beard he's been cultivating of his own free will. Maybe in need of a trim, but still his. Still normal. If such a thing even exists.

But he's been selfish long enough, wrapped up in his own trauma and pain and fear, unable - maybe unwilling - to even think about what the others went through, while he was gone. Nowhere near as bad as what he saw, what he did... but it's not a competition. Their fears and doubts are as real as his own. And there's a pang of guilt as he realizes he hasn't even asked. "Are you... how are you holding up?"

Hunter pauses at the question, really uncertain how to answer. He really doesn't know how he is feeling right now.

It sucked feeling so God-damn useless. 19 people were taken into the Nightmare. And those 19 people faced whatever shit the Nightmare threw at them. They fought tooth and nail to get out of the Nightmare realm. And when Hunter thinks about the things that Jim had to face... and thinks about the others who had faced similar drama... there is no comparison to any other trauma.

Hunter knows that out of the three people in the kitchen right now, he would have struggled the most with any kind of survival situation. Hermione and Jim both face the tough shit with determination, grace and the unwillingness to just give up.

Then there is him... who felt so lost because the man he loved was gone. And when comparing himself to the others who were left behind... Hunter feels he was one of the most useless people there. Faris and Steve hunted down the spider creature and discovered Patches reasons for what he did. April and Hermione helped other mages to open the portal, so they could try to go into the Nightmare realm. Even Natasha patrolled the area and kept others safe.

Hunter just sat there... the entire time... and worried. He was so damn worried that Jim was gone without an explanation, just like others friendships that were made in the Nexus. He will never know what happened to Will, or Jack, or Schön. He has not even seen Verity in ages. And each one that had left had hurt. He too has abandonment issues. He is so afraid of being left alone.

And thinking about Jim leaving him makes tears appear in his eyes. The whole time they were dancing around their relationship during the God-damn party seems like a horrible waste of actually saying what they feel. But the thing is... he can say how he feels. And it just makes Jim nervous.

Hunter doesn't know what that means... if Jim is so afraid of that commitment then why the Hell are they both trying to so hard to stay in each other's life.

He has no verbal answers for Jim. The words just don't come. Instead, Hunter starts to weep uncontrollably into his hands. He is trying to be strong for Jim. He is... but it all crumbled down when he actual had to think about how he was holding up.

Jim is with it enough now to be alarmed when Hunter begins to cry. The man he's been leaning on so heavily for support, since his return... it turns out he's not the only one trying to hide a crumbling foundation. And for a moment, panic flashes across his mind, the guilt and shame of having hurt Hunter so badly that this is the state he's left him in.

What a stupid question, Jim. No one would be fine after that, no matter what they saw. Having to watch the man he loves traumatized and struggling, so full of fears that can't simply be soothed away with gentle words, the tough strong starship captain torn down into a disassociative mess. This is not what Hunter signed up for.

He doesn't know what to do. Part of him wanting to sink back into the habits of a lifetime and run, just run, as if he could ever fully run away from his past or his problems, like he won't still carry those burdens with him forever. But he can't run away from what he's done to Hunter. Can't do anything to make it right, to take away this pain that he's caused. But how can he offer comfort now, when he has none to give? No soothing words to say that aren't poisoned with lies. I won't do it again. I'm better now. You don't have to worry about me.

This... this must be Hunter's reaction to seeing the real Jim Kirk at last.

It's like a knife in the heart. His own punishment for the blood he's spilled, the lives he's ruined. Yet still he tries, driven by impulses he doesn't even remotely understand, reaching out a hand to touch the other man's shoulder. He has nothing to give and he offers it anyway, compassion for the innocent caught up in a nightmare that he never asked for and doesn't deserve. "...I'm sorry."

Hunter reaches out to that arm on his shoulder, grasping a little tight to the presence of Jim. Trying to comfort his mind that Jim is back. He knows that neither of them can promise falsehood about never doing this again... that they will never be in a difficult situation again.

"I feel so selfish..." Hunter manages to speak, after a moment of collecting himself. "I want nothing more to have those stolen moments of celebrating with friends back. To go back to conversations with other people in the Nexus, and not have this weight of something bigger on everyone's shoulders."

"None of us deserved this..." Hunter looks up to meet Jim's eyes. "And I just can't understand why it happened."

Part of Jim has gotten so used to shouldering this kind of burden that he's forgotten what it must feel like to have this come crashing down the first time. To reel from the loss of innocence, suddenly crushed beneath a weight that wasn't there before, that will never truly go away. The knives in his heart might blunt as time erodes the sharpness away, but they're still there. Always.

"I don't either." A small step onto common ground, uncertain, trying to feel out what they still share. If this part of the foundation is still solid. Hunter will never understand, truly understand, what Jim has been through. But Jim doesn't want him to. No one, no one deserves the pain that Jim Kirk has known, still knows, even to this very day. But this...

This happened to them both. Trauma for every survivor of a horrific event like this is different. That's nothing new. The perspectives will differ, the amount of pieces into which they shatter... but they both know this pain. A party broken, an evening of good memories swallowed up in an instant by horror and loss.

Jim can't be a rock for Hunter to lean on, not when he's been scraped raw from the inside out, pieces of him still lost to the Nightmare. Compulsions he can't ignore or resist, doubts that he can't shake free of his thoughts, memories that he can never blank from the datatapes of his memory. And he can't lean on Hunter like he has, knowing now that his foundation is cracked and unstable, no matter how he looks. They're more alike now than he ever would've thought.

But neither does that mean that they can't still help each other. Jim's methods of coping with trauma have never exactly been textbook anyway.

He leans in close, uncertain of his welcome, just resting his forehead against Hunter's. Twisting in guilt that all this time, Hunter has been carrying the weight, that Jim had been too mired in his own agonies to notice. Never mind that he literally couldn't, that he's seen and done things that no man should ever have to, that a lesser man might have broken outright. He almost did.

None of that matters to him. He should have noticed.

Hunter wraps his arms around Jim, when the other man leans in close, and just holds him close. All he can do is grasp tightly to the fact that Jim is safe for right now. And that while neither of them can be strong... they don't have to.

They are soon covered with a blanket, by Hermione, who decides that they need some time alone. She cleans up the rest of the dishes, putting any leftovers in the fridge, before she heads to her room.

Crookshanks stays by the two men. He can be their strength. He can carry the weight of their doubts and their traumas. He finds a place to curl up between the two men, where they both can feel his purring.

Jim flinches a moment at the touch of the blanket on his back, startled by the seeming suddenness of it, but then he grabs it and pulls it closer around them both. He doesn't say thank you, unable to trust his voice, not sure what will come out if he tries. He can only hope that she knows anyway.

Later, when his thoughts are more in order, he'll think to do something to thank her for her help. But for now, when he can barely even help himself, all he can focus on is trying to pick up the pieces of himself. To help Hunter do the same. And try to figure out where to go from here.

The gentle purring of the cat is a welcome, soothing sound against the turmoil in his heart. Jim fumbles for Hunter's hand, squeezing it gently, guiding it to seek the same simple animal comfort that kept him company in the night. It does nothing to erase the fears and the horrors, but it doesn't have to. It's just a small, simple thing. A tiny light in the darkness is a light nevertheless.

He swallows, closing his eyes, listening to the breathing of the man in his arms, the purring of the cat that sits between them, the thud of his own pulse in his ears. They're alive. Maybe that can be enough for now, a simple thing to chase away some of the fears of the waking world, a comfort after the nightmares that will no doubt plague them for some time to come.

"What do we do now?" Jim's voice is small, quiet. Lost. But still seeking the other, reaching out for that human contact. No matter how distant he feels right now, no matter that he can't hide in Hunter's apartment forever. His own world beckons, the threat of the full moon gone, his duties in Starfleet absolute. Yet also still terrified to go home, to let his mother see how newly re-broken he is, old wounds torn open and bleeding freely, to have to go about his days like nothing ever happened. Like everything is fine. He's not sure he can even do that anymore. But he has to.

There is no such thing as a no-win scenario. He can't let this be the thing that finally defeats him, not after so long.

Hunter takes a few calming breathes, focusing on having Jim close. The gentle sound of the purring of Crookshanks. The touch of Jim's hand, and the Kneazle's fur, giving him something to concentrate on. Something that gives him a slight grasp of reality.

"It won't be easy." Hunter answers, his voice also small and quiet.

"We both have to find ways to move forward." He frees his other hand, to caress Jim's face gently. "And we might both need a little time to focus on things in our respective worlds..."

Hunter wants Jim to know it is okay for him to go back to his own world. That he is not breaking Hunter's heart by returning to his duties in Starfleet. "But we need to recognize that we have each other. That we are not alone in this."

"This has not destroyed how I feel about you." Hunter needs to acknowledge those emotions. He can't leave things unspoken anymore.

Edited 2017-11-28 16:41 (UTC)

It sounds so much like trying to let him down easy that Jim is already bracing himself for the blow, so when it doesn't come, he stumbles over his own thoughts and expectations, like expecting another step when the stairs abruptly come to an end. Jarring, sudden. "What?"

How could it not? How could something like this not scare away such a gentle soul as Hunter's? Jim has brought him so much pain... whether he meant to or not, it still happened. And everyone always leaves. Everyone.

That Hunter doesn't want to part ways for good is so far beyond his experience that it leaves him floundering, uncertain how to respond. As flat-footed as the first time he said I love you, unable to truly believe it, unable to deny the sincerity with which Hunter says those words. A contradiction. Only one reality can be true.

"This is..." Jim takes a deep breath. He has to be sure. He has to. Maybe Hunter just doesn't realize. "This is a part of me. It's... something I never wanted you to see. It isn't going away. Just... buried better." Part of him seeking reassurance, grasping desperately for proof that someone could still care about poor fucked up Jim, part of him trying to warn Hunter. Loving Jim Kirk is not as easy as it appears to be. And no matter how much he covers the pain with smiles and jokes and normal human behaviors, at his core, the broken shards will always be there. Maybe not as powerful, as fresh and tender as the bleeding wound it is now. Better contained, dulled with the passage of time. But inseparable from the person he is now.

His eyes sting with unshed tears as he struggles to understand why. Why this is not enough to drive Hunter away. Not wanting it to, never wanting that. But it's like if he learned that gravity is wrong, if the fundamental forces of the universe are not true. It's like discovering that magic exists. Impossible, illogical, against all the rules that he knows. But the proof is right there in front of him. He can see it with his own eyes.

"I know it is a part of you..." Hunter manages a weak smile. "I love you, even with knowing all of what I do know."

Because he knows that there are other secrets, still buried. That he only knows about the bits and pieces he does because of a Nexus LOL, Austin's curse, and the Nightmare realm. There are still other parts of Jim Kirk that are covered by the smiles, the flirting, the jokes. The broken shards that Jim doesn't show anyone.

"And I can't explain why..." Because he sees that question in Jim's eyes.

"If you need to bury this shit to deal with your life, then I support that. I would never betray your trust. The thing that I hope you understand is that you don't have to bury anything around me. You will always have a place in my heart, no matter what Jim."

Jim loosely laces the fingers of one hand with Hunter’s, grasping for the right words to say what he means. What’s at the bleeding heart of it all, the source of his self-doubts and denial. “It’s... it’s not you I don’t trust.” He doesn’t know how to begin to explain how little faith he truly has in himself, the lifelong struggle to prove that he’s more than some poor kid with a tragic family history, more than just another unnecessary mouth to feed. Someone worthy of love and respect, simultaneous craving it and yet doubting the scraps he carved out for himself. He’s always had to fight for every inch, to demand the attention he just never got from a mother who was never there emotionally even on the rare occasion she was there physically.

But he’s the Captain. He has to set a good example for his crew. Confident and self-assured, encouraging them all to reach for the stars with him, following his example. Never suspecting for a moment that beneath that solidly built shell is an uncertain young man who doesn’t have the slightest clue what he’s doing, making it up as he goes along.

Hunter... Hunter isn’t part of the crew. But Jim’s subconscious doesn’t give a damn, insecurity ingrained into him as early as he can remember.

He already knows so much. Things that nobody else knows back home. Not even Bones, not even Starfleet. And there’s something frightening about the idea of rolling over and exposing his vulnerable spots to anyone, no matter who they are. Afraid that he’ll let himself start to believe it, only to have it snatched away from him again.

He’s said it once before, unthinking of its deeper implications, so casual and normal. The right thing to say, the rote response people are supposed to have when they’re in a relationship. But there’s nothing rote or casual about this. Not anymore. He’s in it too deep now. Jim swipes his tongue across his lower lip, uncertain but scraping up what’s left of his courage. “I don’t... deserve that. But... I care about you too.”

Hunter rests his head against Jim's shoulder, as he waits for Jim to try to find the right words to how he feels.

And the thing is... Hunter knows how it feels to have little faith in himself. He struggled with finding love or respect in his own upbringing. There is a reason why his relationship with his father is such a delicate balance.

He has come to peace with himself on his own terms. Simply because he didn't have to set a good example. There was no one who had different expectations of him. Hunter didn't have to create a facade for himself.

"I know you do." And right now, Hunter is content to have Jim saying that he cares about him. It is enough. Besides, Jim has demonstrated just how much he cares with his actions. Hunter doesn't need the words.

"When do you think you will have to head back to your world?" Jim is the one who has the responsibilities that will demand his attention first.

Jim stares blankly for a moment at the question, trying to make sense of it. "What... day is it?" he asks uncertainly. Hunter had said they were only gone for hours. So... it must be just the next day. He fumbles for his communicator to check the time in San Francisco and comes up empty, the device left behind in the pocket of his destroyed, discarded pants, last seen on the bathroom floor.

But does it really matter? He can't tell what time it is in California, but it's obvious even to him that he shouldn't be teaching classes today. He's in no state to present himself as any figure of authority, neither physically nor mentally. Fuck, he can't even open a refrigerator without narrowly avoiding a panic attack, how can he expect to focus enough to lead a discussion on Gronkite tactical maneuvers? Not to mention the rumors that will no doubt start flying around campus if he walked in looking like he's gone three rounds with an angry Gorn. That's the last thing he needs.

His stomach drops as he realizes that he might be missed by now, if it's late enough. If he just didn't show up to the Academy on time. They'll have gone searching for him. And even if Bones told his superiors he was out of town at a Halloween party, he's still late getting back. He just hopes Starfleet hasn't started scouring the patient lists at hospitals across the planet. Going AWOL is never a good look for any active-duty personnel, no matter the reason.

He swallows hard. "Soon. I... how early is it?"

"November 1st." Hunter answers. The day after Halloween. "And it is nine in the morning."

Hunter watches Jim carefully. He just wants to make sure that Jim feels up to returning. "You can stay as long as you need."

Nine o'clock. That's... workable. Jim leans his elbow against the table and slowly scrubs his hands across his face, wincing when his fingers drag against tender bruises. He's still late to the first class he's supposed to be teaching, late by half an hour. Starfleet is sure to know by now that he's missing.

"I've gotta... call in sick." There's no other solution. He can't do his job like this, and his physical state is more than enough proof that he's had a rough night. He can't even begin to imagine how pissed Bones is gonna be. And it's even worse, because there's no way Jim can tell him what happened, hardly able to face the truth of it himself.

"Who would be the best person to call? Do you want to use my PINpoint?" Hunter asks softly.

He feels a little selfishly happy, that Jim is staying for a little longer.

This has never happened to him before. Who does he need to call? The dean of cadets, maybe. Definitely McCoy.

Hunter might be happy that Jim is ducking out of his duties, but Jim sure isn't. The slight tremble of his hands is back, and he tugs the blanket a little closer around his shoulders, fervently hoping that Starfleet doesn't order him to be medically assessed. He's not sure he can even come up with a convincing cover story, let alone manage to stick to it. "What... happened to mine?" He barely remembers coming to Hunter's apartment last night, never mind what he was wearing or what he still had on him.

"It could still be in your clothing, that we left in the bathroom." Hunter rubs his hands over Jim's back, trying to keep the other man warm.

It's not the cold that makes Jim's hands shake, but the reassuring touch is welcome nonetheless, as is the damn-near ceaseless purring of the cat still sprawled halfway across his lap. "Sorry." There's a part of him that feels guilty for needing so much attention, especially when Hunter is having a shit time of it himself, but he can't stop. No matter how much he wishes he could. Things are still too tender, like the bruises in his skin.

"I was afraid that I lost it," he confesses quietly. Losing his PINpoint would mean losing his only mobile way to access the Nexus, leaving him with only one way out, a way he can't access at will at the moment. He lifts his head and adds, "I lost my knife." He doesn't have a clue where it ended up. The last place he remembers it being was embedded in a werewolf's chest.

"I will go get your PINpoint for you." Hunter doesn't want Jim to think he is leaving. So he adds, "I will be right back."

"And you should ask Hermione if she could find your knife. She and Crookshanks have a knack for finding lost items."

Hunter slides away from Jim for a moment, and heads into the bathroom. He looks through the blood clothes, until he can find Jim's PINpoint. He cleans off his hand, and wipes the PINpoint as gently as possible, before returning to the kitchen.

"Here it is."

Unlike yesterday, Jim just nods when Hunter steps away. The shock has worn off, for the most part, and while he's very much not okay, his thoughts are more rational, more in order than the panicked, almost feral thing he was the night before. Besides... he's not alone, not with Crookshanks curling up on his lap to keep him company, his hands drawn to the kneazle's soft fur.

He accepts the communicator from Hunter, flipping it open with a practiced flick of the wrist, automatic and reflexive. He pauses before opening the first connection, looking uncertainly at Hunter. "You can stay if you want to." He's not going to be saying anything classified, and after the night they've had... well. He's pretty damn sure that Hunter isn't exactly eager to let Jim get out of his sight either.

Crookshanks just purrs even louder at the sensation of Jim's fingers in his fur. He is such a brilliant Kneazle. He is helping.

Hunter had tilted his head, when Jim gave him that uncertain look. He smiles softly. And cuddles in beside Jim, now that he knows he doesn't have to give the other man privacy.

Jim's first call is straight to the Academy, uncertain who exactly he should be contacting, finally settling on the Commandant of Command Cadets and reaching the desk of her secretary, who is more than happy to cancel his remaining classes for the day - after reminding him to report in a little earlier next time, of course. It's a mercifully brief conversation, for which he's fairly grateful.

As for McCoy... Jim debates for several long moments over whether to actually call the doctor. There are several missed messages from the man, each one sounding more worried than the last. But if Jim calls him now... it's going to be a long conversation, and one where Bones will no doubt be frustrated all to hell that Jim won't tell him the details. It's going to happen eventually, especially once he shows up looking like... this.

He settles on a simple text message: Party went south. Sorry to worry you. See you later today. Okay, so maybe it isn't the most soothing, reassuring thing he could've sent, but he can't lie and say he's fine when even he can admit that he isn't.

He doesn't wait to see if there's a reply, just snaps the communicator closed and sets it on the table with a sigh. All he's doing is delaying the inevitable. Hell, so much time has already passed that even if he got to a dermal regenerator this instant, he's probably going to have scars regardless. Sooner or later, he has to go back.

Edited 2017-11-30 07:17 (UTC)

Hunter knows that sooner or later, Jim will have to go back to his world too. But right now, Jim is with him. And he can try to help the other man to regain some sense of normalization.

"Let's go into the living room. If you feel up to it, we can watch a movie." And just cuddle on the couch.

For a moment, Jim considers the idea. But somehow, the thought of sitting on the couch numbly watching actors move around the screen just doesn't seem... right. He doesn't want to see anybody eating, or running, or screaming. Doesn't want to see a world where all is well, unrelatable and artificial, nor immerse himself in the fictional struggles of someone else when he already has so much to process.

He's never been very good at sitting still.

"I need to... do something," he confesses, reaching for something, anything else to do, something to occupy idle hands before he reaches them inside himself and tears at what's left, unable to stop. Old habits won't work. But...

There's one thing they did together before, something that isn't part of his usual hobbies. An act that he found calming, even though he's not very good at it. And he needs to remind himself that he can do more than just destroy. "Can we paint?"

"Sure we can." Hunter smiles a little. He has a few art projects that he should be working on anyway. And it would just be better to have Jim close by, watching the other man work on his own creations.

"But no kitties allowed in the art studio..." He gives a half smile to Crookshanks. Who just blinks at Hunter. As if saying, why are you telling me this? I know the rules.

Jim hadn’t realized how quickly he’d started to rely on the basic animal comfort of having a cat curled up on his lap until now, the warm furry presence that kept him company through the darkest night he’s endured in a while. There’s a tendril of unease in his chest for a moment, but only a moment. Crookshanks won’t be far. And it’s not like the cat is coming home with him anyway. He has to start building up his walls again, to stand on his own two feet without breaking. No matter whether he’s ready or not. The universe has never given a single solitary shit whether he was ready for anything yet.

And that means laying out his boundaries, while he still has the courage to speak up for himself. “You have meat in your fridge,” he blurts out before he can change his mind, managing to keep his voice mostly steady. It doesn’t matter that he’s heard enough to know that he probably didn’t eat anybody last night. Neither his subconscious nor his stomach have gotten the message, and the thought that he might end up wasting food if Hunter doesn’t know is damn near as bad. Never mind if it’s today, or a month from now. “It... I can’t look at it.”

"I will move it to a safe location, where you don't have to look at it." Hunter offers. He really doesn't mind that he might have to switch his shopping habits for a while... because what is more important is Jim's comfort levels.

"You set up a canvas and get some paints out. I will take care of that right now." And get something else set out for supper later tonight.

He does know a few different vegetarian recipes, which he took time to learn after that time that he cooked for Jim's crew.

...that's all?

Part of Jim still expected questions. Concerned looks. Pity. The same sort of things that drove him away from home the first time, unable to stand being treated as something so fragile that he would break at the slightest touch. But Hunter has given him none of that, even without fully understanding, without pushing him to say anything other than what he's ready to say about it. Just... accepting it. And giving him something productive to do while he takes care of the problem as best he can.

It's weird. Not what he's used to. But... that's not a bad thing.

Jim is quiet as he digs out the art supplies they'll need, familiar with where Hunter keeps the tools of his trade after so many visits, his own thoughts keeping him from paying too much attention to the movement in the kitchen and the purpose behind it. He doesn't have the slightest clue what he's going to paint. It's not like he's had a lot of experience. But he has to do something with himself, something where he doesn't have to be perfect, or pretend like he knows what the hell he's doing. He's tired of pretending. Tired of being afraid. Just plain tired.

Hunter will always have a part of his heart that will be concerned for Jim. It goes along with the love he has for the other man. The love that he had not planned for -- but continues to make its presence known every now and then.

It doesn't take him long to make sure that any meat in the fridge or freezer is removed (and sent with Hermione on her way out for the day, who will make sure that the food is not wasted). Honestly, it does not even occur to Hunter that Jim is expecting pity from him. Because there is no reason for that pity to be felt, in Hunter's opinion.

He believes that Jim is a pretty strong individual, who had to face a lot of tough trauma during a time period that seemed that lasted weeks... not hours. And the fact that Jim is broken right now only makes sense to Hunter. It would be more suspicious if someone had experienced the same trauma and was not affected.

They paint side-by-side in quiet. Hunter getting lost in his work, and hoping that the paint therapy is helping Jim a little.

Hunter would never expect Jim to be perfect. That doesn't exist. He knows that Jim will find himself again. He just wants to be supportive of whatever Jim needs to get to that point of accepting himself, and his flaws. It makes him human.

Jim's brushstrokes are hesitant at first, second-guessing himself and his intentions for his work, but as the image starts to form - sloppy, inexperienced, but ultimately his - the slight tremor in his hands begins to fade, losing himself in the meditative practice of laying paint on canvas, no matter his lack of skill. It doesn't matter what it ends up looking like. It doesn't matter that he's making it up as he goes along. No one's lives rely on him getting it right. He's free to shape his pain however he needs to in order to deal with it, to pour out the fear and trauma onto the canvas, a small token of what he still carries inside. Will carry with him until the day he dies.

And even if the end product is an ugly mess, it's his ugly mess.

It isn't perfect. But it doesn't have to be. And even if he won't ever let anyone but Hunter see it, hiding it away from the prying eyes of the world, it's still a part of him, something he can't just set aside and pretend it never happened.

He's still not okay. And he won't be for some time to come.

But if James T. Kirk knows how to do one thing, it's to keep moving forward.

There's no where else to go.

The Party's Over [for losthunter]

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