boldygoing | The Party's Over [for losthunter]

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The Party's Over [for losthunter]

He's still in shock.

There's a part of Jim that consciously knows this. His body has been locked into fight-or-flight mode for hours upon hours, his hands still trembling from the adrenaline, exhaustion held at bay by survival instincts that haven't realized that the danger has passed. The Halloween costume that Hunter had worked so hard on is damn near unrecognizable, only the paint-streaked pants clinging stubbornly to his hips, his feet and chest bare save for the bloodstained cloth wrapped loosely around his shoulder. Rusty brown specks of dried blood still cling to his face along with thicker, tackier stains on his hands, unmoved by the... fur... that is no longer adorning his skin.

His senses feel... off. As he numbly follows Hunter into the Nexus apartment on autopilot, the vibrant colors of the artwork in the studio damn near leap off the canvas at him, but sounds seem muffled, scents almost impossible to pick up, his body still struggling to cope with the sudden change back to human norms. His bones ache beneath his skin, a dull throbbing in his limbs and chest, his blood practically burning in his veins as his boosted immune system destroys the last traces of the worgen's curse, a low-grade fever the only outward sign of the fierce battle being waged beneath the surface of the skin.

Part of him wants to reassure Hunter that he's okay, to deny he's in pain, to pretend like nothing ever happened. That it was all some horrible nightmare. But he can't. He's filthy and bloody and shell-shocked, and phantom echoes of ravenous hunger still pick at him like vultures picking at a carcass. He's not starving anymore. He knows that. His body knows that. But he can't forget how it felt, not when the wounds are so raw, freshly ripped back open after years of coping.

He comes to a faltering stop inside the apartment, fidgeting, uncertain, struggling to determine what comes next. How to even begin to move forward from here.

[Trigger Warning for disordered eating and PTSD]

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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.

The Party's Over [for losthunter]

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