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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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."

The Party's Over [for losthunter]

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