James Tiberius Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
boldygoing) wrote2017-11-25 02:27 pm
boldygoing) wrote2017-11-25 02:27 pm
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]
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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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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?"
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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...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.
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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.
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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She holds out her hand to Jim. "Your hand. Please."
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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.
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