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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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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"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."
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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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...
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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?"
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