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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"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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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."
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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.”
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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.
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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?"
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Hunter watches Jim carefully. He just wants to make sure that Jim feels up to returning. "You can stay as long as you need."
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"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.
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He feels a little selfishly happy, that Jim is staying for a little longer.
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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.
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"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.
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"Let's go into the living room. If you feel up to it, we can watch a movie." And just cuddle on the couch.
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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?"
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"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.
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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.”
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"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.
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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.
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