[it's been the better part of a year now since he'd joined charles, logan, caliban, and laura in el paso. his last safehouse had been compromised and once he learned of the other mutants' whereabouts, kurt packed up whatever could fit into a few suitcases and headed for texas.
now that he has stayed long enough to adapt, to find a place here with his old friends, he's ecstatic with the fact he finally has a place again.
sometimes, he helps charles with his plants, chatters on and on about the effects of certain foliage, how they should get particular herbs growing alongside what the telepath already has for health reasons. other times, the cobalt-tinted male aids caliban with housework and other chores or frolics about with laura when it's safe outside to chase one another, play ball, pick wildflowers--
whenever he looks at her, his mind never fails to reel, going through the scenario that'd been explained to him a while after his arrival. he can see the similarities between the girl and logan, which makes his heart both swell with happiness and sink with anxiety. imagining how she must have suffered and how things inevitably end up getting worse-- but for now, they're safe.
during most nights, though — when everyone has gone to sleep — kurt stays awake, sitting silent at the kitchen table, completely lost in whatever reading material he might have and absently sipping at the drink in his mug. every few minutes, his eyes flick up, focusing on the door where logan usually comes through before lowering once more when it turns out to be nothing he's expecting.]
[ It'll be another hour until James comes home. To be fair, though, he'd intended to return while everyone was asleep and leave much the same way. He should have known better.
The lights in the kitchen, where James intended to go to drink his whiskey and rest his tired feet, tell him he's not alone. The scent that greets his nostrils a few steps later (his senses are so bad now, so weak, shutting down--) tells him who's waiting. ]
Elf. [ He speaks only when he's in Kurt's line of sight, a hand already at his own neck to loosen the tie of his work uniform. So much for drinking his sorrows away. So much for the reprieve of drunken stupor. ]
[during that hour, nightcrawler goes through two more cups of tea, finishes his book and is moving to put the mug in the sink when he hears the footsteps.
while pausing would be his initial reaction, they haven't needed to worry about anyone trying to break in for the past few months with himself and laura as their home security in logan's absence. regardless, kurt's fingers clench around the cup, readying it as a weapon if necessary, but there's no need once he hears that voice.
he sighs with relief.] Logan, [comes the returned greeting, except he can't resist following it up with a cheeky retort.] I haven't had a bedtime since I was ten.
[a beat and although he tries, he can't keep the concern out of his voice.] How was it?
[ It’s a special kind of hell, to have to watch the year pass by as a spectator of sorts. The serum has slowed down his body from aging, to the point that even now he still looks as he did when he emerged from the chamber where he had been all but reborn, while the rest of the world seems to fall apart around him.
There’s one person that he knows is in the same boat as he is. One that has endured this type of torture for much longer than he has. One that has buried friends while he’s forced to continue living; one that, no matter what, keeps going.
One that may insist that Steve doesn’t have to worry about him, but he does. After all, he’s one of his closest friends, and the only one left that has known Steve since what feels like the beginning.
It has been a long time since Steve was a fugitive, but he still takes every precaution necessary as he sets out to see his friend. He doesn’t want anyone following him, doesn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to him, but Steve has gotten good at this. After all, this isn’t the first time that he’s trying to live in the shadows. And this isn’t the first time he’s visiting him.
When he arrives as the sun is setting, he waits for a moment as if to let Jimmy catch his scent before walking up to the door. He’s carrying a duffel bag, but it’s not his - it’s filled with food, clothes, and things that Jimmy may have a hard time getting right now. It doesn’t feel like enough - it never feels like enough - but it’s an attempt to help out where he can.
At the front door, he raps his knuckles against it and waits for a moment before speaking. ]
Jimmy, it’s me.
[ Just in case he needs further proof that it’s really him visiting. ]
[ James remembers when he used to be happy to see Steve.
Now, though, the sound of his voice startles him to the point of fright -- and it takes all his self-control to twist that expression into some modicum of calm, into something that won't have Steve asking what the fuck is wrong with him (because truth be told, James doesn't think he's ready to explain such a thing).
It's only been a few months since they'd last seen each other, but James has changed enough that it makes a difference. The more his healing deteriorates, the more his body ages, finally catching up to the two-hundred or so years under his belt. His hair has greyed and there are wrinkles on his face that weren't there before, and there are scars between his knuckles shaped just like the claws that he's known for. He's slower now, his ankles don't move right, and when he comes up to open the door because he can never tell Steve "no", practically every inch of him creaks and aches with pains he never had before.
It's funny, though, and a little ironic; for as long as James has been wanting death, now that it's finally staring him in the face he's finding he hasn't done enough in his life to deserve how long he's been living it.
When the door opens, the sight that greets Steve is probably pitiful. James doesn't have any hope of fixing himself up, so the rumpled suit and the stench of whiskey and the fact he hasn't shaved (or showered) is clear as day. He knew it was a mistake telling Steve about the crappy motel he was staying at when he wasn't in Mexico with Charles, but he couldn't find the strength to lie to him.
(Or the strength to do anything these days, it feels.) ]
...hey. [ It's lacklustre, but he hopes Steve forgives him. James blinks hard, tries not to make it obvious that Steve's features have blurred in his eyes, and then steps to the side to let him in. ] It's messy as hell, I'm warning you.
[ It's also empty as hell save for the bottles and crumpled paper towels on the floor. James coughs into his fist, and he makes sure to look away when he does it; phlegm is bad enough from a distance. ]
[ It takes all he has to not openly react to Jimmy’s appearance. This isn’t how he had seen him last, and it hasn’t been that long since he had stopped by. He should know. The shirt he had taken with him still smells like him - it’s faint, but it’s there, and—
No. No, his brain seems to immediately think as he tries to piece together what’s happening. Yes, the years have passed, but he couldn’t have aged this fast so quickly.
Is he— ]
It’s fine, it’s not that bad.
[ Even if it was, Steve wouldn’t say anything. Or, rather, he wouldn’t notice; his attention doesn’t tear away from Jimmy long enough for him to really see the mess around them.
As he sets the duffel bag on the floor, there are a couple of bottles that clink together and he finds himself mentally kicking himself for including them. He can smell the whiskey in the air, on him, and what was he thinking? ]
I, uh. brought you some supplies. In case you’re running low.
[ The cough makes him shift his attention back to him completely, and he steps closer to him. He’s trying as hard as he can to not just stare and take in all the changes in him, because he doesn’t want to make Jimmy uncomfortable, so instead he lets himself do something he has been wanting to do since the moment he left last time - he reaches to rest his hand against his cheek, brushing his thumb softly against the new wrinkles that his mind keeps screaming shouldn’t be there like this. ]
Jimmy, what... [ He wants to ask if he’s okay, but the answer is obvious as his heart lurches in his chest. ] How long have you been here?
[ How long ago did this start? is really what he wants to ask, but even if he doesn’t, it’s written all over his face as he leans over to kiss his forehead. If he lets him, he’ll let his lips linger against his skin to prolong the kiss just a little longer than usual. ]
[ What does it say about him that the only thing he can think when Steve touches him is that he doesn't deserve a touch so soft?
Because God, it's soft. Gentle. Like James is fragile and shivery and new instead of an expired bastard born from a bitch's seed, and he ends up leaning into it, shutting his eyes, and... he's tired, Christ, and if he could spend whatever amount of time he has left just leaning against Steve like this, then he thinks he'd be able to die happy.
But he's not allowed nice things, and Steve ends up talking, and James ends up opening his bleary eyes and meeting his gaze with the softest huff of breath between them. ] I... here? This motel? Jesus, I don't know -- [ and he genuinely struggles to remember ] a week.
[ Ask him how long it's been since the Westchester incident, though, and he'll have the number down to the day. (Two-hundred and forty-three.) ]
You didn't have to come all this... [ way, he would've finished, but there's the touch of Steve's mouth to his forehead, sweet and kind, and before James knows what he's doing, he's reaching up to grip Steve's wrist in a hand that'd never been rough before. His fingers shake, his lip trembles, and he shudders with the need to keep himself from coughing.
Instead, James turns his head, feeling the brush of Steve's lips slipping from him, and presses a kiss of his own into his palm.
His mouth slides away eventually, and James' head ducks with his chin towards his chest. His grip tightens for a moment on Steve's wrist before disappearing entirely, and he knows it's not fair, but not looking into Steve's eyes gives him the false bravery needed to mumble: ] You shouldn't be here.
[ Even if Jimmy doesn’t quite finish telling him that he shouldn’t be here, Steve shakes his head very slightly as if saying a silent please, don’t. Don’t push him away, don’t pull away. Part of him is afraid that he won’t let him kiss his forehead as he generally does, but he doesn’t pull away, and Steve closes his eyes as he lingers while Jimmy’s hand wraps around his wrist.
He can feel it. He can feel the new roughness in his hands, the way his fingers shake. In a selfish way he’s glad that Jimmy can’t quite see him, because his brow furrows in concern so deeply in that moment that he knows he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Because he’s afraid, that he’ll do something that will make him pull away and hide, or push him out of the motel room so he won’t see him like this. ]
There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
[ His voice is soft, how it usually gets when they’re talking quietly in the dark while laying in bed as if somehow speaking too loudly will bring in the world around them, and Steve loops his free arm around him to pull him closer. As if somehow he can pull away the ache in his bones, the shake in his hands. He doesn’t quite know if it’s more for Jimmy’s or his own benefit, this need to feel him closer, but either way he doesn’t want to let go. ]
[ As quiet as James' voice is, it breaks around the single syllable of Steve's name regardless, and as much as Steve might have wanted to take the pain away, the proximity only makes it hurt more.
God, it kills him how good Steve smells. How young, how alive. Coupled with the blood in his veins and the dried pus between his knuckles, James has never felt more sick. It makes him hesitate, stiff in Steve's arms, and in a moment of paranoia it makes him worry that being this close to him will make Steve sick, too -- that he'll die, because James reeks of it like nothing else.
But he laughs instead. And after he laughs, he coughs, and though he wants to tell Steve precisely what Steve doesn't want him to, he goes weak in his hold instead, and wraps his arms around him because it's the most human James has felt since his family died.
He thinks he's selfish. There is a special place in hell for men like him, who know the right thing to do and yet choose not to do it.
It can't be as bad as holding a man who doesn't age, though. Holding him and knowing he's going to leave him behind someday. ]
You need [ he muffles a cough into Steve's shirt, hands shaking as they slip up his back and finally return the hold ] better fucking standards than this.
[ The way that his voice breaks makes his breath catch, but he's careful to hide the reaction as best as he can. Especially when he feels the way that Jimmy stiffens in the beginning. He opens his mouth, ready to ask him not to do this, not to pull away, but--
But then he laughs, and there's that cough again, and Steve just holds him a little closer. Especially when he feels the way that he feels his body loosen up, and the hand that had been on his cheek is moved to rest behind his neck. His fingers gently brush against his hair, resting his chin on top of his head. He doesn't care when Jimmy showered last, or how strong the smell of alcohol is; he just wants to stay here and hold him for as long as he can. Because it's not until he's holding him that he's coming to realize how terrified he is of this - of whatever is happening that is causing all this - and...why did he leave last time? Why didn't he stay?
The comment makes him huff out a soft chuckle under his breath, although it feels like it gets stuck in the base of his throat when Jimmy coughs. ]
My standards are just fine.
[ He presses another kiss at the top of his head. He doesn't want to let him go, but at the same time he doesn't think that Jimmy should be standing this long. When was even the last time he had slept? ]
...want to sit down? If you're hungry, I can go get you something to eat.
[ He'd offer to cook something, but it's not like he can quite do that in the motel. ]
[ James holds back from telling Steve that if he left, he wouldn't be able to promise that the door wouldn't be locked after. He smiles instead and shakes his head, because even if he's hungry he doesn't really want to eat, and lately he's been having trouble keeping things down, anyway. ]
Sitting is good. [ But James doesn't really want to pull away, not yet. Not when Steve feels warm and strong like he always has, and James is only a step away from his own fucking grave. If he ignores the way everything inside him aches, and the fact that he can't stop shaking, he can almost pretend everything is all right...
Only it isn't. And it hasn't been for a while. And he doesn't know how to tell Steve this, especially because he knows Steve is going to ask.
Maybe if he holds him forever they won't ever have to talk.
But that'd be cowardly.
So James' grip tightens, fingers curling as much into Steve's shirt as they can, and he holds it for as long as he can until it starts to hurt in his wrists, in his trembling forearms. Then he lets go, and pulls back, and offers Steve a weary smile and a cock of his head. ] Bed's not much, but it's softer than the chair in here.
Gotta let me go if you're gonna let me walk, Steve.
[ Maybe he should insist on getting some food in case he hasn’t eaten lately, but at the same time he doesn’t want to leave the room. He wants to stay here as long as he can, because how is he going to find him next time? He wants to believe that it’ll pass, that maybe he’s hurt - maybe he’s not healing quickly, but there’s something different about all of this. Something that makes his stomach churn, because deep down he knows damn well what’s happening even if he doesn’t want to admit it.
Before pulling away, Steve kisses his forehead again before brushing his fingers along his hair as he speaks. ]
Still demanding as ever, huh?
[ It’s said teasingly, as if the attempt of humor will help make this easier, but ultimately he complies and lets go. Immediately he feels cold, ready to take his hand again and hug him all over again, but he keeps himself from doing so. He should sit, Steve reminds himself.
Staying close to him, he walks with him to the bed and sits at the edge of it. The bed creaks and moans with the weight, and it seems to almost echo in the motel room, but he hardly notices. He’s trying to focus on Jimmy’s breathing, almost as if doing so he can figure out what is going on, exactly.
At first he doesn’t say anything, he just reaches for Jimmy’s hand before speaking softly. ]
...when did this start, Jimmy? [ Before he can play dumb, Steve gently brushes his thumb over the now-rough skin, the spots where the claws come out. Those were never there before - he should know, he has spent lifetimes studying (and drawing) his hands whenever Jimmy wasn’t noticing. ]
[ That Steve's gotten his hand in his the moment they're sat together feels a little like he's ripped James' heart out and stepped on it. It's not for meanness or contempt; Steve has always had a way of making him feel fragile. Even before he was actually fragile, even when he could still heal from anything and walk away from even more, Steve treated him like he was porcelain. Like he was worth protecting, like he was something hopeful instead of sad.
Somehow that makes it all the more cruel that he touches him with the same gentleness now. James has never needed it, but has always been greedy for it. Now it's all he can do not to fall apart at the seams, and he doesn't want Steve to spend any moment longer touching the poison that he's become.
It's disgusting. He's disgusting. There is crust on the skin that Steve's thumb is on, and it's pus that's gone dry from the last time James had let his claws come out of him.
His lower lip quivers.
But he shakes his head from side to side, pulling his hand back from Steve's touch and linking it with his other one. ]
Don't know when it started. [ He swallows. ] Not exactly, anyway.
But two years ago... [ He wrings his hands together, shutting his eyes against the memory. When James' head drops, it looks every bit as heavy as the adamantium skull has turned it. ] Two years ago I hid a baby from an explosion. Collateral damage. Mission control. Cyke -- he and Kitty had to pull me home.
The kid was all right, but I was dead for a day. [ Longer, far longer than he'd ever been dead before. ]
[ It takes Steve by surprise, even if it shouldn't, to feel Jimmy pull his hand back. It makes his stomach twist in a panic, bracing himself for Jimmy asking him to leave for reasons that he really doesn't want to hear, but thankfully it doesn't happen. He's tempted to reach back for him again, take his hand anyway, but he knows he shouldn't push his luck so he forces himself to move slightly forward as he rests his elbows on his knees. It's done to force himself to not move and bring him closer, because that fear of spooking him into wanting to be alone is too strong to ignore.
As Jimmy speaks, Steve feels his shoulders tense. Two years. Two years? It's probably a good thing that he's not looking at him, because it's taking all he has to not ask - demand, really - why he hadn't said anything before. Steve couldn't have done much to help him heal or maybe even find answers, but he could have been there.
He should have been there.
There's a knot in his throat that he has to push down, passing a hand along his beard as he tries to string his thoughts into something that resembles coherency before sitting up. ]
I'm going back with you.
[ There's a finality to it, that stubborn streak of his flaring despite how neutral he manages to keep his expression. ]
Are you in pain? I can try to get you some medication.
[ And by 'try' he means he would, because nothing would stop him from providing for Jimmy whatever he needs. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i'm sorry i have a lot of feelings (also i've totally taken this posts virginity WHOOP WHOOP)
now that he has stayed long enough to adapt, to find a place here with his old friends, he's ecstatic with the fact he finally has a place again.
sometimes, he helps charles with his plants, chatters on and on about the effects of certain foliage, how they should get particular herbs growing alongside what the telepath already has for health reasons. other times, the cobalt-tinted male aids caliban with housework and other chores or frolics about with laura when it's safe outside to chase one another, play ball, pick wildflowers--
whenever he looks at her, his mind never fails to reel, going through the scenario that'd been explained to him a while after his arrival. he can see the similarities between the girl and logan, which makes his heart both swell with happiness and sink with anxiety. imagining how she must have suffered and how things inevitably end up getting worse-- but for now, they're safe.
during most nights, though — when everyone has gone to sleep — kurt stays awake, sitting silent at the kitchen table, completely lost in whatever reading material he might have and absently sipping at the drink in his mug. every few minutes, his eyes flick up, focusing on the door where logan usually comes through before lowering once more when it turns out to be nothing he's expecting.]
it took me almost two months to get to this BUT
The lights in the kitchen, where James intended to go to drink his whiskey and rest his tired feet, tell him he's not alone. The scent that greets his nostrils a few steps later (his senses are so bad now, so weak, shutting down--) tells him who's waiting. ]
Elf. [ He speaks only when he's in Kurt's line of sight, a hand already at his own neck to loosen the tie of his work uniform. So much for drinking his sorrows away. So much for the reprieve of drunken stupor. ]
It's three hours past your bed time.
we're both slow but idgaf WORTH IT
while pausing would be his initial reaction, they haven't needed to worry about anyone trying to break in for the past few months with himself and laura as their home security in logan's absence. regardless, kurt's fingers clench around the cup, readying it as a weapon if necessary, but there's no need once he hears that voice.
he sighs with relief.] Logan, [comes the returned greeting, except he can't resist following it up with a cheeky retort.] I haven't had a bedtime since I was ten.
[a beat and although he tries, he can't keep the concern out of his voice.] How was it?
ok I couldn’t wait
There’s one person that he knows is in the same boat as he is. One that has endured this type of torture for much longer than he has. One that has buried friends while he’s forced to continue living; one that, no matter what, keeps going.
One that may insist that Steve doesn’t have to worry about him, but he does. After all, he’s one of his closest friends, and the only one left that has known Steve since what feels like the beginning.
It has been a long time since Steve was a fugitive, but he still takes every precaution necessary as he sets out to see his friend. He doesn’t want anyone following him, doesn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to him, but Steve has gotten good at this. After all, this isn’t the first time that he’s trying to live in the shadows. And this isn’t the first time he’s visiting him.
When he arrives as the sun is setting, he waits for a moment as if to let Jimmy catch his scent before walking up to the door. He’s carrying a duffel bag, but it’s not his - it’s filled with food, clothes, and things that Jimmy may have a hard time getting right now. It doesn’t feel like enough - it never feels like enough - but it’s an attempt to help out where he can.
At the front door, he raps his knuckles against it and waits for a moment before speaking. ]
Jimmy, it’s me.
[ Just in case he needs further proof that it’s really him visiting. ]
HURTS OPENLY
Now, though, the sound of his voice startles him to the point of fright -- and it takes all his self-control to twist that expression into some modicum of calm, into something that won't have Steve asking what the fuck is wrong with him (because truth be told, James doesn't think he's ready to explain such a thing).
It's only been a few months since they'd last seen each other, but James has changed enough that it makes a difference. The more his healing deteriorates, the more his body ages, finally catching up to the two-hundred or so years under his belt. His hair has greyed and there are wrinkles on his face that weren't there before, and there are scars between his knuckles shaped just like the claws that he's known for. He's slower now, his ankles don't move right, and when he comes up to open the door because he can never tell Steve "no", practically every inch of him creaks and aches with pains he never had before.
It's funny, though, and a little ironic; for as long as James has been wanting death, now that it's finally staring him in the face he's finding he hasn't done enough in his life to deserve how long he's been living it.
When the door opens, the sight that greets Steve is probably pitiful. James doesn't have any hope of fixing himself up, so the rumpled suit and the stench of whiskey and the fact he hasn't shaved (or showered) is clear as day. He knew it was a mistake telling Steve about the crappy motel he was staying at when he wasn't in Mexico with Charles, but he couldn't find the strength to lie to him.
(Or the strength to do anything these days, it feels.) ]
...hey. [ It's lacklustre, but he hopes Steve forgives him. James blinks hard, tries not to make it obvious that Steve's features have blurred in his eyes, and then steps to the side to let him in. ] It's messy as hell, I'm warning you.
[ It's also empty as hell save for the bottles and crumpled paper towels on the floor. James coughs into his fist, and he makes sure to look away when he does it; phlegm is bad enough from a distance. ]
CRIES FOREVER NBD
No. No, his brain seems to immediately think as he tries to piece together what’s happening. Yes, the years have passed, but he couldn’t have aged this fast so quickly.
Is he— ]
It’s fine, it’s not that bad.
[ Even if it was, Steve wouldn’t say anything. Or, rather, he wouldn’t notice; his attention doesn’t tear away from Jimmy long enough for him to really see the mess around them.
As he sets the duffel bag on the floor, there are a couple of bottles that clink together and he finds himself mentally kicking himself for including them. He can smell the whiskey in the air, on him, and what was he thinking? ]
I, uh. brought you some supplies. In case you’re running low.
[ The cough makes him shift his attention back to him completely, and he steps closer to him. He’s trying as hard as he can to not just stare and take in all the changes in him, because he doesn’t want to make Jimmy uncomfortable, so instead he lets himself do something he has been wanting to do since the moment he left last time - he reaches to rest his hand against his cheek, brushing his thumb softly against the new wrinkles that his mind keeps screaming shouldn’t be there like this. ]
Jimmy, what... [ He wants to ask if he’s okay, but the answer is obvious as his heart lurches in his chest. ] How long have you been here?
[ How long ago did this start? is really what he wants to ask, but even if he doesn’t, it’s written all over his face as he leans over to kiss his forehead. If he lets him, he’ll let his lips linger against his skin to prolong the kiss just a little longer than usual. ]
CRIES WITH YOU?????
Because God, it's soft. Gentle. Like James is fragile and shivery and new instead of an expired bastard born from a bitch's seed, and he ends up leaning into it, shutting his eyes, and... he's tired, Christ, and if he could spend whatever amount of time he has left just leaning against Steve like this, then he thinks he'd be able to die happy.
But he's not allowed nice things, and Steve ends up talking, and James ends up opening his bleary eyes and meeting his gaze with the softest huff of breath between them. ] I... here? This motel? Jesus, I don't know -- [ and he genuinely struggles to remember ] a week.
[ Ask him how long it's been since the Westchester incident, though, and he'll have the number down to the day. (Two-hundred and forty-three.) ]
You didn't have to come all this... [ way, he would've finished, but there's the touch of Steve's mouth to his forehead, sweet and kind, and before James knows what he's doing, he's reaching up to grip Steve's wrist in a hand that'd never been rough before. His fingers shake, his lip trembles, and he shudders with the need to keep himself from coughing.
Instead, James turns his head, feeling the brush of Steve's lips slipping from him, and presses a kiss of his own into his palm.
His mouth slides away eventually, and James' head ducks with his chin towards his chest. His grip tightens for a moment on Steve's wrist before disappearing entirely, and he knows it's not fair, but not looking into Steve's eyes gives him the false bravery needed to mumble: ] You shouldn't be here.
/drowns in tears together
He can feel it. He can feel the new roughness in his hands, the way his fingers shake. In a selfish way he’s glad that Jimmy can’t quite see him, because his brow furrows in concern so deeply in that moment that he knows he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Because he’s afraid, that he’ll do something that will make him pull away and hide, or push him out of the motel room so he won’t see him like this. ]
There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
[ His voice is soft, how it usually gets when they’re talking quietly in the dark while laying in bed as if somehow speaking too loudly will bring in the world around them, and Steve loops his free arm around him to pull him closer. As if somehow he can pull away the ache in his bones, the shake in his hands. He doesn’t quite know if it’s more for Jimmy’s or his own benefit, this need to feel him closer, but either way he doesn’t want to let go. ]
I want to be here. Please don’t ask me to leave.
no subject
[ As quiet as James' voice is, it breaks around the single syllable of Steve's name regardless, and as much as Steve might have wanted to take the pain away, the proximity only makes it hurt more.
God, it kills him how good Steve smells. How young, how alive. Coupled with the blood in his veins and the dried pus between his knuckles, James has never felt more sick. It makes him hesitate, stiff in Steve's arms, and in a moment of paranoia it makes him worry that being this close to him will make Steve sick, too -- that he'll die, because James reeks of it like nothing else.
But he laughs instead. And after he laughs, he coughs, and though he wants to tell Steve precisely what Steve doesn't want him to, he goes weak in his hold instead, and wraps his arms around him because it's the most human James has felt since his family died.
He thinks he's selfish. There is a special place in hell for men like him, who know the right thing to do and yet choose not to do it.
It can't be as bad as holding a man who doesn't age, though. Holding him and knowing he's going to leave him behind someday. ]
You need [ he muffles a cough into Steve's shirt, hands shaking as they slip up his back and finally return the hold ] better fucking standards than this.
I swear to God...
no subject
But then he laughs, and there's that cough again, and Steve just holds him a little closer. Especially when he feels the way that he feels his body loosen up, and the hand that had been on his cheek is moved to rest behind his neck. His fingers gently brush against his hair, resting his chin on top of his head. He doesn't care when Jimmy showered last, or how strong the smell of alcohol is; he just wants to stay here and hold him for as long as he can. Because it's not until he's holding him that he's coming to realize how terrified he is of this - of whatever is happening that is causing all this - and...why did he leave last time? Why didn't he stay?
The comment makes him huff out a soft chuckle under his breath, although it feels like it gets stuck in the base of his throat when Jimmy coughs. ]
My standards are just fine.
[ He presses another kiss at the top of his head. He doesn't want to let him go, but at the same time he doesn't think that Jimmy should be standing this long. When was even the last time he had slept? ]
...want to sit down? If you're hungry, I can go get you something to eat.
[ He'd offer to cook something, but it's not like he can quite do that in the motel. ]
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Sitting is good. [ But James doesn't really want to pull away, not yet. Not when Steve feels warm and strong like he always has, and James is only a step away from his own fucking grave. If he ignores the way everything inside him aches, and the fact that he can't stop shaking, he can almost pretend everything is all right...
Only it isn't. And it hasn't been for a while. And he doesn't know how to tell Steve this, especially because he knows Steve is going to ask.
Maybe if he holds him forever they won't ever have to talk.
But that'd be cowardly.
So James' grip tightens, fingers curling as much into Steve's shirt as they can, and he holds it for as long as he can until it starts to hurt in his wrists, in his trembling forearms. Then he lets go, and pulls back, and offers Steve a weary smile and a cock of his head. ] Bed's not much, but it's softer than the chair in here.
Gotta let me go if you're gonna let me walk, Steve.
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Before pulling away, Steve kisses his forehead again before brushing his fingers along his hair as he speaks. ]
Still demanding as ever, huh?
[ It’s said teasingly, as if the attempt of humor will help make this easier, but ultimately he complies and lets go. Immediately he feels cold, ready to take his hand again and hug him all over again, but he keeps himself from doing so. He should sit, Steve reminds himself.
Staying close to him, he walks with him to the bed and sits at the edge of it. The bed creaks and moans with the weight, and it seems to almost echo in the motel room, but he hardly notices. He’s trying to focus on Jimmy’s breathing, almost as if doing so he can figure out what is going on, exactly.
At first he doesn’t say anything, he just reaches for Jimmy’s hand before speaking softly. ]
...when did this start, Jimmy? [ Before he can play dumb, Steve gently brushes his thumb over the now-rough skin, the spots where the claws come out. Those were never there before - he should know, he has spent lifetimes studying (and drawing) his hands whenever Jimmy wasn’t noticing. ]
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Somehow that makes it all the more cruel that he touches him with the same gentleness now. James has never needed it, but has always been greedy for it. Now it's all he can do not to fall apart at the seams, and he doesn't want Steve to spend any moment longer touching the poison that he's become.
It's disgusting. He's disgusting. There is crust on the skin that Steve's thumb is on, and it's pus that's gone dry from the last time James had let his claws come out of him.
His lower lip quivers.
But he shakes his head from side to side, pulling his hand back from Steve's touch and linking it with his other one. ]
Don't know when it started. [ He swallows. ] Not exactly, anyway.
But two years ago... [ He wrings his hands together, shutting his eyes against the memory. When James' head drops, it looks every bit as heavy as the adamantium skull has turned it. ] Two years ago I hid a baby from an explosion. Collateral damage. Mission control. Cyke -- he and Kitty had to pull me home.
The kid was all right, but I was dead for a day. [ Longer, far longer than he'd ever been dead before. ]
Couple days later, Hank told me I had a scar.
Never had one of those before.
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As Jimmy speaks, Steve feels his shoulders tense. Two years. Two years? It's probably a good thing that he's not looking at him, because it's taking all he has to not ask - demand, really - why he hadn't said anything before. Steve couldn't have done much to help him heal or maybe even find answers, but he could have been there.
He should have been there.
There's a knot in his throat that he has to push down, passing a hand along his beard as he tries to string his thoughts into something that resembles coherency before sitting up. ]
I'm going back with you.
[ There's a finality to it, that stubborn streak of his flaring despite how neutral he manages to keep his expression. ]
Are you in pain? I can try to get you some medication.
[ And by 'try' he means he would, because nothing would stop him from providing for Jimmy whatever he needs. ]