[ 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}
/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.
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[ 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...
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]