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What You Had & What You Lost

He wrapped his arms around her, too tight, nails digging into her back. Sunny, later, would surely give him grief for being just as dramatic as America and co, but right now, he needed to feel human. Safe. He did not feel like either, he felt like someone had come along and pulled apart every fiber of his being and shoved it all back in, like a poorly stuffed sausage in its casing. (Meat.)

Leslie was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an attractive crier. Snot and tears and hiccuping gasps and-- from the drugs, from the mind break, from how pitiful he was-- sometimes laughter, sharp and broken.

"Everyone," he wailed, quietly and restrained and with great pain, "'s dead. Everyone cept Ana and Carlos but Carlos got got. Got got. Got got by the gotter."

The other side of the bed

"Yeah it starts..." she she began, voice muffled between her arms. Another deep breath, and once more. "It starts getting a little less it and a little more you, the...ugly bits, every ******** time. I'd start crying...when I knew it was close. Coulda been fear or relief or both...probably both. Being ugly is easy, you know?"

Lifting her head she paused and gave the Leslie Lump a wan smile, "It happens, they grow just like people. May have a promotion coming your way." Another sigh, "Maybe a trial too, if you killed anybody. You'll probably be fine, though. I was."

The other side of the bed

"Yeah..." and she thought for awhile, about the things she'd seen in Wonderland about this boy. About what power meant to him. Being under that influence, all fear cast to the side and everything focused with purpose with no hesitations, may have been the most powerful he'd ever felt in his life.

Coming back from that, back to the boy he was, America wondered how often what was supposed to be a nightmare would turn into a fantasy of sorts. Worst part would be waking up. "Hiding under someone's body was smart, you should put that in your report. Show them you're clever in a rough spot."

The other side of the bed

Expression turning a bit quizzical at the change, America answered carefully, "Naw, honey. He went on a mission for a couple days." Satisfaction curling around the words, she continued, "He said it went real well."

The other side of the bed

She gave him an encouraging smile, and after a few minutes returned with a tray containing cups of vanilla, chocolate, and pistachio pudding. Beside them was a can of "nutritional drink" which was the Deus version of Ensure and it would do well enough for this.

"Got a few things, you can see if one goes down any easier."

Messages

Taym's good mood couldn't last forever.

The damage was done, not by what news reached him (and via typos) of Leslie's state, but by his own reaction to it: exhaustion, resentment. He did not want to have these conversations again, didn't want to cope with the questions any more. It had been hard enough with America, and there it had been softened by his gnawing need to take care of her, to fix things for her. When he thought about what had happened to her in Russia his heart raced with a physical pain, the empathy/sympathy he could never entirely shut off, and her slow recovery had allowed him to get too comfortable.

He didn't have room for any more compassion, but he was himself, and so of course he would make room, against his own will. Compassion would wriggle in, and maybe it'd be cloaked in barbs and anxiety and anger but it would be there, demanding space, keeping him up at night. Months and months ago he'd conquered his own loathing of Maebe and his own wretched insecurities and emotional breakdowns and exhaustion long enough to go and hold her when she'd needed someone and no one else was there. He could sit by Leslie's infirmary bed. He wouldn't be able to do anything else.

And his exhaustion over this, nearly enough to bring him to tired tears, of course brought guilt, and with it the beginning of what would undoubtedly be a slow but inevitable slide back into his usual self-loathing.

He showed up later than he should have, waited til the room was empty, and he eyed the bucket by Leslie's bed and allowed himself a silent second of hatred before guilt washed it away.

He sat down, and said nothing. But he did wordlessly offer Leslie a cigarette, smoking in the infirmary be damned.

Messages

He clicked open his lighter for him too, sympathetic to uncooperative hands, his own relatively steady at the moment. Leslie could file away a mutilated ear to add to the list of identifying marks, but Taym seemed otherwise none the worse for wear--not at all like someone who'd been down among the monsters in human skin.

The significance of the question was lost on him.

"No. I was somewhere else. Not sure if they'd have called for me anyway, after what happened when we went to get America. Some random Moon, I'd guess."

Messages

Leslie took a drag, then another, before a sloppy exhale.

"No," he said, one hand winding into the sheets, staring down at the white-knuckled grip. "It had your face. Just nothing else. One of...those."

He flopped backwards, and under the fluorescent lighting, the circles under his eyes were so dark they were almost bruises. "s**t."