Welcome to Gaia! ::

Good at going unnoticed, Taym waited until Kostya'd left, presumably very temporarily and, if he knew Kostya, on some mission for calorie-shaped comfort. And then he waited still, and let himself cry a little, silently and discreetly, as he finished a third cigarette and arranged, via a series of text messages (to Peyton, mostly, and one to Bashmet to let him know that America's other, smaller friend had not been forgotten, since he didn't trust Bashmet himself not to forget), a small homecoming.

Her room was not empty for long. The sight of anyone limping is painful, but Taym, with his usual tightly-wound grace and catlike tread, imbued his hobble with an added note of startling juxtaposition. No one was less suited to it, and his progress was additionally hampered by the minipet carrier in one hand, which swung to and fro as Tubadiah, either smelling or simply sensing his immediate future, became nearly frantic, his restlessness punctuated by eager little noises.

Equally gracelessly Taym closed the door behind him and moving slowly, with a choked but visible grimace, he rested the carrier on his empty bed, lifted the treat out, and without comment delivered him into America's arms. He stood beside her bed, leaning heavily on the cane they'd given him while he set an alarm, and said: "I love you."

He almost didn't give in to the invitation. Kostya would be back soon, and it was in any case difficult to know what was a good idea and what wasn't--even moreso than was normally the case.

But after a moment, a too-long hesitation, he put the phone down and slowly, gingerly, painfully, and fearfully, he slipped into the space she'd left for him: a small and fragile person, taking up whatever room next to her he could. He threaded one arm around her shoulders, burying his face against her neck, and the other roamed from touching her wrist to smoothing gently over the treat's forehead.

It would have been easy to prevaricate, or tease, or toe around the issue, or let his tongue nervously run away with what he actually needed to say. Instead he said: "I like you."

He shifted, maneuvering blankets and treat and trembling arms until he'd made them a place for the three of them to huddle together, and abruptly he pulled her close, as hard as he could dare himself to, even though he knew that it wouldn't stop the shivering.

His voice against her ear was level, but he gave himself away anyway, tears brimming up half-relief, half-hurt, and entirely afraid. "Why would you think that, though?"

He paused before he answered, not quite a hesitation, but as if he were sifting through all the things he needed to say, trying to find the important ones.

"I'm not going anywhere. I couldn't love a bad person," he said finally. "Or maybe even like them. And I love you. And I like you." He smoothed a bit of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear: stupid, idly movements of his hands for the sake of touching her. "Why would you think you're not a good person?"

"America," he said quietly, with a tearful little incredulous sound that was almost but not quite a laugh, "if being a good person was about what you wanted to do instead of what you did I'd be a ******** saint. And if it was about never, ever ******** up then I'd never love anyone, because no one would be a good person. And you didn't ******** up. I don't think you ******** up. I don't--I don't know what happened down there but I saw you, OK, for a few minutes at least, and that wasn't--what I saw wasn't a bad person. Just someone who never deserved less having to--to make the shittiest ******** unfair decisions."

He paused to stroke down one of the treat's wings, to ruffle and smooth a patch of fur, and then he wound his fingers up with hers again, but his tone was now serious rather than comforting, and the fear was audible in it.

"I don't know if I could have done it, America," he whispered. "And maybe that'd be more selfish. Just--is this the worst you have to confess to? That you wanted to live and you wanted to come home and you were scared?" A hesitation, throat catching. "Tell me if it isn't, but if it is then I will tell you I love you until you get sick of hearing it. And maybe I will anyway. But don't be scared to tell me anything. Please."

Laughter, then, silent and trembling, his shaking hands tensing around hers, and he started to return the joke in kind but he couldn't, the words swallowed up in the sudden rush of tears he'd been holding back until he knew exactly why he'd be shedding them.

"I was scared," he confessed right back to her. "I was so ********' scared, and I stayed scared right up til you looked me in the eye down there, and I feel so ******** feel like a traitor, that I was scared at all, when I should've known better. And then I was--I was scared you wouldn't--I don't know. I'm just so ********' relieved, America, and I love you and I'm sorry."

Sorry for being glad that she hurt, sorry for exulting in the fact that she framed being selfish as a failing rather than a strength, sorry that he'd ever for a moment thought she might not. Sorry, above all, that she'd had to test any of it. Sorry about that most of all: sorry that she'd had to make a decision he would not have been strong enough to, sorry that despite everything the fact that she'd made it disturbed him, a little, and made him a little bit afraid of the shivering girl in his arms.

(He'd think it over, later; he'd consider it from all angles and arrive at the conclusion that what she had done had been difficult but just, and that the rest of it, the things that had been easy and cruel, had not been her.)

"Bashmet's going to come back any minute and I'm gonna have to clear out for him but I just--I don't think I've ever been more relieved to hold someone's hand in my entire ********' life, America."

He squeezed her hand, already having fought down his tears, trying to master himself before anyone else saw the slip besides her. She'd earned it. He wasn't sure anyone else had.

His smile was lopsided and it hurt, but he figured she'd earned that, too.

"I do, though. If I could have you all to myself I would but he's the one that ought to be here."

A pause while he ran his thumb over her fingers and wet his lips, watching Tubadiah's sleepy face without really seeing it, just to have somewhere to put his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again, but this time it wasn't about what she'd been through or what he'd been afraid of, but a smaller and much older wound. "That I can't give you more than I do. I try. But I can't even--" he hesitated. Taking her gently by the wrist he guided her hand over to rest on his side, the spaces between each rib clearly tangible even through his shirt, and sure enough he tensed as he did it, even though he'd initiated it, even though it wasn't even the first time he'd done it. He'd done it a week and a lifetime ago, to the same results.

Maybe it wasn't the full-body flinch and yanking away that it had been the first time she'd brushed her fingers there and maybe he kept trying to find excuses to be comfortable with her hands wherever they were, but still he tensed, a deer trembling with the desire to run.

"I try," he repeated, and for her he kept the resentment and the despair out of his voice, lapsing instead into rueful resignation. "But there's still--so much I can't give you. Not just this. A lot of things." For every bit of directness she offered he had a secret. For every straightforward explanation she gave him he had something to hide, not even sure why he did it but unable to fight the compulsion. Even this confession was unwonted and uncharacteristically frank. "And I don't know. When I came to he was standing there holding your hand and I remember when he was worse than I was. I want to give you a lot of things but mostly I just want things to be easy for you. I know it is for him. It's easy for you two. I know. So: Bashmet's going to come back, and I'm going to clear out for him. Not because I think you want me to, although I do--just because he does, I think, and anyway I think it's the right thing to do."

And then he'd lie in his bed two feet away from them and hate him, and hate her, and pretend that he'd made peace with it, because for all he couldn't give her what he could give her was the same thing he always did: a lie.

He was silent, stunned and scared, and as he so rarely did he met her eye, his own bewildered, tired, faintly sad. He was quiet for a long time, her outburst met with a puzzled attempt to find words. He felt very old and looked very young.

"I don't know how to say it so you'll understand," he said finally, quietly. "But I won't go anywhere yet, anyway."