[One second, Kyna is drowning in her own blood. The next, she's in the safehouse.
She spends a second just gasping, remembering what it is to breathe. A second more remembering who she is, who she really is. The rest of it barely registers—abandoned safehouse, same clothes she was wearing when she went to sleep, everything still as a tomb. Clawing panic overtakes all of it, and in the middle of her crying fit, she realizes that all she wants is Ian.
How much of that is her, and how much of that is borne from memories of growing up with him? She has no idea, and she doesn't care. For once, she's glad for the implant. There's no way she'd be able to fumble with a phone in this state.]
( Ian's there for days after Kyna-- after what happened. He's there in a fog, like he's sleepwalking through life, right up until the bombs go off. That woke him up for just long enough to echo Kyna's death -- drowning in his own blood, but in a hallway rather than a quarry.
He wakes up in New Amsterdam in numb shock, and he stayed that way for a while. Struggling to reconcile it, struggling to even get out of fucking bed, blurry.
Eventually the gears in his mind slot into place, they start to turn, and he pores over messages sent to his implant before he got back.
Never felt fucking relief in his life like how he feels when he sees her message. )
I'm coming over
( It's not a question. If she doesn't open the door he'll bend it himself. )
[She spends days waiting for a response, and as time passes, nothing gets better, but the edges dull a bit. She finds the new scars almost immediately, thin, pale lines where the flechettes pierced her. Which means it wasn't a dream. It wasn't like the sim. It was something else.
When he finally messages her back, she's in her apartment again. Hiding away from Lance feels stupid now, and she can't handle the open emptiness of the safehouse. Just seeing those three words overwhelms her in a way she wasn't expecting—relief and trepidation, all at once. Their relationship is still all tangled up in her mind, and she's not sure where to start straightening it out. But...]
( Right up to a certain point there at the end, Ian could say that out of all of the people he knows, all of the changes that happened in this second life, his relationship with Kyna is the simplest, strongest, most confident one. Who they were in the original iteration melds in with who they were in this last life together in a way that just kind of works -- like the second one's an evolution of the first, almost.
He's walking away from that world on unsure footing about himself, about who he is, about what's real, about Nate, about everything except her.
Up until he fucking killed her.
All the devastating guilt in the world doesn't stop him from sweeping through her door and going straight to pulling her into him. She can hate him after if she wants, she can hurt and scream and do whatever she's gotta do after, he just... needs to hold her for a minute first. )
[The second she sees him, the second he hugs her, all that worry just melts away. Days of overthinking and anxiety disappear, just like before the Aerie, and just like during it. She clings back, standing on her tiptoes to get her chin up on his shoulder and her arms around him.
She doesn't hate him. She doesn't think it's possible for her to hate him, no matter how many nightmares she's had or shadows she's flinched at in the last few days. It wasn't his fault in whatever strange mirror world they were in, and even if it had been, how can she hold that against him here?
Just his presence, the warmth and the reality of him makes it all hit her in a new way. There's no screaming or hitting or whatever he's steeling himself for. She simply breaks down sobbing.]
( He needs to start putting down tally marks for every time his heart breaks. He's got to be on number five or six now, and at least three of them have been about her. She starts sobbing, it rends something behind his ribs, and he hangs on so tightly he's practically supporting her weight. A hand slips up to cradle the back of her head, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and keep some semblance of fucking composure. )
I know. I know. I'm sorry.
( Murmured hoarsely, understanding and hurting with her even aside from the guilt he feels. It's everything, it's not just what happened at the end. It's everything, and yeah, him fucking too, man. )
You're okay, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, I promise.
[There's that blurring again. She remembers him holding her just like this when her dad left and she realized he wasn't coming back, but he couldn't have. She's known him for months. She's known him for years.
She wants to say something back, to tell him that it isn't his fault, to say that she's sorry too, but she can't choke out the words. They seem inadequate anyway, and she's never been so frustrated with her lack of eloquence. It takes her too long to get herself back under control, leaning her full weight against him, but eventually, the sobs die into gasps, and then slower, trembling breaths. She doesn't let go, doesn't even pull back enough to look at him.]
( It's going to be an impossible, insane thing to reconcile. He's got questions he can't even begin to answer, and the unfortunate realization setting in that it isn't as simple as deciding which life was real. They both felt real. He spent the same amount of time in both.
In some ways, the most recent life was better. Granted, in some ways it was horrifically worse, but if he could pick and choose which aspects he could keep...
He'd really, really want to have grown up with her.
He doesn't let go either; the farthest he pulls back is to press his lips to the top of her head for one hard, long moment.
I'm so glad you're here.
In sweeps the guilt at last, so crushing his fingers dig in a little too hard. His throat swells up, and he barely manages to force words through it. )
[It ignites the empathy bond, all of Kyna's muddy, mixed emotions filtering through. She didn't realize she'd missed it until now, and maybe if this were anyone else but Ian, she'd pull back. Instead, she just grips the back of his shirt more tightly, relief and regret and a strange grief for their fake lives overtaking her.
Back home, she never had a group of people around her that was so solid, that had seen her at her worst and still stayed, that she could tell everything to. It's almost as though she's lost her entire family, all in one fell swoop. Except, maybe, for him.
So when he apologizes, she goes rigid, her grip tightening.]
( She gets the short end of the stick with this empathy bond. She gives relief and she gets back crippling guilt, consuming grief. He bends at the neck, posture terrible but necessary so he can press his forehead against the crown of her head. He shakes it back and forth, a gentle steadfast rejection. )
I fucking built that, I built that for them. I- fuck, it was my idea, I didn't--
( Who the hell works for a company like that? Who the hell willingly builds death machines like it's normal? What the fuck was wrong with him?
[My idea, he says, and maybe his guilt triggers hers, or maybe it was just always there, latent. He designed the shit, sure, but she prettied people up to go to the slaughter. It was easy to tell herself that she was just surviving, but she never fought against it like the Kestrels did. She should have. Maybe that says something about both of them.
Still, Kyna is nothing if not biased. She loves Ian too much to blame him, even if she'd blame someone else for the same thing. Even if she keeps having nightmares about it.]
They would have just thrown you in there with me if you didn't.
( To be honest, it doesn't say much about Ian that he didn't already know. That he's a coward, that he hides and he blends and he runs instead of fighting. That's exactly how he survived the fucking apocalypse, holed up in Crater Lake praying he got to die the lazy slow way undiscovered and in the woods.
Hates himself a little for it.
He says nothing. Shakes his head, but it isn't to refute it this time. She's not wrong, odds are pretty likely that if he spit in the face of the company after his quarry when they oh-so-kindly gave him his dream job, he'd have wound up back in there.
But still.
It goes quiet for a bit, and he doesn't let go for a while. When he does it's slow, and he subtly scrubs the sleeve of his flannel over his eyes to wipe away any evidence. )
Did you, um--
( He starts hoarsely, then second-guesses himself.
[She knows Ian well enough to recognize that for what it is. He's deflecting, because he's not accepting it or not believing her or... something. It's just that she doesn't know how to convince him, or if she should push, or...
God, she's tired.
Kyna keeps her hands on his upper arms even when he pulls back, not willing to give up the contact just yet. His question makes her tense, which is probably answer enough. For a split second, she nearly deflects, but then she realizes she can't bring herself to lie to him.]
[Her lips quirk up, not quite a smile. She's impressed he's even trying to joke.]
Okay.
[Maybe this really isn't a good idea, but she tugs down the collar of her t-shirt. There's a thin line just under her collarbone, matched by another on her throat. They already look old and faded.]
[Kyna sucks in a breath, reaching out to touch the mark before she can stop herself. He's standing right here, alive, but there's still that rush of grief and regret.]
( A little hesitation, but. He's already said it out loud once. Shouldn't be that hard a second time.
Except it's starting to actually set in as real, and his mind shoots back to that moment seemingly at random. Intrusive thoughts, he can't keep himself from tugging it out again without realizing it. )
I could--
( Show you, he starts, and then realizes immediately how fucked up that offer is. She just went through her own death, she doesn't need to see his on top of it. He shakes his head, and breaks away for her kitchen to start searching out her tequila. Clearly that habit's flaring back up.
She's gotta have it. She hangs out with him too much not to. )
Somebody started bombing shit. People went crazy. Shrikes were taking down anybody that even kind of breathed like a kestrel.
( Fuck yeah, tequila. He'll pour while he talks, it's something to keep his eyes on and his hands occupied. )
Anyway, me and Nate were trying to get out and this dumb fucking kid popped around a corner. He panicked, I tried to wrestle him like a moron, it went off, and...
( Shrug. Here we are.
See, Fowler? Not even that bad if you just plow through it really quick and don't get into the details. )
[Yeah, sure, no big deal. Getting shot is just one of those things that happen, right?
He said "bullet to the lung". She can imagine how miserably he died.
It's total bullshit, but he just got back, and now doesn't feel like the time to push. She just trails along beside him instead, fishing a glass out of the cabinet and setting it down on the counter, a silent request for him to pour some for her, too.]
( He hums gently; maybe you're just really fucking bad at it. Well, he didn't used to be. Who knows anymore?
He doesn't seem all that perturbed by the Aerie mention. )
Yeah, if you're cool with it I think I wanna get drunk in your house and pass out in your bed.
( Bluntly, before knocking his drink back. Once he swallows, he thunks the glass down on the counter. )
Look, that place was as real to me as this is, so. I don't know if I can get on board the forget it happened strategy some people are taking. I'm actually kind of having an existential crisis about it, which is really great to pile on top of all the other fucked up feelings from the other fucked up shit that happened in that fucked up life.
[His bluntness actually shatters a lot of the tension she's feeling. She laughs a little, pure relief, and relaxes enough to knock back her own drink.]
So, um... We can have an existential crisis together?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@kyna.medina
She spends a second just gasping, remembering what it is to breathe. A second more remembering who she is, who she really is. The rest of it barely registers—abandoned safehouse, same clothes she was wearing when she went to sleep, everything still as a tomb. Clawing panic overtakes all of it, and in the middle of her crying fit, she realizes that all she wants is Ian.
How much of that is her, and how much of that is borne from memories of growing up with him? She has no idea, and she doesn't care. For once, she's glad for the implant. There's no way she'd be able to fumble with a phone in this state.]
Ian?
[That's enough, right?]
no subject
He wakes up in New Amsterdam in numb shock, and he stayed that way for a while. Struggling to reconcile it, struggling to even get out of fucking bed, blurry.
Eventually the gears in his mind slot into place, they start to turn, and he pores over messages sent to his implant before he got back.
Never felt fucking relief in his life like how he feels when he sees her message. )
I'm coming over
( It's not a question. If she doesn't open the door he'll bend it himself. )
no subject
When he finally messages her back, she's in her apartment again. Hiding away from Lance feels stupid now, and she can't handle the open emptiness of the safehouse. Just seeing those three words overwhelms her in a way she wasn't expecting—relief and trepidation, all at once. Their relationship is still all tangled up in her mind, and she's not sure where to start straightening it out. But...]
okay
[She just leaves the door open.]
no subject
He's walking away from that world on unsure footing about himself, about who he is, about what's real, about Nate, about everything except her.
Up until he fucking killed her.
All the devastating guilt in the world doesn't stop him from sweeping through her door and going straight to pulling her into him. She can hate him after if she wants, she can hurt and scream and do whatever she's gotta do after, he just... needs to hold her for a minute first. )
no subject
She doesn't hate him. She doesn't think it's possible for her to hate him, no matter how many nightmares she's had or shadows she's flinched at in the last few days. It wasn't his fault in whatever strange mirror world they were in, and even if it had been, how can she hold that against him here?
Just his presence, the warmth and the reality of him makes it all hit her in a new way. There's no screaming or hitting or whatever he's steeling himself for. She simply breaks down sobbing.]
no subject
I know. I know. I'm sorry.
( Murmured hoarsely, understanding and hurting with her even aside from the guilt he feels. It's everything, it's not just what happened at the end. It's everything, and yeah, him fucking too, man. )
You're okay, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, I promise.
no subject
She wants to say something back, to tell him that it isn't his fault, to say that she's sorry too, but she can't choke out the words. They seem inadequate anyway, and she's never been so frustrated with her lack of eloquence. It takes her too long to get herself back under control, leaning her full weight against him, but eventually, the sobs die into gasps, and then slower, trembling breaths. She doesn't let go, doesn't even pull back enough to look at him.]
I'm so glad you're here.
no subject
In some ways, the most recent life was better. Granted, in some ways it was horrifically worse, but if he could pick and choose which aspects he could keep...
He'd really, really want to have grown up with her.
He doesn't let go either; the farthest he pulls back is to press his lips to the top of her head for one hard, long moment.
I'm so glad you're here.
In sweeps the guilt at last, so crushing his fingers dig in a little too hard. His throat swells up, and he barely manages to force words through it. )
God, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.
no subject
Back home, she never had a group of people around her that was so solid, that had seen her at her worst and still stayed, that she could tell everything to. It's almost as though she's lost her entire family, all in one fell swoop. Except, maybe, for him.
So when he apologizes, she goes rigid, her grip tightening.]
Don't. It's not... It's not your fault, Ian.
no subject
I fucking built that, I built that for them. I- fuck, it was my idea, I didn't--
( Who the hell works for a company like that? Who the hell willingly builds death machines like it's normal? What the fuck was wrong with him?
And more than that--
His voice cracks a little. )
Jesus fucking Christ, I thought you were dead.
( Except, she was. )
no subject
Still, Kyna is nothing if not biased. She loves Ian too much to blame him, even if she'd blame someone else for the same thing. Even if she keeps having nightmares about it.]
They would have just thrown you in there with me if you didn't.
[Right?]
no subject
Hates himself a little for it.
He says nothing. Shakes his head, but it isn't to refute it this time. She's not wrong, odds are pretty likely that if he spit in the face of the company after his quarry when they oh-so-kindly gave him his dream job, he'd have wound up back in there.
But still.
It goes quiet for a bit, and he doesn't let go for a while. When he does it's slow, and he subtly scrubs the sleeve of his flannel over his eyes to wipe away any evidence. )
Did you, um--
( He starts hoarsely, then second-guesses himself.
But he wants to know. )
Do you have- like, did they leave scars?
no subject
God, she's tired.
Kyna keeps her hands on his upper arms even when he pulls back, not willing to give up the contact just yet. His question makes her tense, which is probably answer enough. For a split second, she nearly deflects, but then she realizes she can't bring herself to lie to him.]
Um... Yeah.
no subject
Show you mine if you show me yours?
no subject
Okay.
[Maybe this really isn't a good idea, but she tugs down the collar of her t-shirt. There's a thin line just under her collarbone, matched by another on her throat. They already look old and faded.]
no subject
They're permanent. Because of him.
After a few seconds he finds he can't look at them anymore, so he tugs his eyes down toward the floor and clears his throat. )
Um...
( Right, they're swapping. )
Bullet to the lung.
( He tugs his shirt down low enough to display a pec. )
Two stars. I wouldn't recommend it.
no subject
How— I mean... You don't have to tell me, but—
no subject
( A little hesitation, but. He's already said it out loud once. Shouldn't be that hard a second time.
Except it's starting to actually set in as real, and his mind shoots back to that moment seemingly at random. Intrusive thoughts, he can't keep himself from tugging it out again without realizing it. )
I could--
( Show you, he starts, and then realizes immediately how fucked up that offer is. She just went through her own death, she doesn't need to see his on top of it. He shakes his head, and breaks away for her kitchen to start searching out her tequila. Clearly that habit's flaring back up.
She's gotta have it. She hangs out with him too much not to. )
Somebody started bombing shit. People went crazy. Shrikes were taking down anybody that even kind of breathed like a kestrel.
( Fuck yeah, tequila. He'll pour while he talks, it's something to keep his eyes on and his hands occupied. )
Anyway, me and Nate were trying to get out and this dumb fucking kid popped around a corner. He panicked, I tried to wrestle him like a moron, it went off, and...
( Shrug. Here we are.
See, Fowler? Not even that bad if you just plow through it really quick and don't get into the details. )
no subject
He said "bullet to the lung". She can imagine how miserably he died.
It's total bullshit, but he just got back, and now doesn't feel like the time to push. She just trails along beside him instead, fishing a glass out of the cabinet and setting it down on the counter, a silent request for him to pour some for her, too.]
I'm sorry.
[She says it softly, leaning into his side.]
no subject
He is very happy to drag her into his terrible habit, though. Misery loves company, and drinking loves companions. He pours her a nice glass. )
It's cool.
( It's not cool. )
The worst part is my SunnyD went bad while we were there. Real salt in the wound.
no subject
[It's a soft sort of chiding, not enough to push, but enough to let him know that she knows he's totally full of shit.]
no subject
It's gonna be so hard to bullshit you now. Somebody shoot me in the other lung.
no subject
Maybe you're just really fucking bad at it.
[She nudges him, careful not to jostle his glass, tone slipping back to gentle.]
Do you want to stay? I mean, you could take the couch or we could just... share my bed, like—
[Like they did after his Quarry in the Aerie, she means, and wonders how strange that is, asking based off of a habit that might not even be real.]
no subject
He doesn't seem all that perturbed by the Aerie mention. )
Yeah, if you're cool with it I think I wanna get drunk in your house and pass out in your bed.
( Bluntly, before knocking his drink back. Once he swallows, he thunks the glass down on the counter. )
Look, that place was as real to me as this is, so. I don't know if I can get on board the forget it happened strategy some people are taking. I'm actually kind of having an existential crisis about it, which is really great to pile on top of all the other fucked up feelings from the other fucked up shit that happened in that fucked up life.
no subject
So, um... We can have an existential crisis together?
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