( 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?
( Hey, at least that trait's something consistent across all the universes. Ian just flat out saying things without beating around the bush will be what pulls them through this trying time, surely. )
Fuck yeah.
( Agreed with an enthusiastic head bob. Annnnd just immediately refilling. )
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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. )
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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?]
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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?
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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.
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Show you mine if you show me yours?
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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.]
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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.
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How— I mean... You don't have to tell me, but—
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( 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. )
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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.]
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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.
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[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.]
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It's gonna be so hard to bullshit you now. Somebody shoot me in the other lung.
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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.]
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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.
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So, um... We can have an existential crisis together?
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Fuck yeah.
( Agreed with an enthusiastic head bob. Annnnd just immediately refilling. )
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[Probably not cool, but...]
Am I going to have to hold your hair back when you puke?
[As though to emphasize, she reaches up to tug on a lock of his now much longer hair.]
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( Positively affronted, one hand over his bullet-wound. )
I'm a professional, I'll remind you. I've been holding my tequila since before you were born.
( Well, now she knows firsthand that isn't true. )
I never had a hair catastrophe in my apocalypse cabin and my hair was— well, yeah, it was about this long.
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