"When I feel like this, usually there's nothing to do. I just hurt until I don't remember why. I don't really remember what I did when I was alive, either. It wasn't safe to feel like this at all. Sometimes I just went away. I don't know why I can't do that anymore."
He's been scared, since coming on the ship, felt self-loathing and desperate hunger to stop. But not this, not the full crushing inescapable horror of the cradle.
Which is echo damage, he recognizes, very suddenly and as if through a rifle scope: tiny and far-off and perfectly clear. The cradle isn't here.
He sits in the chair this time, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He isn't crying anymore. He's just so tired, and his heart feels heavy in his ribs.
That makes his face heat up a little- but he just goes and digs out the book, pulls off the wrapping paper (homemade, doodled with foxes and snowflakes, he shoves that into the dresser drawer quickly) and opens up the book, clears his throat, and reaches for his own tea. One deep swallow, then he settles in, and begins.
He loses himself. He will absolutely read to him until he's hoarse.
Time runs strange for Jedao, sometimes, and this - a voice, tea, light - feels as close to safety as he could bear, right now. No promises for the future, but an abeyance of the worst of the present. Sometimes he pays attention to the words and sometimes he can't, but that doesn't really matter. He can read it again.
"You should. Have some more tea too," he says, in a lull an hour or two on, when Quentin is indeed starting to rasp slightly.
"Oh-" Says Quentin, and gets up to go do that, folding a corner of the book down, then going to get them both another cup in silence, content and very companionable.
He brings Jedao's first, using the opportunity to look into his eyes, check in on him, be sure he's a little more back with them.
Certainly he's better than he was: he focuses, meets Quentin's eyes, is neither terribly stiff nor trembling nor wild. He seems to have settled into the smallness of his posture, peers out from it, like a bird from its nest.
He says, gently, and sinks down, sitting cross legged on the floor by Jedao's chair. He doesn't touch him, but does look up at him, soft and somehow faithful, sipping his own tea.
Lunch makes him sit up a little straighter, eyes widening in an absolutely farcical moment of oh shit, did I miss work, before he remembers that Jean is still covering for him. Then he swallows, sets his shoulders a little, even though wants desperately to choose being a fox -
-but I'm terrible reminds him of Gized, and he even manages a tiny smile.
Agrees Quentin, now dropping more of the way back, to rest on his elbows and consider him- like holding him at a foot more distance will give him a better perspective, the way he has to lift papers back to make them come into focus in the wrong light.
"Are you prepared to go against your instincts, the next little bit? In recognition that they're maladaptive, and that if you want to add more people to your life, you're going to have to do the measured thing, even if your brain is screaming at you that it's wrong?"
He's still and solemn, but he doesn't look away. There were things he thought of saying, when Quentin asked what are you the day before -
"I know. That. Some of my instincts are wrong. I know some of them were - necessary, at home, and are unnecessary here, and that some of them are just bad. I don't always know - when things are bad, or how bad they are, comparatively. And I know there are harmless things that cripple me. Maybe the strongest instinct is not to talk about those, because then you're just giving people weapons. I don't think -"
No. No, that's not fair. He grits his teeth, finally looks away.
"I know you don't want to hurt me. But it's still hard. I know I have to change, just, to get out of here, I have to be better, but it's hard when I don't even know - which instinct I'm supposed to be fighting."
"Of course I'm not going to try to hurt you. But this stuff is intense; we have to tread carefully, and we have to talk to each other."
He agrees, sitting back up, chin near Jedao's knee now, watching his expression for a moment, then twisting, pulling at his back a bit, trying to get a kink out. Too much tension.
"Me and you, you and Fives, me and Fives. So in your own words, what do you think has happened, the last couple of days?"
Jedao cannot remember appending of course to such a sentiment in his life. Perhaps he might have, when he was a child - about his sister, if not his brother. But if it happened, he does not remember it.
"There's some - concurrent. Things. The flood was bad, for all of us. And I."
He puts the cup down, carefully, on the floor, so he can bury his face in his hands. What has he done. What is he supposed to do. Part of him still hates to - put this on Quentin, but he asked for it. So he should get it. A proper fucking briefing, general.
"He wants to fuck me. And I can't. Because we're going to war together, he's going to be my soldier, and if I - it's - it reminds me of. A bad thing. But I want him all the time, and James said it wasn't wrong, and he said it wasn't wrong, he said he knew he could say no and I tried. I tried to - undermine. That instinct. And in the flood, he was - so sad, and so lonely, and he wasn't under my command. And I slept with that one, because - it was a little closer. And if I could almost with him, and it was fine, then next time, with him, might be easier. And it was."
He swallows, hard.
"But all of that was a mistake. I shouldn't have -" his voice cracks, a little. Fuck. Fuck. How is Jedao supposed to bear it, putting any of that distance back between them, how is he supposed to bear losing the hope that's been driving him - except he has to, because it's been driving him to this.
"When I was the other me instead of me, I was - even more broken, I think. And - more crystallized that way. I had someone who stopped torturing me and made me love them and I was a very good attack dog but it still wasn't enough. And I went looking for you after, just to check, but we were both - hungry. And you wanted, I think? Just. You wanted to know you weren't hurting either of us. Right? And Fives isn't jealous, but he doesn't - he doesn't believe me, how badly I need him. He doesn't value himself at all. And I don't know how to explain it, and I hate admitting it, that I'll never love him enough that he, he knows it like he deserves. And the way he saw it, he didn't want to fail at getting your approval, or - saying the right thing, to give me what I wanted. Because I sent him on a very simple mission, didn't I? He says it's different for us, but it isn't really. He's my soldier and he wanted to do it right for me even though he was miserable, and I should never have let myself. And then - you told me, and I realized, and now I don't. I don't know how to go back, and I don't know how to go forward. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't mean to drag you into this or - be like this. But you asked."
He isn't crying again, although he drew his knees back up, and his voice is thick by the end. It started as a report, he thinks, dazed, the more his brain catches up to his awful vomitous mouth, to the way he's opened himself up and exposed something rotten, sickly-sweet and soft and wriggling with maggots.
He almost can't follow this- has to stop listening to specifics and start listening to sentiments. Closeness, protectiveness, trauma, memory, loss. Intimacy, fear, self-worth, doubt, sorrow.
"You and I found each other at a very lonely moment, and an attraction sparked into- a beautiful little window. A day as fragile and contained as a soap bubble. I had an absolutely perfect time with you, and no matter what happens I'll remember it for the rest of my life. But of course it's complicated and kind of jarring to reconcile all that with the responsibilities and realities of the real world out there."
He draws in a breath, lets it out, and scrubs a hand through here.
"Look- you're leaving here with him, and not with me. Every choice you make needs to lead you towards that outcome. I do happen to think that we could be good for each other, but if that comes at the cost of his insecurity and uncertainty, the fact of the matter is it just isn't worth it. You shouldn't even roll the dice on hurting his feelings on my account."
So, where does that leave them?
"So, if he's ever in a good enough place in a couple of months, after the flood trauma has passed, where he's assured enough, then yeah, let's talk. But- not even a dice roll. Not because he failed, obviously, but because he has the right to have that kind of say, and to have his needs met. Even if he's not in a place to set the boundary himself. And I actually think you and I are on the same page about this, and no hard feelings, believe me. This is okay, Jedao."
"I wouldn't," he says, that part is simple. Priorities. He looks at Quentin with wide eyes, now. "You are - so. Delightful, Quentin, being around you makes me. Feel delight, and until the other day I didn't even notice you could be. So good, too. But I wouldn't have ever even taken the chance it could hurt him, not if I'd let myself realize that's what I was doing."
He looks at his hands now. Priorities. Cruelty.
"The problem is that I have to hurt him anyway. I can't ever be a - safe - lover for him. Not with all the other ways we are to each other. He thinks I don't have unfair power over him, because he's a warden and he could benchpress me if I tried to abuse my, my so-called rank. But he can't even say he's uncomfortable with you, without panicking. We have to break up. And I don't know how to do it without breaking both of us. But that's. That's not the kind of problem with a no-casualty solution. And it's also not yours."
And sometimes you just have to soldier on. He takes a deep breath.
"I hope we can still talk. Thank you, for your kindness. And the tea."
"Thanks." He says, and if his eyes prickle a little bit, well, maybe Jedao will be nice enough to pretend he doesn't notice. "Of course we can still talk."
They've still got a little bit more to get through today.
"I wouldn't break up with him yet. I don't know him well enough to know how you'd do this, but I think you should eventually share your thinking about this with him. You're too sharp edged to ever be one hundred percent safe for him, but you'd sure as hell sacrifice for him, and do a lot to protect him, and he probably deserves to know you'd choose him over me every time. I mean- not me specifically, but like, anyone. It's touching, to feel someone value you that way."
Which, as he says it out loud, as it really starts to sink in, starts to just ache, to hurt, but sometimes doing the right thing isn't supposed to be easy. He picks himself stiffly up off the floor, to try to cover that up a little, and comes to collect his teacup from him.
"Try that, before you say goodbye. Just- be trustworthy, put him first, give him a chance to know it? If nothing else, as a favour to me, do it so I don't have to live knowing that I--"
Jedao is on his feet, then, almost as quickly as when he pulled away from Quentin before, only this time, it's Jedao catching him up in a close, tight hug.
"You deserve so much, darling. So much more than this mess. However - however this has to fall out. You've done us nothing but good, being gentle with me. As a favor to you. I promise."
And now - he has to figure out how to do that. But it feels as slim and strong as the revenant's chain on his uniform. No qualifiers, no I'll try. It will hold him. Which - maybe, with a treacherous tiny spark of wishfulness, might have been why he gave it.
He hides his face in Jedao's hair, breathes in, and lets himself be comforted for a couple of long seconds. He's really amazing, and Quentin would have-
Well. Doesn't matter now.
"I'd also like some acknowledgement that I was dead right and not crazy when I basically levitated off you the other day, please?" This is wry, teasing. Called that one in the air. "And I reserve the right to remind you of it in order to get you to trust my judgement for at least the next foreseeable future."
"You're probably the sanest person I know," Jedao concedes, smiling back in the same wry register. "I'll make you a plaque or something. You can wave it at me when I need aiming."
"But you're going to be okay. This is actually a good step. You wouldn't have known he'd felt this precarious, if this hadn't happened, and now you do, and you can help him."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He's been scared, since coming on the ship, felt self-loathing and desperate hunger to stop. But not this, not the full crushing inescapable horror of the cradle.
Which is echo damage, he recognizes, very suddenly and as if through a rifle scope: tiny and far-off and perfectly clear. The cradle isn't here.
"May I have my tea again, please."
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He says, and smiles up at him, quick and shy and tentative.
"Of course, Fantastic Mister Fox. Why don't you sit down, I'll add some warm water."
He gets to his feet to go rescue the cup, and go pop the kettle down again, to give him a second without scrutiny.
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He sits in the chair this time, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He isn't crying anymore. He's just so tired, and his heart feels heavy in his ribs.
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He admits, and comes back with the tea for him, gentle and serene, already beginning to flex and test his fingers, as feeling returns down his arm.
"How would you feel if I just read to you a bit, Jedao?"
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He loses himself. He will absolutely read to him until he's hoarse.
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"You should. Have some more tea too," he says, in a lull an hour or two on, when Quentin is indeed starting to rasp slightly.
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He brings Jedao's first, using the opportunity to look into his eyes, check in on him, be sure he's a little more back with them.
IGNORE THE GUN PLEASE
"Thank you," he murmurs.
lol yes good
He says, gently, and sinks down, sitting cross legged on the floor by Jedao's chair. He doesn't touch him, but does look up at him, soft and somehow faithful, sipping his own tea.
"Few more chapters?"
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"What are my alternatives?"
He's coherent enough now to start being nervous about whatever might next.
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He proposes, leaning back, resting on the heels of his hands and smiling up at him, crookedly.
"We could go see Brooklyn in the Enclosure, or we could- play poker, but I'm terrible? The world is our oyster, Mister Fox."
'Fantastic' goes unspoken, but it's still written all over his face.
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-but I'm terrible reminds him of Gized, and he even manages a tiny smile.
"The talking one, please."
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Agrees Quentin, now dropping more of the way back, to rest on his elbows and consider him- like holding him at a foot more distance will give him a better perspective, the way he has to lift papers back to make them come into focus in the wrong light.
"Are you prepared to go against your instincts, the next little bit? In recognition that they're maladaptive, and that if you want to add more people to your life, you're going to have to do the measured thing, even if your brain is screaming at you that it's wrong?"
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"I know. That. Some of my instincts are wrong. I know some of them were - necessary, at home, and are unnecessary here, and that some of them are just bad. I don't always know - when things are bad, or how bad they are, comparatively. And I know there are harmless things that cripple me. Maybe the strongest instinct is not to talk about those, because then you're just giving people weapons. I don't think -"
No. No, that's not fair. He grits his teeth, finally looks away.
"I know you don't want to hurt me. But it's still hard. I know I have to change, just, to get out of here, I have to be better, but it's hard when I don't even know - which instinct I'm supposed to be fighting."
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He agrees, sitting back up, chin near Jedao's knee now, watching his expression for a moment, then twisting, pulling at his back a bit, trying to get a kink out. Too much tension.
"Me and you, you and Fives, me and Fives. So in your own words, what do you think has happened, the last couple of days?"
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"There's some - concurrent. Things. The flood was bad, for all of us. And I."
He puts the cup down, carefully, on the floor, so he can bury his face in his hands. What has he done. What is he supposed to do. Part of him still hates to - put this on Quentin, but he asked for it. So he should get it. A proper fucking briefing, general.
"He wants to fuck me. And I can't. Because we're going to war together, he's going to be my soldier, and if I - it's - it reminds me of. A bad thing. But I want him all the time, and James said it wasn't wrong, and he said it wasn't wrong, he said he knew he could say no and I tried. I tried to - undermine. That instinct. And in the flood, he was - so sad, and so lonely, and he wasn't under my command. And I slept with that one, because - it was a little closer. And if I could almost with him, and it was fine, then next time, with him, might be easier. And it was."
He swallows, hard.
"But all of that was a mistake. I shouldn't have -" his voice cracks, a little. Fuck. Fuck. How is Jedao supposed to bear it, putting any of that distance back between them, how is he supposed to bear losing the hope that's been driving him - except he has to, because it's been driving him to this.
"When I was the other me instead of me, I was - even more broken, I think. And - more crystallized that way. I had someone who stopped torturing me and made me love them and I was a very good attack dog but it still wasn't enough. And I went looking for you after, just to check, but we were both - hungry. And you wanted, I think? Just. You wanted to know you weren't hurting either of us. Right? And Fives isn't jealous, but he doesn't - he doesn't believe me, how badly I need him. He doesn't value himself at all. And I don't know how to explain it, and I hate admitting it, that I'll never love him enough that he, he knows it like he deserves. And the way he saw it, he didn't want to fail at getting your approval, or - saying the right thing, to give me what I wanted. Because I sent him on a very simple mission, didn't I? He says it's different for us, but it isn't really. He's my soldier and he wanted to do it right for me even though he was miserable, and I should never have let myself. And then - you told me, and I realized, and now I don't. I don't know how to go back, and I don't know how to go forward. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't mean to drag you into this or - be like this. But you asked."
He isn't crying again, although he drew his knees back up, and his voice is thick by the end. It started as a report, he thinks, dazed, the more his brain catches up to his awful vomitous mouth, to the way he's opened himself up and exposed something rotten, sickly-sweet and soft and wriggling with maggots.
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"You and I found each other at a very lonely moment, and an attraction sparked into- a beautiful little window. A day as fragile and contained as a soap bubble. I had an absolutely perfect time with you, and no matter what happens I'll remember it for the rest of my life. But of course it's complicated and kind of jarring to reconcile all that with the responsibilities and realities of the real world out there."
He draws in a breath, lets it out, and scrubs a hand through here.
"Look- you're leaving here with him, and not with me. Every choice you make needs to lead you towards that outcome. I do happen to think that we could be good for each other, but if that comes at the cost of his insecurity and uncertainty, the fact of the matter is it just isn't worth it. You shouldn't even roll the dice on hurting his feelings on my account."
So, where does that leave them?
"So, if he's ever in a good enough place in a couple of months, after the flood trauma has passed, where he's assured enough, then yeah, let's talk. But- not even a dice roll. Not because he failed, obviously, but because he has the right to have that kind of say, and to have his needs met. Even if he's not in a place to set the boundary himself. And I actually think you and I are on the same page about this, and no hard feelings, believe me. This is okay, Jedao."
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He looks at his hands now. Priorities. Cruelty.
"The problem is that I have to hurt him anyway. I can't ever be a - safe - lover for him. Not with all the other ways we are to each other. He thinks I don't have unfair power over him, because he's a warden and he could benchpress me if I tried to abuse my, my so-called rank. But he can't even say he's uncomfortable with you, without panicking. We have to break up. And I don't know how to do it without breaking both of us. But that's. That's not the kind of problem with a no-casualty solution. And it's also not yours."
And sometimes you just have to soldier on. He takes a deep breath.
"I hope we can still talk. Thank you, for your kindness. And the tea."
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They've still got a little bit more to get through today.
"I wouldn't break up with him yet. I don't know him well enough to know how you'd do this, but I think you should eventually share your thinking about this with him. You're too sharp edged to ever be one hundred percent safe for him, but you'd sure as hell sacrifice for him, and do a lot to protect him, and he probably deserves to know you'd choose him over me every time. I mean- not me specifically, but like, anyone. It's touching, to feel someone value you that way."
Which, as he says it out loud, as it really starts to sink in, starts to just ache, to hurt, but sometimes doing the right thing isn't supposed to be easy. He picks himself stiffly up off the floor, to try to cover that up a little, and comes to collect his teacup from him.
"Try that, before you say goodbye. Just- be trustworthy, put him first, give him a chance to know it? If nothing else, as a favour to me, do it so I don't have to live knowing that I--"
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"You deserve so much, darling. So much more than this mess. However - however this has to fall out. You've done us nothing but good, being gentle with me. As a favor to you. I promise."
And now - he has to figure out how to do that. But it feels as slim and strong as the revenant's chain on his uniform. No qualifiers, no I'll try. It will hold him. Which - maybe, with a treacherous tiny spark of wishfulness, might have been why he gave it.
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Well. Doesn't matter now.
"I'd also like some acknowledgement that I was dead right and not crazy when I basically levitated off you the other day, please?" This is wry, teasing. Called that one in the air. "And I reserve the right to remind you of it in order to get you to trust my judgement for at least the next foreseeable future."
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He says, into his hair.
"But you're going to be okay. This is actually a good step. You wouldn't have known he'd felt this precarious, if this hadn't happened, and now you do, and you can help him."
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He didn't want to know this, and he needed to. Fuck, it still hurts. Fuck. But it's true. It's even part of what he meant -
"Nothing but good, Quentin Coldwater." And then, after a beat - "Do I still get my book?"
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