Let's try this again? Moment of weakness!
MEME. MEME TAG. INBOX. ALWAYS ACCEPTING !14. MY MUSE IS BEEN BEATEN BADLY AND IS IN BAD SHAPE, YOURS FINDS MINE IN THIS STATE.
seventy-two hours of james’ life don’t exist. he knows, intellectually, that that time was very real— the way every part of his body, from skin to muscle to nerve to bone, protests loudly whenever he dares to so much as attempt to move tells him as much— but his mind blocks the memories from coming to the surface. everything is vague, hazy clouds of pain and the edge of a knife, and trying to delve any deeper into those hours of heat and blood in the bunker makes his traitorous mind snap shut like a bear trap. 403 forbidden: the server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it.
ev whispers fervent apologies every time james tenses under his touch. whole patches of flesh are missing, weeping infection and require his near-constant attention; some of them are bad enough to warrant the hand of someone with more skill and experience than their newly-minted combat medic.
dedsec never ventures more than a hundred feet from james when they get him back, hanging like anxious specters. and they had reacted in all the ways james had expected: amr shook with that distinct cocktail of rage and powerlessness that he took out on a heavy bag. ev found solace in treating him, in seeing him heal. grace moved her workstation to his room and brought her painting supplies with her talking to him about normal things. otsi flings crueler insults at the seeds than even he thought possible. wrench? wrench broke things.
and of course, james wouldn’t be james if he hadn’t gotten right back to work as soon as he had adjusted to his medication. he issues orders while ev and charles work on patching him up. it’s routine now. bandages. pills. repeat. and usually their house would be closed to outsiders, but— well, james never pinned jess as giving much of a shit about that sort of thing.
she stands in the back of the bedroom, half cast in late afternoon shadows. their conversation is pragmatic, but he can see the way she eyes the injuries, not with pity but understanding.
she can see it in his eyes, he’s sure of it. can see that the world has spent thirty-two years finding new parts of james park to kill, and he stood up every time, shaking, and said, “is that all?”
“gonna be a hell of a scar,” he says. it doesn’t occur to him that there are so many that she can’t possibly know which one he’s talking about. “was thinking of having grace design a cover-up, but… I think I like them.”
he smiles at her, too exhausted and too addled by medication to manage anything more than rueful. john had held him within an inch of his life for three days. john had taken knife to his perfect skin and marred it in ways that no one can ever heal. john had him screaming, begging, mind fried from the pain. but james is very much alive, and very much safe. and james isn’t broken.
