seaside improvisation || bode + jr
He shouldnāt have offered. He regrets it almost as soon as itās out of his mouth. It would have been so easy to walk away. Wash his hands of this the way he so easily does with everything else he feels guilty for. Bode thinks about meeting Dante Carrington for the first time, the look in his eye when he told him guilt had a way of infecting you if you didnāt confront it.Ā He wondered how much time he had left before the infection took over. Had it already? If he took stock of his life, what would he find? It certainly wasnāt people who loved him, who would miss him if he were to perish. Espen could barely meet his eye anymore. Maybe they were right to hate me.Ā
āI didnāt mean it would be traumatizing for me.ā It didnāt matter if he was being sincere or not, JR wanted to be angry and so he would be. There was no changing his mind, no facilitating conflict resolution. He was just another name on the long list of people who couldnāt stand him. That was probably for the best. For everyone. Bode moves to a small chair next to JRās bed and takes a seat.Ā āWould you like to sit before we begin or?ā He looks at JR and when heās met with a hostile glare Bode letās out a heavy sigh. āI will take that as a no.ā Personally he preferred being seated for this kind of thing, it was always overwhelming seeing yourself from someone elseās point of view. Itās like looking in the mirror but notāitās distorted, magnified, exactly what you think and everything you donāt. Itās not an easy thing to explain much less experience. The first time Espen and Bode practiced, Bode started hyperventilating. But thatās JRās choice to make. His cross to bare so to speak.Ā
He doesnāt have to look at the man to enter his mind. Itās like unfurling wings after days of being trapped in a cage. Itās a muscle meant to be used often and yet is forced to be static, to wither to dust. He should be more worried about dying of a brain aneurysm but instead he frets over losing his abilities. They were special, he was special, if not in heart then in power. That had to count for something. He closes his eyes and wraps a talon around JRās mind, snapping it shut with the ease of a hawk catching pray.
And then itās water. Miles of it. The air tastes like salt, stings your cheeks with it. Heās standing on the dock, fingers flying over his tablet when he hears a shout.Ā āSurvivor! Survivor spotted!ā He looks up from his tablet in an instant, follows the echo of the manās voice and then the line of his arm pointing towards the rocky shore ofĀ James Ridge. Itās difficult to make out what heās pointing at, much less if itās a person. He looks on as a group of men lower themselves in an emergency boat, theyāre out of view for awhile before he can see the tops of their heads again. The man who pointed out the body first was on the boat, eyes set on the black lump on the shore. It suddenly becomes clear to Bode this man had heightened eye sight. Itās no wonder he had been able to spot the person from so far away.
Somewhere outside of this memory he feels a wave of impatience, like ocean waves lapping at rocks. Okay. He pushes back against JRās hunger and moves forward, like a control remote skipping ahead in a movie, the world blurs. When they come to, Bode is at the edge of the cargo boat, hands wrapping around menās forearms to help them back on deck. There isnāt much time to get a good look of the survivor before heās in his arms. Bode struggles for a moment, the weight of himāwet and bloodyātakes him back to another memory he buried long ago. Even now, he struggles to block out Peter, eyes vacant, fingers frozen by the Swedish winter. Stay focused, show him what he needs and get out. Donāt get lost.
He holds the survivor in his arms, the scent of iron and cedar oil waft over them both, then itās the sea, itās fish, itās sand and grit. Heās so cold. Bode shivers as his clothes become soaked. Soon another sailor helps Bode move the unconscious man to the floor. Itās only then that he gets a good look at him, his breath sticks to his throat and doesnāt come out.
His first thought is, he canāt possibly be alive. His second thought was, what the hell happened to him? His clothes were ripped to shreds, sliced through by rocks by the unforgiving shores of James Ridge. The skin beneath was a painting of greens and purples, splotches of red and encrusted sand. His face, although full of prominently strong lines betrayed him by swelling from having been beaten. He was a collection of cuts and bruises and more an open wound than a man. Bode stood there, speechless as the man who had helped him before, Edgar, leaned down to check his pulse.
āHeās alive.ā The crew surrounding the unconscious man all glanced at each other nervously. Alive. Heās alive. The collective breath theyād all been holding in is finally released.
āWell donāt just stand there. Get him to the doctor. Now.ā His voice dripped with his usual gruff arrogance, if only to not be disputed. Edgar and some other man whoās name he canāt remember pick up the man off the floor, he hears a small clang as they do but he assumes itās his ear piece acting up again. He thinks nothing of it as he watches the crowd part for them. He watches them go, the manās head limp as they disappear below deck. Bode glances back to the space the man had just vacated on the boat floor, pools of red saltwater the only proof left of his existence. Thatās when he sees it, the broken chain, the bloody cross attached to it. He reaches down to extract it from one of the puddles of water, thumb caressing the sturdy metal. There was dried blood on it, hints of scratches on its surface. He frowns, tucks the necklace into his coat pocket before looking up. He meets eyes with one of the sailors, his frown deepens. āClean this up.ā He motionās toward the deck floor before walking away.
He pulls at the memory, unravels it like a loose thread on a sweater before pulling them both out. Itās always easier to force an image then take it out. Harder to break a connection than make one. Heās tired by the time he opens his eyes.
Itās like falling into a dream: one moment heās standing at the foot of his bed, Bode is sitting in his chair, and the next itās open water. Choppy, dark seas. He can smell it, taste it. His stomach churns. If he were anyone else, maybe itād even be soothing. Seeing the ocean, the sharp dark rocky shores ahead. Instead itās torturous: drawn out. Get to the important bit, he thinks. Just like that, things move ahead.
As soon as the bodyā no. As soon as his bodyāno, still not right. As soon as he appears, JR knows itās a mistake. He looks dead, looks barely human. They shouldāve left him on the rocks. Itās too much and too real but JR canāt move, canāt leave. Heās forced to watch. He didnāt exactly ask for this: Bode offered. The man must know what heās done, what he could do?
Is this some sick game to him? Further punishment, flay the injured man with images of himself. The entire time he was in the infirmary, unable to answer who he is or was, laying there and seeing nothing but pity in the eyes of the staff. He knew heād not been a pretty sight coming in. Being confronted with it, though, is an entirely different experience.
The fact Percy can even stand the sight of him amazes JR. How does she not see his scars and think of the layers he sees in horrific detail: skin, fat, muscle, drenched in blood and salt water. What good person would deserve that sort of near-death? The answer is none. The answer is JR canāt have been a good person.
Thereās a flash: something else. Someone else. Too fleeting for JR to take in but jarring enough that heās reeling. In reality, he stumbles on his feet but catches himself. Itās as though nothing happened, heās back watching himself be hauled onto the boat, Bodeās arms catching him and struggling. Similar to dream logic in the way JR accepts the weird blip.
Itās worse than he imagined. JR had only ever seen the aftermath, mercifully asleep for a few weeks. Clothes barely hanging on and JR can map out every scar he currently has in long, red gashes. Inflamed cuts, a sickly mixture of blues and deep purples. How much damage did they do to his ribs hauling him up like this?
Despite knowing how this ends: JR finds he still holds his breath as one of the men leans in to check his pulse. Is he dead? Itās an odd sort of detachment, watching himself in an outer body experience. JR tries to not look, but his vision goes where Bodeās does. Heās a partially unwilling spectator.
The fact Bode acts the way that he does feels like yet another low blow. The apologies must be insincere, he must have kept the necklace on purpose, either that or Bodeās natural cruelty surpasses even the most deliberate of torture. Bode still sounds like an arrogant bastard, even covered in ice-cold saltwater, a wash of coppery of blood. Gold sits in a puddle of red. The necklace, picked up, pocketed. Forgotten.
āClean this up,ā he says, like itās something disgusting. A waste of time, a delay in their schedule.
JR stands there, silent, an iron grip on the end of his bed frame. Knuckles white, fingers going pink with the force. His other hand still holds the crucifix, its sharp edges digging into the soft flesh of his palm.
āGet out,ā he manages finally, staring at his own hand. Thereās no immediate movement: looking up to see Bode looking tired only enrages him further, āGet. Out.ā
