irishrotter | Ninth Rising

[Friends filter, after the port]

[This broadcast is a little bit delayed compared to most of the others, like there's something Simon needed to do prior to checking in. Still, he looks as worried and relieved as everyone else when he does reach out to his friends.

No one will be surprised to know that neither Arthas nor Sylvanas remain on this list.]

Tell me you're all okay.

[Spam, open]

[Simon's communicator remains quiet after that. He answers his messages in a generally timely fashion, but there are no further broadcasts. The lack of sermons from the pulpit continues as it did after the sha took him over; he has no sermons to give. He's not suffering from the aches and pains of those who death tolled on the Barge, but he feels an echo of their weary faces in his own soul. He feels exhausted, too, even if it's a different kind of exhaustion.

On the surface, nothing has changed except that he has an emergency supply of neurotriptyline on him at all times now -- and thank Christ, only a few people know about that, anyway. Beyond that, though, he feels almost as lost and aimless as he was out in the desert. He shuffles along his daily routine. He takes his shot obediently when he wakes up, spends his mornings in the chapel and his afternoons in the library and doesn't really seem to bother with anything else, though he does still sometime turns up on the deck in the evenings to watch the stars go by.]

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[He catches the motion and offers Jimmy a smile, appreciative if also slightly forced. It's not as though it's not good to be treated as a guest -- not as though there are many people outside of the ULA and the Walkers who would have Simon into their home back in England -- but he never quite likes these little reminders of how different his friends here are from him. Looking at them is reminder enough.

He sits, though, handing the books across to Jimmy one by one.]

Well, let's see... they're all American, around the 1950s and 60s... This is the one I mentioned to you before. [Catch-22.] About the Second World War. A satire. But in case you don't find it all that funny, this one-- [Heinlein.] --might be an easier read. It's science fiction.

And this one... [He considers Howl. Why had he chosen it?] ...I don't know. I always liked it -- I thought you might, too.

[He looks at the books as Simon hands them over and explains what they're about. He frowns at the term 'science fiction', but looking at the cover doesn't go too far in explaining, either.

He'll ask about that later, though. His fingers linger briefly on the cover of Howl, and then he looks up at Simon.]

Why did you like it?

[He's quiet for a moment, pensive as he looks at the slim volume in Jimmy's hands.]

It's... passionate. Angry, exuberant, rebellious. Ridiculous, sometimes, but... it made me feel something when I was younger.

[He rests his elbows on his knees, knits his hands loosely together.]

I guess anything that made me feel stayed with me back then.

[He runs his fingers along the edge once more, then sits back again to look at Simon. He knows what Simon means- he remembers the nightmare clearly, even after a few months.]

Literature could speak to you even when you were like that.

[He scoffs softly, self-deprecatingly.]

Yeah. That, films, and drugs.

[He twists his mouth in a sardonic smile]

It only takes one bad hobby, huh?

[He gestures, vaguely, towards Catch-22.] You said this one's about the other war. Gene's war.

It is. World War Two.

[He's silent for a long time-- too long, probably, to still be interesting to Simon. But in the end, he comes up with a question that he's asked before, but never of a civilian.]

Was it worth the fight?

[Because he can't stand the thought of reading a satire of a war that had to be justified at every pass. Not when he could be going home after graduation just to see his son get drafted.]

[Simon has far more patience than most now that he's dead. He lacks the thrumming push of mortality to drive him forward. He can be especially patient now, here; now that he has no mission to draw him anywhere but here. He waits, watching Jimmy and considering what might be driving the pensiveness behind his eyes.

When the question comes, it's not one he's expecting. His brows lift curiously. It's pretty strongly out of left field, actually, in a way he doesn't question until he opens his mouth and starts to. He's always taken for granted that it was worth it: good guys and bad guys, practically movie villains, the innocent victims, the American cavalry rushing in at the last minute to save the day.

But he's never thought about it from the perspective of a soldier asking for the justification of his brothers' deaths. He stops what he was about to say and thinks hard for a moment, frowning thoughtfully at his hands.]

...It was.

[He flashes a slight smile, albeit mostly a rueful one.] But you might not want to read that first.

[He looks at Simon when the other man answers him, like he's weighing the truth behind his words. Not that he's ever known Simon to be anything else than starkly truthful.]

Then I won't. [It's an unspoken acceptance of Simon's judgement of the war, and he nods.]

Thank you. For the books.

Of course, Jim. Is there anything else I can do for you?

[And he's asking, he really is. There has to be something he can do to put a dent in... all of this.]

[He's not sure why, but he's grown to like the way Simon shortens his name, his accent curling around the word. Jimmy doesn't correct him like he would others, just twitches a smile.

He has an impulse, just a second, to ask Simon to stay here. No need to talk, just the company, the knowledge that he's not alone in his cramped little cabin. Pride stops him from actually asking, and he shakes his head.]

This is good, Simon. Thanks.

[If he knew what Jimmy was thinking, the question on the tip of his tongue, he'd ask to stay himself. But Jimmy doesn't tell him and he doesn't, and something in his expression falters a little. This isn't good. This isn't enough.]

Okay.

[He forces a smile back to his face and reaches out to touch Jimmy's shoulder for just a second before he stands, something between I'm here and are you?]

[Something isn't right, and Jimmy's not sure if it's Simon, or him, or the both of them. He can't put his finger on it, and Simon's expressions conflict, make it worse.

His eyes meet Simon's when he touches him, the cold of his fingers seeping through his shirt. The touch is brief, but not so brief that Jimmy doesn't have the time to reach back. He covers Simon's fingers with his own, and he looks away before he speaks.]

Maybe--

You can stay. Hang around, if you feel like it.

[He hesitates, unable to keep the hopeful note out of his voice.]

Do you want me to?

[He considers saying something snide, like I'm not gonna fucking beg you, but Simon's voice cuts that off. He licks his lips, then gives a little shrug and a nod.]

If you don't have anything else planned, sure.

[Simon is a proud man in so many ways, but this was never one of them. He's not ashamed to admit that he needs people, or at least his people. He smiles, relieved, and sits right back down.]

Then sure.

[He twitches back a small smile. That relief had been obvious, and that does something: he hasn't been someone who people willingly spend time with for a while. Outside of 3 people, everyone back home had needed something from him, or had wanted to see his weak spot. Now, he has more people around him who enjoy his company for what it is than he ever has before.]

Don't break something in your enthusiasm, Monroe. [It's a joke meant mostly for his own sake, so that he doesn't have to acknowledge that he'd wanted Simon to stick around. He picks up one of the books and flips it open, leafing through.]

Ninth Rising

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[spam] cw: discussion of mental illness

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