skateboarding elf prince (ikaro) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-11 19:42:00 |
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The truth was, Kira was right: he had a good idea of what was going to happen to Noa and the others. Five RAC agents—at least two of them barely having cut their teeth—in exchange for high level Vergil lackeys? They weren't going to make the trade. Jim gets back to the ship, docked at HQ, in a fury of nerves. The area around headquarters is in a panic, agents and crew and administrators dashing around, terrified, confused—who were these kidnappers? Which agents had been taken? Was there anything they could glean from the video? What were they going to do? All the same questions he had. Just as many answers. By the time he blasts his friends and the crew for Noa's whereabouts (god, she still isn't replying, she's gone, she's gone) the count of his missing friends has gone, potentially, up to four. Noa; Zane; Pendleton; Kirby. It was stupid to think any of them were just away from their handhelds at a time like this—but no one had ever accused Jim of being particularly brilliant. Certainly not Kira. Christ. He shouldn't have yelled at her. He tries calling his friends for the third or thirteenth time. Noa; Pen; Zane; Kirby. No answer. No answer the next time either. He paces his room; his paces the galley; he paces the long corridor to the med bay; he paces the gangplank between the gunners' cages, and immediately has to turn around when he gets to Noa's, and is sure, for a moment, he sees her dozing in there, a magazine open on her chest. His head is pounding. Where are they? Where are they? Maybe if the agents can figure it out—maybe if they can get to them before the RAC decides—maybe they can find their friends— He looks up, surprised to see himself at the entry to the cockpit. He'd gotten turned around; he hadn't really known where he'd meant to go, but it wasn't here. For, of course, one primary reason. He swallows and glances past Kira, huddled up in the pilot's seat. "Sorry, uh—I'll go—" She looks up, and behind, bewildered both by Jim’s sudden presence and his abrupt willingness to leave. Kira is, by all accounts, a mess: eyes red from crying, hair long and loose and messy, one hand poised in it, pushing it back over her head, a soup stain on her shirt. At this point she’s not even really sure how long she’s been up here, only that when things went to shit this was the only place she felt comfort. There was safety in the chair, its worried fabric, the lewd patch she’d ironed onto the armrest, the familiarity of the powered-down controls. She had not come up here to have Jim Wu walk in on her like this—vulnerable. “Great,” she says, her voice wobbling, and shoves her palms into her eyes. He doesn't, of course. He wants to—he should—but he hadn't expected to find her crying. Angrily texting someone; doing things to distract herself; god, maybe even making terrible gallows jokes with Liam, he doesn't know. But not crying. He's rooted to the deck as surely as if he'd been bolted there. "Uh," he starts, and can't think of anything else to say. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. Noa was good at this sort of thing. Hell, Alex was good at this sort of thing; it was a captain's job. Jim Wu was not good at this sort of thing. He rubs at the back of his neck. "Do you—want me to—?" Kira turns away from him, looking at the console, or more accurately looking at her knees, bent up on the chair, and makes a disgruntled noise. “Depends on if you’re going to lecture me or not.” "I'm not gonna lecture you," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. His gaze falls to the floor; red creeps up the back of his neck. "I—I shouldn't have yelled at you. Sorry. I'm just…" “An apology. Christ.” She props her chin on her knee. “You’re just what?” He sighs, a loud breath of air, flapping his lips out absurdly—everything about himself feels absurd right now, absurd and pointless and impotent. "Worried, I guess," he says, and pulls his hands out of his pockets, scrubs them down his face. "Pen's gone, too. And Kirby's not picking up." Kira bites her lip, limbs unraveling from the chair, and turns to look at him properly. “Fuck. Really? Fuck. You don’t think—?” He shrugs. "I don't know what to think. Four of my friends are missing." The wind goes out of him. His shoulders sag; one hand taps unevenly against his thigh, as if it can't decide between movement and stillness. He looks over at the other pilot's chair—Cody's. "Mind if I…?" For a moment, Kira is not this messy, worried shell—she’s just herself. She scoots over in her own chair and pats the empty space, certainly not large enough for them to sit without touching. “Come sit in this one.” Jim, of course, of course, turns red all the way to his hair. "Uh—are you sure—? It's kind of, uh—" She runs her hand through her hair again, flipping it over her shoulder. “Just bloody come here.” He does, staring awkwardly down at the seat for a long moment, his skin suffused with blood, his panic momentarily forgotten. Incomprehensibly, he thinks about that one time in tenth grade Rhia said he had a narrow butt. He has never been more grateful. Holding his breath, he squishes himself down beside her, shoulders bunched up, hands folded in his lap. "Is this—okay?" She rolls her eyes and shifts, pushing herself, hands on the armrests, until she can curl up, half on his lap, her legs dangling over the side, her head against his shoulder, hand pressed to his chest. “This is better.” Please don't pop a boner. Please don't pop a boner. "Jesus, Kira—" “What?” "This isn't really the time to—to be hitting on me—" Kira laughs, pulling her face away to glance up at him. “God, if you think this is me hitting on you, we haven’t met.” His arms remain stubbornly on the chair, and he does not glance back down at her. "I can't really—I can't think like this, I'm sorry—" “Why not?” She grins, running her hand down his chest, and pushes her knuckles slowly into his ribs. “James, are you thinking something naughty?” "No, I'm—" His face goes splotchy with blood and frustration; why was she always doing this to him? "My friends are missing, Kira, I just—" Her face folds, and she pulls her hand away, not sure what to do with it now, letting it fall against her bent-up leg. “Yeah, so forgive me for wanting a bit of comfort. But fucking god knows you’re too much of a precious dove for even a hug—” "That's not it!" he says, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "If you wanted a hug, you can just say so! I give Star and Noa hugs all the…" Star, who hadn't replied to him since she'd mentioned the van, who was blaming herself for something she couldn't have stopped—and Noa, who was gone. Jim covers his face with one hand, then the other, circling his elbow uncomfortably over her shoulder. Kira frowns, shutting her eyes momentarily, and then closes her fingers around his wrist. “Hey,” she says, her voice quiet. “It’s going to be alright. We’ll get them back. Nothing’s going to happen to them.” Jim shakes his head. It falls back against the pilot's seat as if even that small movement is too much for him to bear. "You said it yourself," he sighs, hand still over his eyes. "They're not gonna make the trade. Why would they? A bunch of young agents for high level criminals—" “Just because they won’t make the trade doesn’t mean we won’t get them back,” she says, worrying her thumb over his wrist. “Honestly, you’re the gunner. You should know these things.” "What does that have to do with it?" he asks, frowning. "I just shoot other ships, I don't—I can't do anything about this. I can't find them. I don't even know where to look!" “Well—” She can’t argue there. Her cheeks puff out as she thinks. “Maybe they’ll authorize a rescue mission, yeah?” Maybe. Or maybe HQ would tell them all to sit tight, maybe while their friends were being killed. Maybe they would only send in killjoys and Jim would have to wait behind for news, maybe not even good news. Maybe they would do nothing at all. Maybe they would just say losing the agents was less of a risk—after all, they were a reclamation agency. There were always other agents. Why undo all their hard work by letting these criminals go? "Can you—can you let me up," he says. "I need to—I need to walk or something." Kira looks at him, her face open and earnest, for a few moments—and then slides off him, onto her feet. “Okay. Yeah. Alright. I’ll just talk to you later. Whatever.” He shakes his head, pushing out of the chair, running his hands back through his hair. "I just needed to stand," he says, and at almost at once begins pacing, continuing his back-and-forth from before, maybe even more urgently in the cramped space of the cockpit. "I just—I can't sit still, haha, you know me—" She thinks, that is entirely debatable. There is so much about Jim she just doesn’t get; she supposes the reverse is true. She turns away, tousling her hair, unsure of what to do with her hands, but certain she can’t just let them sit still. Jim swallows. He crosses from one chair to the other, then from the other chair back. Kira passes from his left side to his right as he turns, smooth as a swimmer, to change directions. "Sorry," he says again, stopping in front of the door, then moving again—stopping again. "I just—I feel like—like—god, what's that word, when you—when you can't do anything—" “Helpless?” she offers, flipping around, leaning on her palms against the flight console. “Paralyzed? Impotent?” "Impotent!" he says, and sags in relief. "That's it! I feel impotent." He pauses, frowning. Color creeps into his cheeks again. "Wait, isn't that also for when you can't—" Kira laughs, only half as delightedly as she’d usually be. “Love, we both know you don’t have that problem—” "Oh, Jesus—" he stares in horror at the chair they had just vacated, then down at himself, his face turning six separate shades of red, right in succession. "I didn't—did I? Holy shit, I know I didn't—" “Not this time—” "Jesus Christ—" She covers her hand with her mouth, smiling. “I mean, if you are that stressed out right now, maybe I could help—” "No!" he stutters, moving away so quickly he all but slams into a console near the door. It slides shut loudly behind him, and Jim, yelping in shock, leaps forward again. "No—I mean—it's really not the time—ow—" He looks down at his shoelace, caught in a lever of Kira's pilot chair, and bends over to try and untangle it. "I mean—it's not the time to be teasing me about—about whatever—" Kira goes over and crouches next to him, reaching for the twisted shoelace. “I’m not teasing! I will one hundred percent blow you if you want!” "I don't!" he nearly shouts. It's an effort to moderate his voice. "Can one thing not be about sex with you?!" Kira falls back onto the floor, supporting herself on her hands. “No?” She presses her lips together. Jim stares at her. His embarrassment fades; his lips press into a thin, angry line. "Our friends are gone," he says. "Our friends are gone. I don't know what you want, but I—I don't want to be distracted. I don't want to forget." She avoids his gaze, ducking her head, her hair falling in waves in front of her, and stares at the floor; she wishes he would just go away. Must he always be so righteous? So good? “I’m just trying to help. I don’t have any other way to.” "What do you mean, you don't have any other way to?" He frowns at his shoelace, tugging at it again. The plastic bit has gotten hopelessly crushed in between two gears of the lever. He pulls again; the chair creaks ominously. With a sigh, he begins untying the laces altogether. "You were just helping, just now. Just—just talking to me." “Really? Because you just seemed bloody uncomfortable and annoyed,” she says, looking to the side, and tucks her chin against her shoulder. “Just fucking forget it.” "Before the—the blow job jokes," he says, scowling. "When we were just talking. I just—wanted to talk to my friend." Kira snorts. “Since when are we friends? It’s not like you’d be upset if I was there instead of your precious schoolmates.” Jim can't speak for a long moment. "Are—are you kidding? I'd be fucked up about it. I'd be—I'd be really fucked up about it, Kira. We don't get on but—I mean, you matter to me—you're my crewmate, we…" She turns and looks at him, her arms crossing over her chest, tongue pressing against her teeth. “You mean that?” "Of course I mean it," he says, glowering at her. "Why wouldn't I mean it? I don't lie!" “Bullshit! Everyone lies.” He shrugs and rubs at the back of his neck. "Not me. I just try not to." Kira groans and drops her face against her crossed arms, propped up on her knees. “It’s like you’re trying to drive me crazy.” He blinks, still fussing with his boot. A moment later his foot pops out, big toe sticking out of a hole in his sock, and he falls back onto his behind with a thump. "Sorry?" he says. “Nothing,” she says, tilting her head up, rubbing her hands over her face. “Your feet stink.” "Sorry," he says again, frowning, and bends over to work the shoelace out. Without the external weight of his foot, the end gradually loosens, and then pops free with a loud crunch of cracking plastic. He sighs at it, but shoves the boot unevenly back on his foot anyway, leaving the tongue and laces loose and open. "I didn't mean to make you more upset," he adds, rubbing his neck. Kira drags her hands down her face. “You didn’t. I mean, not—” she groans internally “—nevermind. I didn’t either.” Her eyes shift to the side. “Sorry.” "Okay…" he says uncertainly. The ship hums quietly around them, little lights flicking on and off in the cockpit. Even docked in headquarters' airship bay, the Whiskey was running through her daily programming, soft beeps and whirs that had grown comforting in his years on board, enough that the city sounds of Shitheap, absent of the quiet routines of the ship, had grown almost alien. He is surprised at how much calmer he feels now than when he walked in. Still powerless, still anxious, still terrified—but the world seemed a bit less like it was closing in around him with white teeth and red, red mouth. The hum of the ship; Kira trying not to tease him. "So—how do you feel? Are—are you okay? Now?" She looks at him, silent, for the stretch of a few moments. “I won’t be okay until we get Noa back.” Jim nods, almost smiles, grim and humorless and unlike him. "Me, either," he says. "And Pen and Kirby and Zane. Not until they're back." Kira reaches over, and, in the most platonic of gestures, squeezes Jim’s hand. “I’m sorry about your friends, love.” He stares down at her hand for a moment—a long moment—before squeezing back. She pulls it back a second later, into her own space, her hand in her lap, flexing her fingers where he can’t see, and clears her throat. Jim hesitates for a moment—he doesn't know what's happened, what's shifted, only that something has, and he can't think what it is. He can barely think at all. His thoughts are still elsewhere, with friends knocked into a van and dragged off god knows where. With a grunt, he pushes to his feet, dusts off his knees and backside. The tension snaps like a cut wire. "I'm gonna—see if there's been any updates on the network or anything," he says. "Grab Cody and head into HQ to see if we can, I dunno, help or something. Do—" He swallows, biting his cheek. "You wanna come?" Slowly, she nods, looking up at him. “Yeah. I do. Help me up?” He reaches down, taking her hands in his when she offers them, and hauls her up easily. She's light; it's no work at all. She doesn’t bother to dust herself off, but she does relinquish his hands quickly, shoves them in her back pockets. “Thanks.” He almost notices—almost thinks, she had been so eager to all but sit in his lap before. Something shifted; something changed. There's so many things today he just doesn't know. "Come on," he says instead, nodding towards the entry. "Let's grab Cody and go." |