hector chasse. (ironarmor) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-20 00:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | hector chasse, npc: killian |
WHO: Killian Stracke & Hector Chasse.
WHAT: Hector has a question to ask his old friend.
WHEN: Tuesday evening.
WHERE: Killian's apartment.
WARNINGS: Swearing, alcoholism, and injury.
Though he did his best not to show it, Hector was exhausted. He had to stop several times on his way to Killian's apartment, just to lean against a wall and catch his breath; fortunately, his expression of narrow-eyed hostility was enough to dissuade anyone from casting him more than the briefest look of concern before hurrying onward. He didn't want or need help, anyone checking on him, anyone hovering over him. He just wanted his wounds to heal and to carry on with his life. Let it all go. His head was a fucking mess. He needed to find clarity. Bang. Bang. His uninjured fist pounded against Killian's front door as he leaned in the entrance, his shoulder set to the threshold. Rubbing at his eyes, he waited for his old friend to answer. The delay between that and Killian actually appearing from behind the door was similarly due to exhaustion, this image of weariness stripped of the trademark leather jacket but annoyed, still, judging from the way the door was practically ripped open. Upon recognizing Hector, the irritation quickly began to flee. He could read that expression better than most; he simply took a step back, opening the doorway for the engineer to step in. No Are you okays, no You look like you needs. Just an open invitation, free of judgement. The other day, he'd passed out in Killian's car without asking. This time, he hesitated in the entrance. "Can I stay here tonight?" Hector asked, voice low; he studied Killian's face, familiar with the stubble, the haunted exhaustion in his gaze, the frustrated tightness in his mouth even as it faded. It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to say no. But he didn't, whatever the body language said. If there was one thing that the reporting officer understood better than so many others, it was needing to be away from their ship, their crew, from whatever it was drumming up the stresses and anxieties. From the Kamikaze, especially. "Yeah, you can." If you need it. "Get in already, Hector." The engineer nodded, and for once, he made no effort to hide his pain as he set a hand against his bound chest to hold his broken ribs more steady and pushed himself upright. He drew a shallow breath, then stepped inside. "Can I have a…" His stiff, injured hand tilted up from his mouth in an unmistakable gesture. No need to ask if Killian had a bottle lying around here somewhere. "Hurts like a bitch." All of it, really. He couldn't quite divine what felt the worst, right now: his chest, his hand, or his head. Not another word was needed as the younger man, previously poised by the door where he took the time for a quick, concerned once-over, was already moving for the kitchen. The apartment was by no means impressive, but it suited a person who didn't need more, and it was better, almost, that it was smaller — less space for the stress to bounce from wall to wall like an echo. "You should try not aggravating injuries sometime," he offered without much intention to really chide, swinging one of the cupboard doors open for two glasses, not one. "I've heard it works wonders for healing." From across the room, Hector's noncommittal grunt was interrupted by a hiss as he sank gingerly down onto a chair. "I've been taking it easy." He leaned back, closing his eyes, and rubbed his hands slowly across his face. "Haven't worked out since the bounty. Haven't been training at all. I have to fucking nap during the day like a child, for fuck's sake. But I'm not just going to sit around doing nothing. I have work to do, I have things that need taking care of —" He could hear himself getting riled up, hear the resistance in his voice as he railed against his limitations. "I need to do something with my hands or I go crazy." He paused, then pointed at Killian. "Don't fucking say it." Where he was already half-turned, the slight raise of brows might have been missed, but in its place there was a poorly concealed look of amusement as the former pilot crossed over, pausing to slide the more than half full glass of vodka in front of Hector. "Say what?" Shooting his friend a warning look, he reached for the glass and brought it to his lips to drink. And drink, and drink, tilting the glass up to pour the last of it down his throat before he set it down hard on the table, empty. Hector was breathing hard as he nodded towards the glass. "Again." There came an urge to say something blatantly sarcastic, something to the effect of What am I, your bartender, but Killian withheld it, not even rolling his eyes as he tipped the bottle as requested, to which the engineer offered a short word of gratitude, at least. He lowered his gaze, as if expecting to see the bruised and battered bones through that shirt, though it didn't linger, rising to Hector's face. "If you pass out here," he started to say, just to have something to say, "I'm not dragging your ass to the couch." "Have to sleep sitting up, anyway," came Hector's reply, muffled into the glass as he lifted it to his lips. "Just make sure I'm upright." He gave a little half-shrug before he drank, once more draining the glass. And then, finally: "I have to ask you something." His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he looked up to Killian, but the look in his eyes was more pained than wary. His chin jerked towards the other chair. Best if the pilot sat down. After meeting that glance, the anxiety like a quick jab to the heart, he did just that, the question written into his eyes rather than voiced. It wasn't a difficult question to ask. The words were simple, bunt clear and bright in his mind, practically demanding to be spoken. It was the kind of question that hadn't occurred to him in all the time that they'd known each other, until suddenly — all at once, prompted by Sawyer or circumstances or who the hell knows what — it was there in his mind, unshakable, unable to be quieted. But his heart was pounding against the aching, lingering agony in his chest, and he found himself tapping his thumb against the table in a quiet tattoo of anxiety. His gaze focused on his hand, the raw skin of his knuckles. Fucking say it, Chasse, he ordered himself. You coward. What the hell are you afraid of? Grow a pair. You're too old for this shit. Get it over with. "We've been —" He paused, grimaced. "We've been fucking on and off for fourteen years, Kill. You know that? Since we graduated the academy." His jaw set for a moment. "Why do you think we've never — had a relationship?" God. It sounded as fucking absurd aloud as he feared it would. The word didn't feel right in his mouth, like he was trying on an antiquated notion too small for him, that didn't quite fit. Relationship. He might as well have asked Killian why they'd never gotten married. There was a certain degree of speechlessness that was so seldom attained with Killian, and this was one of those rarities. It was different from choosing not to speak — this was a true loss for words; this was tension bundling up in his throat and refusing to unknot. He couldn't tear his gaze away as he searched for the answer, if there was such an easy answer to begin with. How did he know? Suddenly, the drink at his fingertips was more tempting than it should've been. When enough seconds passed, he braved speech. "Why are—" Stop, start again. "Why are you asking now?" Hector gave a huff of laughter, interrupted by a wince and a slow hiss as he pressed his hand against his breast. He could feel the bone shifting, practically. It would be easier to have this conversation if the alcohol would just fucking numb him already. How the hell was he supposed to explain what had been going on in his life, lately? Sawyer's hounding him for answers, for more, for some affection or effort made to overcome his natural inclination to cut off these things before they got complicated. But weren't he and Killian complicated, or hadn't they been, at one point? Were things simpler, now that there was no chance left for anything? Sort of an old lingering hurt, swathed in simple caring for each other, understanding. It just felt...comfortable. "I don't know," he said at last, and that much was honest, at least. He didn't fully understand it, himself. "I've just been...thinking. About the way things were." He was still drumming his fingers on the table. "Trying to figure out if it was — me, or if we just didn't have what it takes, or maybe you didn't want —" Hector rubbed his fingers across his lower lip, roughly. "I don't know. I don't know what you wanted. I was the one who set the terms. So it's probably my fault." The irritation that had built slowly in Killian as Hector had begun to lay it out burned a little hotter with that last part, and his jaw tightened, hand stilling upon the table. "You know," he started, voice quiet in the way of wanting to be louder but somehow keeping a lid on it, "if I hadn't wanted it at all, I would've said so. It might have started like a business agreement, but that's not what it turned into. And if we're going to play the 'it's not you, it's me' game—" His tone took a strange turn. Strangled. "It ended up being my fault, I'm pretty sure." Them. The accident. His brother's death, how it had taken him apart. Slowly, Hector started nodding. He hadn't forgotten this, either. Why he hadn't pursued, not before, not after. "You pushed me away," he said at last, pale eyes flashing up to focus on Killian's face briefly before he returned to studying his glass. "I got through to you, I know. But — you were different. It changed you." He gave a slight shrug. "I guess I figured I'd fucking lost you. Or at least whatever part of you might have…" Might have loved him. Might have had the capacity to love him, anymore. Killian had gotten burned and all that was left were scars, no more capacity to embrace others, no desire to lean on anyone else. It had been fucking hard to look at him, after that: not because of what Killian had done, but because Hector couldn't look into his eyes without seeing the absence of his happiness, his anger gnawing ravenously at everything around him. "But...maybe," Hector suggested, finally. "I could have tried harder." It was out of place, the airy laugh that left the pilot, as if the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. He drew up a hand over the lower half of his face, dropping it soon in favor of going for the glass. "Maybe," he agreed, "but you pushed me away, too, Hector. After it happened, you were the only fucking person who understood, and you distanced yourself anyway. You were different." The next laugh was directed into his lap. "If you think you're in pain right now, trust me," and the glass was drawn closer, scraping the table's surface, "it doesn't come close to how that felt." Hector forced himself to look up, to stare the other man in the face. Killian was right: whatever pain he was feeling right now was nothing. What could he possibly say now? He'd felt helpless. He couldn't bring Killian's brother back, or fix his pain. He hadn't known what to say once he'd set Killian back on the right path. And it had hurt, all of it had hurt, it had hurt him too and he'd missed his best friend but Killian was right, the pain he felt was nothing — The legs of the chair groaned as Hector pushed himself to his feet. "I should go." Unsteady but upright, he set a hand against the table and shot a glance towards the door. "This was a mistake." It was easy for the younger man to throw his head back up, expression a jumbled mess where everything came to collide. "Are you serious? I just—" He cut himself off abruptly, his incredulity sticking in his throat. As if the chair wasn't enough to contain the irritation spilling over the edges, Killian stood up, shakily planting his hands on the table, but the words that followed weren't so confident. "You want to know what I wanted back then, Hector?" Hector hesitated, not looking back at him but making no move to leave. "I wanted whatever I thought you would give me. And if we'd happened, I still wouldn't have said no. Did you think that's all you were to me, someone to sleep with? A notch on my fucking bedpost? Eight years later, and you're still going to push me away?" Nostrils flared, jaw set, Hector stared down at his knuckles and tried to reach for a breath that wouldn't quite come. He felt sick, weak, a tremor wracking through his muscles that wanted to drag him down to the floor. Any moment, he would collapse. "I don't have what it takes. You're right — I fucked up. I don't have what it takes to give you what you need. I don't think I have what it takes to give anyone what they need. I don't know what to say, what to do. I don't know how to be there for you. I never did." He nodded, slowly but steadily. "I already knew that. I guess I just — fucking needed to hear it from someone else. But I shouldn't have dug up old history just to confirm shit I already know. I'm sorry." Pushing away from the table, he headed towards the door, but he wouldn't get far as Killian expelled his sharp sigh, striding past to intercept and pivoting on a heel to face. "You're sorry, I'm sorry; you fucked up, I fucked up, we all fucked up." Both hands came up, not to touch, but to fence the engineer into that space. "And maybe we're both fucked up in general, okay? I'm still not letting you walk out that door, because fourteen years in, I'm still your goddamn friend, Hector, and I will hit you in the fucking ribs if you try." There was no need for threats; Killian stood in his way, and in the moments when he tried to step past those outstretched arms, to find a way around him, he lost his balance. His hands grasped Killian's shoulders in a frantic effort to keep himself from dropping down, sagging under his own weight, and he swore through gasping breaths. "Fine," he managed at last, as though he still had any choice in the matter. Hector wasn't going anywhere on his own two legs. "Just — I need to fucking sit —" And there was no wait for him to bite out the rest of the words, the course of action obvious. Regardless of his own words mere seconds ago, Killian tucked himself in closer, one arm curving around Hector's waist for support. Moving them toward the couch was awkward when the engineer had both muscle and height on him, but they managed nonetheless, the effort to drop Hector as gently as possible against the cushions a feat and a half, with only a stifled breath to indicate any discomfort. And Killian, who had never been half the medic his brother was, only dropped into a crouch, elbows balanced lightly on his friend's knees. He exhaled, shakily. "Need the rest of that vodka?" "Yes." His head was spinning and his mouth was dry, but he clutched the cushions and gave Killian a stiff nod. "Yes. Please." With a tap of fingers, the pilot withdrew just long enough to fetch the bottle and glass from the kitchen, not forgetting to down his own untouched drink in a way that left his head spinning and throat burning unpleasantly. Upon the return, he propped himself on the arm of that plush couch, the filled glass in hand offered outward. They would need the entirety of the bottle to wash away their conversation, all of that stabbing hurt (both residual and new), but it wouldn't be a problem for them, he surmised. For once, Hector didn't try to keep up with him — couldn't, even if he wanted to. He was worn down, and the vodka suffused him with warmth, nerves losing touch with each other, leaving him in an anaesthetic haze. It wasn't until most of the bottle was gone that he finally spoke again. "I don't want to be like this." More of a half-awake murmur, barely audible. "I never wanted to be like this." That was a sentiment shared most acutely by Killian, who had moved only once since they'd begun to attack the bottle, leaving him on Hector's other side. It was part-intoxication, part-purposeful, the way he shifted next, swiveling himself around so that he could bridge his knees over his friend's lap, the weight supported mostly by the arm of the couch as if to serve as a protective obstacle keeping him from moving. He rested his cheek on a cushion, closing tired eyes. "Sitting here, making a miserable pair with me a decade later?" "No…" Shallow breaths, slow and even. "Better. More." His hand rose at last to settle on Killian's knee, though it took more effort than he could really afford to expend. His eyes slid closed. "Sorry you got stuck with me." "Rather you than anyone else," the younger man murmured, "dumbass." "Love you too," Hector breathed, "dickhead." |