Ilya (foundapurpose) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-25 15:29:00 |
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Sol couldn't remember the last time that things around the RAC felt this tense. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it started, probably the kidnappings but maybe even before them, but there was this weight on everything that wasn't there before. The sensation of a noose tightening or something on the tip of the tongue that would change everything. The Bahama was docked for awhile now, with everything that happened, and Sol went about his business. He cooked for the ship, he checked on his crew with a smile and a warm touch, but his sky blue eyes were watchful. Apprehensive. If part of it had to do with the Sling's mission, and his loved ones aboard it, well, that wasn't something he put into words. At the moment he was dealing with Gizmo, who still snuck into the cabin he and Nic used to share and got into his belongings. The cat did whatever it wanted on the Mama, but Sol had a temporary reprieve of him hiding socks and shedding over all of his black clothes. He grabbed the cat off the ground with a whoosh, and rested him in the crook of his arms for a moment. "I do not miss you sleeping on my face, little one." But Sol scratched him under the chin good naturedly and set him down to go scamper and bother someone else. Sol leaned on the entrance to his room and picked cat hair off his black shirt, wondering if he needed to get a lint brush. Or if he was wasting time with cats because he was trying not to be waiting outside HQ, watching for trouble or salvation to fly in. Miraculously, it turned out to be the right decision as far as the Singapore Sling and its crew went, because not five seconds later, her navigator was coming up the corridor to intercept Gizmo in a slow drop into a crouch. "Hey," he crooned softly, but tiredly. The exhaustion was clearly written into his shoulders as he put little strength into stroking along that sleek spine when the cat drew himself against one knee, padding past not long after into the corridor beyond. That the trip to Pluto and back, on top of what had transpired on Pluto, had weighed heavily was an understatement, but Jude's gaze was lucid when he drew it up to land on his friend. The transformation of emotion on Sol's face was quick and real, which was unusual for someone so used to masking his thoughts behind a placid expression. His surprise and delight molded into concern, maybe a brush of guilt for talking about said concern with others, but most of all was gratitude. "Jude," he replied with all of those feelings wrapped up into one murmur, and then he pulled his friend into his cabin and into a warm, solid hug, the embrace easily reciprocated. He was alive and whole and made it back to HQ. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Cariño, thank you for coming. It saved me the trouble of running like a madman onto your ship." A glimpse of humor there. Sol held him tightly and caressed the back of his neck soothingly. Any other time, the humor might have been offered in turn, but Jude, much like the last time they had seen each other, was putty in his arms for a solid while, as if that solid, physical support had been heavily deprived of him. It had, in a sense, though what had transpired on Pluto— His grip tightened, and he tried words, though they seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. "It's better," he admitted, "that you didn't." They'd had enough madmen try. And like the last time, Sol held him up, his embrace giving and strong. He wanted Jude to stay when the Sling was leaving. It was desperate and selfish, asking for that, but he'd been mindlessly concerned after the oddness on the network. It didn't showcase Sol at his best, which he typically preferred to be out there. But now, feeling his friend's sorrow practically seeping through his body, he wished that he managed to convince them. He pulled his arms from around Jude but didn't move away, instead reaching his hands up to cup his face, thumbs gently caressing Jude's permanent scruff. He wanted to look in his eyes, but he felt helpless to change what lay in them. "Can you talk yet about what happened?" Sol wanted to press, but he didn't want to press, not if it hurt Jude more. "I don't mean to pry, love, it's just …." I can't fix what I don't know. "No," the navigator muttered, almost cutting him off and starting, momentarily, when he realized how abrupt the interruption had really been. He settled his palms (one bandaged, one not) against his friend's chest, aborting the attempt at a smile when it would do little good. It wouldn't assure Sol as much as it would ease what came next. "I mean— I know." There was excuses lined up to use, but Jude couldn't excuse his actions, whatever they had been for. His inhale was sharp. "But how was I supposed to tell you I killed someone, Sol?" The strained admission was like acid along his throat all over again. It was easier, somehow, to justify what had to come next with the words so to the point. Killed over Took someone's life. Killed. Murdered. Dead. It definitely clicked a few things in place. Jude's behavior was explainable due to that fact, and Sol didn't need the details. He would hear them, certainly, but he knew Jude would only kill for very specific reasons. To go from that to Pluto, with more danger biting at his back, it was enough to break a man. Sadness filled Sol's vivid blue eyes and he moved his hands from Jude's face to his shoulders. Securing him. "I'm sorry, I hoped you'd never have to." Not Jude. His heart was too gentle. He tortured himself over the Killjoy status of his friends. This was the type of damage that would haunt him, the way Euphie's ghosts dragged her all over the galaxy. If I'd been there …. What was more blood on Sol's hands, if it spared a different set? But he couldn't be. Not his crew, not his orders. "When this happened?" He reached down to touch the bandaged hand, covering it with his own. Beneath the touch, fingers twitched as if responding to the warmth. Jude traced his gaze over that hand, admiring how the bandage all but disappeared from sight. It had been his anchor to morality, the part of him that told him he'd done the wrong thing and that was his payment: steel through flesh and muscle. He could still feel the blade gliding through. "A little after," he admitted, the breathy, incredulous laugh surfacing. "I don't need to know the reasons to know you did what you had to." He was as certain of that as he was that the sky was blue and oxygen was necessary to stay alive. "You're still you," Sol said softly, holding the hand closer to his heart. "This doesn't change that you're a good man. The fact you feel this much grief and guilt over it proves you are." It was something he strongly believed, and had to believe of himself, and he willed that certainty to the battered soul in front of him. "What is your heart saying, cariño?" Everything. Too many things. Some things louder than others. The navigator didn't avert his eyes, keeping their hands within his field of vision. "That it was me and the ones I care about, or him. It was— it happened in a second. I didn't even blink." He took in a breath, the next admission surer. "And then the rest of me says that I have to report myself to HQ, and that I can't let anyone cover for me. He might have done this," his hand slipped, "and could have done worse, but he was still a person. He was a person, Sol." Sol's gut was to deny that, because the consequences were uncertain. Jude might only get a reprimand, considering it was life or death, but he could get worse, and that was not something Sol could stand idly by and allow. He was torn between emotions, so much stronger in him than he liked, and the logic that agreed with Jude. He caught the hand again, grasping it more loosely, and his free hand touched Jude's cheek again. "I fear that if you did lie, if others lied for you, it would weigh on you more heavily for the rest of your life." Putting the death on another person, a Killjoy, would keep Jude from getting in official trouble, but it wouldn't protect his conscience. It would stain his heart far worse than staining his record. "I just ---" Eyes clouded in conflict. "I don't want--" us to lose you "--anything to happen to you." After Jude told HQ, it was really out of their hands. "I support you, if that is what you want to do. I'll go with you to HQ. My word as a Killjoy might help." If he had to privately plead Jude's case to them, he would, but he wanted to have faith that the RAC in this tense situation wouldn't throw good agents away on something like that. The smile that Jude offered was in pieces, but fewer than they had been upon stepping onto the Mama. Admitting to the shooting was only one heavy burden out of the way, the prison break another, and yet in that moment, all he wanted to do was selfishly withdraw from it all and stay here, now, within this circle of comfort. "Can I," a pause. "Stay for a bit?" Sol was more than willing to fulfill that selfish withdrawal, because there was plenty of selfishness on his part in wanting to shut Jude away from the world. Partially to protect him from what was out there, but also because he was tired of Pluto stealing away time from him and his Slingers. "Of course, you can stay as long as you like. Come sit," he tugged his friend over to his bed and maybe fussed a little, encouraging him to rest. Sol's room was always very well organized and clean, in part from his military training. He leaned forward to kiss Jude on his forehead, willing away the darkness he was wallowing in. "What can I do to make it better? Talk about nonsense? Do a little dance for you?" He knew his humor was forced, but it was meant well, and, fortunately, received that way. There was a flicker of a smile from the younger man. "You can talk about anything, honestly. Surprise me?" That flicker was a glimpse of sunlight, and Sol smiled, sitting on the bed next to Jude. "You asked for it." He casually slung an arm around the other man's shoulder. "You've just volunteered to hear my list of thoughts on past books that I've tried to bring up in book club, before the conversation derails." That was the only thing he could think to ramble about that wasn't RAC involved or cooking recipes, and it would have to fit the bill as a good distraction. |