Title: The Sovereignty of Tears, Part 2
Author: Caera1996
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing, not even the idea, is mine.
WC: 681
Explanation for Part 2:
Embarrassed to admit, I wrote it mostly for my own peace of mind. I just wanted to throw Jim a lifeline.
He hated coming out here. It was dark and oppressive, even in day's pale light. Sunlight lost its life-giving qualities here…there was no warmth, there was no energy. All it did was provide illumination. It did nothing to lift the shroud that seemed to hang on the decrepit buildings crouched together over pitted streets, wrapping any who wandered there in sticky threads of quiet despair and melancholy.
As bleak as the sunlight was, it was still better than darkness. Only the most dire of emergencies would draw him out this far at night, when all manner of living nightmares awaited the unwary. He was a lot of things – damaged, brilliant (in his own way), weighed down and weary – but he was not unwary. Not anymore.
He studied the buildings, unsure of his final destination, the comfortable heft of his bag focusing him. This place that he'd been sent to was not one of the usual requests he fielded. But it wasn't his choice. He went where they told him to go. Looking for the landmark that was described to him, he hesitated. This could be it. There was no sign – nothing to indicate that anyone lived here, much less ran a "business" here. On the other hand, he was well aware that this wasn't the type of business that wanted its presence known.
He sighed, gathering himself before announcing himself. He could be here for anything, he knew, and tried to be prepared. He knew that if there ever was a time when he didn't need to prepare himself, it was time to get out. He wasn't there yet, so after another moment, he knocked.
Led through the surprisingly clean and ordered establishment, he is struck by how quiet it is. The kind of quiet that often found its way into sick rooms at the eleventh hour. And he supposed that made sense. He was sure that death lived here, in one form or another; there was very little difference between death of a body and the loss of will. He was shown to a room, warned about his role and that he had not paid for use, and left. He was under no misapprehensions, though. He was not actually left alone.
Entering the room, his eyes are drawn to movement on the bed. A body is curled up, head tucked down, mostly obscured by a sheet. Clenching his jaw at the sharply metallic tang of blood in the air, he makes his way over. He crouches by the bed and his first words meant to comfort the fear he almost always encountered never made it past his lips. Hardened hazel eyes are caught by dulled, but clear, blue…and something changes. And in that moment, he realizes that he's changed forever.
He's watched with no small amount of anxiety and obvious unease – eyes fever bright that is echoed in the flush of his cheeks, the thin sheen of clammy perspiration over his skin.
"You're going to be okay," he says soothingly, carefully reaching out to gently place a hand on his head. He doesn't miss the shaky breath, the quiet relief, the anxiety recede as he has a similar realization, and the tears well but don't fall. "I…" He paused, licking his lips nervously. He what? He was going to get him out of here? He was going to save him? What the hell was he thinking?
Nothing. He wasn't thinking at all. He was feeling. And acting. And he would figure it out as they went. Because it was going to be "they". He didn't know anything else, but he knew that. He hadn't looked away, caught in the blue that seemed too…full of life to be here. Too whole.
"You're going to be okay," he says again. The only thing that makes any sense in his head right now, and he sees comprehension, and something else, in the blue eyes still steadily looking back at him. He places it after a moment, something that he'd been without for so long, he'd almost forgotten what it was.
He sees hope.
