It's too much to ask, Scotty supposes. You don't go through what Kelly went through in Spain and go back to being a hundred per cent, even ten months after the fact. Even though Scotty had hoped... Ah, well. It was unrealistic, that's all there is to it.
The vacation in Oregon worked wonders, allowing Kel to go back on active duty again, but there are scars. Inside. Tells, that Scotty's become practiced at reading. Kel's a trouper, always has been. But still.
For a start, there's the way Kelly won't ever sleep on his back, nights. At first Scotty thought it was because his back was still sore; but the torn skin and damaged muscle has been healing, slowly but surely, up to the point where now, Scotty can only find traces of the worst of the damage, and then not unless he's really looking for them. Department's got some fine plastic surgeons, he'll give them that. And yet, Kelly will try to lie on his back, then Scotty'll see his fingers clenching in the sheets, and his jaw tightening, and with the air of someone giving up the fight, he'll turn onto his side. Usually facing away from Scotty.
Who's he kidding – always facing away from Scotty. Like he doesn't want anyone to see his 'weakness'. Scotty deals with that by closing his eyes and snoring softly. Because he knows that the minute his partner thinks he's asleep, he'll turn to face Scotty. A comfort-thing. Scotty sometimes wonders whether a shrink would insist he call Kelly on it, but then tosses the idea out without much ceremony. Shrinks have done enough damage to last a lifetime, thank you very much. If Kel needs to get what he needs without Scotty letting it slip that he knows that Kel needs it, heck, that's one of the simpler convolutions of their lives as spies.
It's grown a lot more infrequent, but there's another tell that still gives Scotty a pang: sometimes, when Kelly's under a lot of strain, Scotty'll find him just sitting at the table in the room, or at the desk, couch, edge of the bed, whatever. His mind, though, that's a million miles away. The lines on his face deepen, the creases under his eyes are painfully pronounced, and the eyes themselves are glassy, turned inwards. If Scotty looked closely, he wagers, he could see the flames behind his eyes, the reflection of pitiless cruelty.
Only he doesn't. Took him a while to figure out how to deal with that one. Any overt overtures will have Kel clamping down on his feelings and spending the evening with a horrible fake smile and a core of pain inside so tangible Scotty's liable to choke on it.
So now? Scotty sings.
Not opera or anything. But he'll hum something, Marvin Gaye, good ol' Louis, the Four Tops, or whatever Motown or jazz happens to present itself for the day's menu in his skull. He sings, or scats, not soft, not loud, and just goes about his business, hanging loose, washing socks, ironing, reading (or pretending to – not that Kelly can tell, in his state) or filling out dumb reports that don't take up too much of his grey matter. It takes a good half-hour, but Kelly's body starts to unlock, the rigidity less pronounced, his eyes coming back from wherever he's been as his ears bypass his brain - thank you, ears - and tell him what his brain won't: that he's not back there, that he's among friends, that he's safe.
And then, when Kelly's back, he'll look around guiltily, like he's been doing something wrong (which makes Scotty wish he could confront him, smack him upside the head, which he can't, which is frustrating, but it comes with the territory, so hey). This is when Scotty has to be very careful, pretend not to notice that Kel's even been gone. And then – then, Kelly smiles at him.
It's slow, and it's warm, and it says what Kelly would never say out loud: Thank God I'm alive, and here, and safe. And that we're together. The same smile, every time, and Scotty would compare it to the sun coming out or something, only that's no good because the sun coming out never melted through all of his insides like some kinda marshmallow. Scotty can't read the smile well enough to figure if it also says Thank you, whether Kelly can tell that Scotty's doing it on purpose. The good thing about all this? Even if Kel has figured it out, he's so darn private that he wouldn't dare mention that he knows about Scotty's ruse. Score one for the good guys – or at least the long-suffering trainer and his pig-headed spy partner.
Then there's the heavy artillery. When things get really bad – a case that stirs stuff up, torture, something that reminds Kelly of… things – and Kelly spends more than three days without sleep, Scotty's got it covered. By the second sleepless night, he'll have already scoped out the local papers, pumped the receptionist, done whatever he has to in order to find out what's playing at the local movie theater. The third night, he'll act bored, and complain subtly to Kelly, then suggest they go take in some flick or other.
Kelly always agrees; he likes the movies, he just gets this disconnect in his brain when he's this bollixed up, can't remember what makes him feel better. So they go to the movies, the two of them, and they get a bucket of popcorn, if they're stateside, or a little bag of popcorn, if they're in Europe, or glazed nuts in Latin America. It doesn't matter what, really, just a container of something warm in one's hand, smelling like butter and childhood and home. Scotty likes popcorn. And glazed nuts.
It doesn't take ten minutes for the tension to leave Kelly's frame. Scotty makes a show of stretching, and drapes his arm along the back of Kelly's seat. Another twenty minutes - Scotty could almost time it down to the second - and he feels the warm weight of Kelly's head leaning back against his arm, gradually, comfortably settling into the crook of his elbow. Another few moments, and his partner's breathing evens out into peaceful sleep.
And there Kelly stays, for as long as Scotty can keep him there. Stateside, it can be hours: he'll just watch the movie over and over, opening and closing his fingers to keep his arm from falling asleep. In Europe, they shoo the patrons out when the movie's done, so he's taken to picking out Bergman and experimental European directors, and anyone else whose movies last for three hours. Like this time: in a stroke of good fortune attributable only to the Patron Saint of Spies Everywhere, he's lucked into an obscure Bogota movie theater in some out-of-the-way dingy alley showing Cleopatra.
So here they are, watching Liz Taylor flash her assets. Well, technically, Scotty's the only one still (sorta-kinda) watching: his partner's long since departed for the Land of Nod. More directors should make five-hour movies, Scotty smiles as Kelly drools slightly onto his shirt, his cheek smooshed into Scotty's sleeve.
He jostles Kel gently so his partner won't get a crick in the neck. Yeah, long movies, that's the ticket. Get the Spies' Teamster Local to recommend that directors make long movies for those recovering from shell-shock and stationed on distant outposts...
Scotty's head drifts down to rest on Kelly's as he, too, succumbs to the lure of Morpheus and gets some much-needed sleep.