[ In the quiet of nature, cold breeze through sparse leaves, Stephen listens to the brief nothing on the other end of the mental connection and steadies his breathing, calms himself down on the surface. The rest of him churns, waiting for Jim to speak again.
When he does, his eyes press shut. What can he say? What does he dare? So much of it is still an untouched mess, tangled and knotted, threads loose and scratching. If he'd spent any measure of time trying to pick apart the strands of another life before he tangled them with the reality of this one they might never have found themselves in quite this position. But he didn't. And now here they are. And what he has to say is as much as he can. ]
I've never been with anyone that long.
[ The first and predicating truth. Stephen may have loved one woman for the vast majority of his adult life, but they were barely together for a fraction of it. He's not lived with another person in a long time. Not shared space, much less a life. No marriage, no kids. ]
You'd have expected it to be perfect. If I was going to dream up a life, you'd think I'd stretch to wedded bliss, no? [ He lapses. Quiet for a moment. Spurs himself on again. ] I think that was point. That it wasn't perfect, that I wasn't perfect, and you still -
[ Stayed. Gave up a life to carry him through the hardest moments of his, in spite of everything he was. Because of it. ]
We were other people in another place that didn't exist. I know. But I've spent plenty of time with you - every time I do I recognise you more. I just don't think I made that much of you up.
[ The surrounds, maybe. The city and the time, the context of the life, the easier attitudes, the technology, the disaster that tied it all together. But the man? No. Stephen could never have written Jim Hopper like that. He would never have conceived of him to begin with. So with his inhibitions lifted, fear and reason turned to weaponized tatters only primed for specific use (none of which reserved for protecting himself from the things he's been running from for months)...
The answer is long, and its lack of being an actual answer to the question asked is extremely loud. But he doesn't have the words. It's as close as he can get. ]
You didn't see me at my worst. [This is a fact; this is the thing he can't quite let go of. He sat with so much of Stephen's agony, so much of his anger and trauma and found ways to love him through it all. But Jim was - half himself, maybe. He was the parts of himself that had never suffered loss, that had never spent years in a jungle mixing up chemicals. He was a pristine version of himself unmarred by all the shit that has made him Jim Hopper.
He's dragging his hands down his face, he's always endlessly frustrated with himself. ] I'm not good at this, Stephen. Talking. Comforting. I wasn't even good at it in that life, really.
[He thinks this is true, mostly because he can recall his own bad temper. His own frustrations. ] I'm not upset you came to me. I'm glad, I wish it had been enough to wake you up - and I don't know what to do with that.
You don't need to. [ Know. Or be good at this. Or be his best, or his worst, or any particular shade in between, for Stephen to be safe in the knowledge that new revelations about Jim Hopper won't stand much of a chance against the knot that's been tied between them. Tugging at these things only serves to tighten them. ] I don't either.
We can forget about it if you want to.
[ They can't. God knows Stephen won't, memories of Jim from those weeks seared into mind as still-beautiful patches of a moldy canvas. But they can never talk about it again, he means. If Jim's struggling with positive associations, they can put it away somewhere, hold onto it quietly and privately, where they aren't beholden to feel uncomfortable about what's already passed. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
why have exclusively outer turmoil when you can have outer AND inner turmoil for the same price
When he does, his eyes press shut. What can he say? What does he dare? So much of it is still an untouched mess, tangled and knotted, threads loose and scratching. If he'd spent any measure of time trying to pick apart the strands of another life before he tangled them with the reality of this one they might never have found themselves in quite this position. But he didn't. And now here they are. And what he has to say is as much as he can. ]
I've never been with anyone that long.
[ The first and predicating truth. Stephen may have loved one woman for the vast majority of his adult life, but they were barely together for a fraction of it. He's not lived with another person in a long time. Not shared space, much less a life. No marriage, no kids. ]
You'd have expected it to be perfect. If I was going to dream up a life, you'd think I'd stretch to wedded bliss, no? [ He lapses. Quiet for a moment. Spurs himself on again. ] I think that was point. That it wasn't perfect, that I wasn't perfect, and you still -
[ Stayed. Gave up a life to carry him through the hardest moments of his, in spite of everything he was. Because of it. ]
We were other people in another place that didn't exist. I know. But I've spent plenty of time with you - every time I do I recognise you more. I just don't think I made that much of you up.
[ The surrounds, maybe. The city and the time, the context of the life, the easier attitudes, the technology, the disaster that tied it all together. But the man? No. Stephen could never have written Jim Hopper like that. He would never have conceived of him to begin with. So with his inhibitions lifted, fear and reason turned to weaponized tatters only primed for specific use (none of which reserved for protecting himself from the things he's been running from for months)...
The answer is long, and its lack of being an actual answer to the question asked is extremely loud. But he doesn't have the words. It's as close as he can get. ]
no subject
He's dragging his hands down his face, he's always endlessly frustrated with himself. ] I'm not good at this, Stephen. Talking. Comforting. I wasn't even good at it in that life, really.
[He thinks this is true, mostly because he can recall his own bad temper. His own frustrations. ] I'm not upset you came to me. I'm glad, I wish it had been enough to wake you up - and I don't know what to do with that.
no subject
We can forget about it if you want to.
[ They can't. God knows Stephen won't, memories of Jim from those weeks seared into mind as still-beautiful patches of a moldy canvas. But they can never talk about it again, he means. If Jim's struggling with positive associations, they can put it away somewhere, hold onto it quietly and privately, where they aren't beholden to feel uncomfortable about what's already passed. ]