station72 | sometime after day 5

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sometime after day 5

[ Sam’s never really reached out to the Nest in general like this before, but at this point - well, he’s running out of options. The work he’s done on his mental walls has paid off, and nothing escapes his thick cloud layer except his words, and the soft hint of wind and feathers that flavors his mental link. ]

( Seems like we got a bit of down time, and I’m looking to put it to good use. I’m getting better with my symbiote ability, but I need someone who’ll let me practice it with them.

Simple explanation is that it’s healing, with a side effect that means it’s gonna hurt. Most likely for me. I can get into specifics if you’re up for it. ) [ If it doesn’t bother them or they’re willing to overlook that it means Sam getting hurt, he means, but seeing as he’s communicating with the Nest in general, he’s not gonna say that.

He already knows more than who person who is bothered by it and never seems willing to let Sam use it on them. ]

( I’ll take as many as I can get, more training can’t hurt. )

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( I got you. )

[All he has to do is get hurt, right?]

( Good to know; otherwise I might've had to harass you a little. )

[ He likes the kid, which means he's definitely on Sam's list of people that he want to heal with or without needing to practice. Despite the sometimes eyeroll worthy flirting. ]

( Hit me up whenever you need something patched up, all right? Doesn't matter the time. )

( Science never sleeps. We can do it right now. How big a wound are we looking for? )

[ Oh my god Kavinksy no, don't be Kylo Ren. ]

( Dude. You know you don't gotta to that, right? )

( Okay, I got the rules.

When I say start, you go and try to find me. )

( You're gonna do whatever this is you're doing whether I agree or not, aren't you? )

[ Kavinsky you little shit. ]

( All right, Hart, I'll come to you. )

( Good call. Across the lane or down the street? )

[He's not entirely serious about doing something that severe, mostly because he doesn't know how long Sam will take and whether or not his powers leave scars.

If they do, he'd rather cut somewhere much, much cooler.]

[ There's a brief sensation that's not quite a chill up Sam's spine, but it's close, and he doesn't bother keeping it behind his shields. It's followed quickly by a distinct feeling of unimpressed. ]

( You hurt yourself that bad over this and I'll kick your ass myself. )

( Before or after we test your med skills? )

[He'll sense it. The drag of a knife nowhere too vulnerable. Over the underside of one arm. Enough to draw blood but not to rupture muscle.]

( Start. )

( Both. )

[ He senses it. It's too far for his symbiote ability to activate automatically but he still feels it, especially since he's not really trying to keep his walls up enough not to.

The opposite, in fact: as soon as Kavinsky says start Sam reaches out, latching onto their connection and opening it wider, pulling on it like a thread. One he follows, holding on tight to it as he tracks the kid down. ]

[He began this conversation near where he 'hatched,' in the cavern of honeycomb coffins. Kavinsky has been waging a private, internal war over whether he wants to climb back into that alien womb or not. So far 'not' has won.

And he's walking toward the Circle Gardens. He didn't become an outdoorsman until Virginia, when privacy meant finding a forest and becoming a squatter. A blessing and a curse, since Kavinsky did not normally like to be alone.]

( You drive a hard bargain, man. )

[Kavinsky is willing bait. He lets his presence leave the spool and roll out to Sam. Come on, then. He's bleeding on a fern.]

[ Kavinsky isn't the only one who's chosen not. They unnerve Sam, just a little, and for the most part he's steered clear of them. The gardens are more familiar territory, though, and Sam picks up the pace a little when he realizes where their connection is leading him. ]

( Usually do. )

[ He still thinks this is ridiculous, but his extreme irritation has faded now that it's clear that Kavinsky hasn't actually put himself in really serious danger. Instead there's a quiet exasperation that lasts until he manages to track Kavinsky down.

And then he reaches more firmly across their mental link and pulls as he closes in the last few steps. ]

Get over here, man, this only works through touch.

[Not won't last forever; Kavinsky's got a cat's curiosity and addiction to satisfaction. Sooner or later, he's liable to bend and break, come wandering over to that hole made for him, plug in. See if it feels any better than being ricocheted around by the hivemind's constant feelings.

Pain is infinitely easier and he's focused on it. A clean slice on his arm. He's no technical masochist, so the sting's not the best, but the sight of it-- nice. There will forever be something beautiful about brutality to him.]

Did you fly here?

[Because that was fast. And he flies. Another flawless jape from the K man.

He turns, the mental tug almost as good as a physical one. He doesn't come to Sam, but he doesn't keep striding away, either.]

[ It'd been equal parts irritation and concern that'd made him move so quickly, and another time he'd have laughed at the joke - it's exactly his sense of humor - but right now he just gives a soft huff as he keeps moving forward.

There's anger in the set of his jaw, movement tightly contained and purposeful in order to prevent his physical presence from coming off as hostile. He's not, he's just a little upset, and his touch is gentle as his fingers curl around Kavinsky's arm, just below the cut. There's a flare of warmth as his ability surges to life, and Sam focuses on the connection between them, widening it a little while the cut on Kavinsky's arm heals, and a similar one opens up on Sam's, just starting to scab over.

He doesn't pull his hand away as he looks back up from the cut, and he leaves the connection open, to see how much Kavinsky will give him. ]

What the hell?

[Kavinsky will give him whatever he wants. The memory of the act? He can have every gorey detail-- it was quick, poorly calculated, and didn't hurt nearly as much as having his jaw punched by an angry dog of a boy back on planet Earth. What else could Sam want? Gratitude? Sure. Kavinsky likes the feel good aftermath of hurt as much if not more than the original strike. Both feel like living.]

You needed a test dummy.

[Sam has callouses on his fingers. A working man.]

Not as much as I'd like you uninjured.

[ Not as much as he doesn't ever want to see Kavinsky self-destruct, and it doesn't take a mental connection to see the path that he's on. Despite appearances, Sam doesn't actually have the compulsive need to save everyone - just the desire to give people the tools they need to help themselves, when he sees the echo of pain below their surface. But there's something about Kavinsky that pulls at him, that almost makes him want to save him from himself.

He ain't gonna let that show, though. ]

There's a hell of a lot better ways to feel alive.

[Sam's a smart guy and with the benefit of their mental ties, surely he knows that Kavinsky isn't going to push the detonation button today. This was a small sample of how little he values his safety, nothing more, nothing less. Days will pass after this in which he doesn't so much as bruise, but he won't value that security. Staying still and comfortable is the worst kind of death. Boring. No flash to it.]

Oh yeah? You know some of those? Show me.

[Every word Kavinsky utters is a challenge. These two are the same, though they remain idle-- he could be picking his teeth as he says them. Show me. As he looks out a window and stops paying attention. That's the tone he's using.]

[ Not today, no, but Sam can see it coming. Always chasing the next thrill, neither soothed nor comforted by stability or security, adrenaline junkie. There's something of Sam himself in that, for all that most people tend to see him as calm and practical.

After all, who the hell straps on a pair of metal wings and jumps if not someone who lives for the adrenaline?

For a moment he considers turning and walking off, not rising to the challenge that Kavinsky tosses his way - but though he's learned to pick his battles, Sam's not sure this is one he should walk away from.

Kavinsky might not ever learn to find a balance between thrill chasing and stability, but he sure as hell won't learn it if someone doesn't try to show him those other ways. ]

Show you, huh? You want mentally or literally?

Literally.

[Kavinsky has no need for second-hand experience, no matter how real it might feel as the memory is relayed to him. The rush would be fake, sucralose sweetening up his humdrum life waiting for the next mission. Others have worked on tightening their bonds, but the bleedover isn't strong enough to transform Kavinsky entirely. He's so good with people when they can't sense his hunger. The gnarled up, black pit of him was never meant to be put on display.]

Thrill me, man, I know you got it in you.

[He wants Sam to have it in him.]

[ Literally it is, then. There are so many things that Sam wants to show him - mostly something soft, something gentle, because honestly he ain't sure Kavinsky's ever had much of that. But he's equally sure that those aren't something that Kavinsky'll accept right now, that they're something Sam's gonna have to ease him into.

So instead he steps up into Kavinsky's personal space, snapping his wings open at the same time as he yanks Kavinsky into his arms and launches off the ground.

He'd taken Kavinsky flying once before, but then he'd had to take it easy, stay low to the ground or risk getting caught by the people of Concordia. Now he flies so fast it's a blur, up and up and up until the Station's ceiling over the gardens is coming up so quick it seems damn near impossible for them to turn in time. But Sam's reflexes are even faster than they were back home, when he could all but outfly fighter jets, and he veers off to send them spiraling into a tight barrel roll before he pulls up, hovering high in the air.

Then he hauls Kavinsky up a little so he can adjust his grip on him, one arm wrapping around his waist and his other hand coming up to cup his cheek, touch gentle. ]

Why do you wanna know death so bad that you gotta flirt with him at every opportunity?

[In the movies, the hero picks up the helpless lady love interest and hoists her aloft in a princess carry. The earth falls away as they soar higher and higher, and Hollywood doesn't take into account things like air pressure or how cold it gets when you climb towards the stars. Sam isn't taking him that high, but he may as well be shooting out of the stratosphere. Kavinsky isn't being carried, but he hasn't dreamt up a parachute to prevent himself from falling down to an unsatisfying, sickly splat of a death.

He'll never admit that his first instinct was to hug his arms around Sam's neck in a vice of limbs, breath hot and--for so little time it can't count--frantic against the older man's jaw. Then he remembers that it isn't very Kavinsky-like to start clutching and scrabbling. He did ask for a thrill and the initial rush is usually the best part. He's just used to it more on the horizontal than the vertical.

Like he's some dumbass riding bitch on a motorcycle for the first time, he hung on too hard, and he's doing his best to plaster up indifference over the fine layer of embarrassment. His hands slide back until they're settled light and casual on Sam's shoulders, for lack of anywhere better to go.

To prove himself, he's looking down instead of at Sam. The hand on his cheek wants him to return his attention, but first he has to make it clear it's not like he was scared. Tad surprised, that's all.]

Trust you to make dying sound gay. Nice view.

[ If Sam notices the too-tight grip around his neck or the frantic breathing, he doesn't call attention to it. As far as he's concerned, there's nothing wrong with being scared - in general, but especially in a situation like this. He doubts Kavinsky'll appreciate him pointing it out even to say it's okay, though, so he settles for ignoring it completely.

Sam can't actually shrug up here, since with his arms full his wings are operating mostly on muscle movement and cybernetics, but there's the mental impression of one anyway. Sam calls it like he sees it.

Trust Kavinsky to take a mostly serious question and turn it into a gay joke. ]

He and I are old friends, is all. You know what the archangel of death's name is? [ Because if Sam's gonna personify Death here, he might as well go all the way. ] Damn right. No view better than the one from the sky.

Michael?

[He knows that isn't right. Religion wasn't a large part of Kavinsky's upbringing because mobster trash like his father liked to wear their Christian jewelry than pop people without a thought to the Lord's will. Money replaced God. The belief system he eventually subscribed to had to do with dreams and his own power. Creation in a literal sense.

His fingers wriggle like spider-legs as they creep climb under an unsuspecting apartment owner's sink. They stay on Sam's shoulders for now.]

[ It was a part of Sam's, more or less, with a minister for a father. Sometimes he wonders what his father would make of his ability, the power to give or take pain in his hands - but not often. Not now. Now he laughs softly, smiling slow and wide. ]

Samael.

[ Snippets of memory come along with that - the heat of the sun on his head and back, wings spread wide as he touches down in the dirt, the smell of blood and the feel of broken bones under his hands. Samael whispered through cracked lips, the soldier's eyes glazed over with fever. Riley's laughter, the sly grin on his face every time he called him that after. ]

[Sam shares the sound of a stranger's laughter, and Kavinsky squints against a sun that isn't there. If it was, it would have stationed its burning behind Sam, lighting up his wings so that they'd silhouette a matte black against the backdrop of a massive star. Samael, the angel of death, and here Kavinsky was about to start guessing inane options: Urinal, Purell, whatever.

He doesn't belong in the arms of someone with such good will. He squirms like a kitten, too intent on being released to recognize such a drop would hurt. The moment in which he'd been so human, squeezed with his arms--it's long past. A mere memory that Kavinsky refuses to accept.]

Stop it.

[It's not the snapped out order or ruthless threat he would have told one of his boys, like, give me the gin or let's see if you'll cry home for daddy before we're done. In this case, Kavinsky has no such belief that Sam would go along with him. He's too old and he's seen too much and he's holding him like it isn't hard at all.]

Stop it and save it for someone else, Wingman. I know you got them all lined up.

sometime after day 5

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