khajidont | MoM IC Contact: TAKE TWO

MoM IC Contact: TAKE TWO

Jaime's cell phone is more or less plugged riiiight into his brain, so he tends to pick up like 99% of the time! If not, however...

"Hey, Jaime here! Leave a message, and I'll get back to you ASAP."

[If you want to find his previous inbox - it hit captcha! - please go HERE.]

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I said that's enough, not that I wouldn't accept more.

[ Though really, he's pretty sure whatever she has for him can't top this. He's being a big goof, and he knows it. But it's fun. He's happy. He still can't believe he's allowed to have this, in some ways, and that Ruka's right here humouring him. If she's enjoying this half as much as he is -- well, then they're on the right track. ]

If you really wanna move onto the next bit now, I hope you know I'm gonna hold you accountable for the rest of it.

[ Call it an IOU. ]

Mmhmm. Though, if we don't stop now, I don't think we will at all.

[ A tease, matter-of-fact — though, in truth, not much of a deterrent on her end. She's reticent on talking about this... whatever this winds up being, hesitant on putting names to it, to inviting observation and scrutiny and the inevitable attention from forces whose attention she does not want, but that's only the words of it. The actions, the physical presence and practical applications, everything making up this kind of attention...

Well. Between the two of them, it wasn't Jaime spending his single years picking up strangers in bars, was it?

Before he has a chance to rebut — or pull her into another kiss they might not get out of — Ruka pivots, pulling her bag off the couch and setting it instead on the floor at her feet. There's a heavy thud when it touches the ground, and she retrieves gifts from it one by one. He'll have to unwrap each one before he gets to the next one, so his poor table is going to be an inevitable graveyard of wrapping papers.

In order:
- A set of imported European drinking chocolates — Belgian, Swiss, and Finnish, by the looks of the labels.
- A pair of dark leather motorcycle gloves, already fitted (it's easier to get the right size, after all, when she already has all his measurements). Meant to compliment the leather jacket he keeps wearing.
- A novelty fridge magnet designed after a sun with rays, wearing sunglasses, but clearly misprinted and malformed, making its face less "cool" and more a comically stupid "I'm melting from my own heat, but It's Fine." It just looked so dumb. She had to.
- A proper bolo tie, traditionally made, the leather cord fixed with a round, carved silver medallion with a turquoise stone set in the center. Only held up close is the carving detail on the gem obvious — a stone scarab, in the Egyptian style.

There's one last present, but instead of handing it over directly, Ruka holds it in her lap — a larger, but thin, rectangular box. Her fingers run over the edge of it, clearly hesitating to pass it over. ]

This one... um. I meant to give this to you a while ago, but it never felt... like the right time. It still doesn't. It's not finished, either, but it's not supposed to be. It's not really from... me, either, so... you, uh, you might want to open it later.

[ All of this, and this is where she gets nervous? ]

I can think of worse things, [ Jaime teases right back, but he lets her retreat, and leans back a little himself, self-consciously smoothing down his hair. He doesn't actually mind. They've got time. Maybe not forever, but today. At least that's the way he's trying to think about it.

And that's when the gift comes out. Or, rather, when the gifts come out, and they just don't stop coming. He stares a little, clearly gobsmacked. He'd expected something, of course, but this? This is so much. It'd be a lot from anyone, but it's a lot from Ruka too, who tends to put a lot of effort into these things, for which things that other people take for granted are more difficult for her.

Didn't they say they were going to take things slow? ]

Ruka, this is too much!

[ Happily that's not this is too much and I'm uncomfortable or this is too much and I'm trying to figure out how the heck I'm going to return it or you shouldn't have gotten these for me. It's I have no idea how else to express how much I know you put into this. The drinking chocolates will go quickly, he knows. The gloves will be worn to death and, truthfully, there's a part of him that's oddly pleased that he's got a pair from her, knowing how much he associates gloves in general with Ruka. They're not her trademark out of fashion alone, but they're her trademark nonetheless. The magnet gets a laugh out of him, because of course it does. And the bolo tie... well. It seems like it's time for him to figure out how to wear one.

He looks up at her after he's through, a little overwhelmed, but grateful too. She sure knows how to make a guy feel special. ]

Thank you! I love them.

[ Well, he's always been one to say what's on his mind. He reaches out to accept the box - with a little murmur of more? - and transfers it to his own lap. ]

...d'you mind if I open it now?

... go ahead. I think if I minded that much, I would have mailed it separate.

[ She folds her hands atop her knees, trying to refrain from the instinct to take it back, or to make an excuse and leave before he opens it. It's nothing bad, and she knows Jaime well enough to know the kind of reaction he will have. It's nothing he's told her outright; perhaps part of it is nothing he'd intended her to notice, but they're part of what makes him who he is.

Jaime is, if nothing else, sentimental. He cherishes the little things, and holds onto his mementos for as long as he can, no matter how other people might look at them. Bottle caps, photographs — she already knows that the chocolate tins will either have their labels saved, or at least one will be reused as a planter or a cup for pens. Too much and too many have been taken from him, over the years here; it's possible too much and too many is what he'd lost, before he ever came to this world. He'll hold tight to every little good thing he can.

The present in his lap weighs a couple pounds; the wrapping, like all the rest, is neat, and it undoes easily. A plain gift box, and thin tissue, and beneath all that is a book. Not a regular book, published and printed, like a novel or anything. It's tall, and wide, and thick, the cover an unmarked blue with a material that yields, ever-so-slightly, to the touch.

A scrapbook.

For the first couple of pages, it's straightforward: newspaper scans, photo print-offs of television clips, screenshots of old bwitter article-links, all of this or that heroic deed by the Blue Beetle. Evacuating a burning building too dangerous to enter; cars and people stranded after accidents, retrieved in time for medical care; the thwarting of robberies, assaults; the mundane retrieval of cats from trees, reuniting kids and their misplaced dogs, misplaced parents; the hauling to shore of damaged boats. All usual stuff, but what's interspersed with these little objective accounts of his deeds that is what matters.

Letters. Blog posts. Drawings. Both my daughters were in that crash. I thank God every day that you were there, and I was sure we weren't going to make it, but he made sure we were okay, and Thank you for saving my mommy, and dozens more. Typed, hand-written, some address directly to the Blue Beetle, some to a nebulous third-party audience. Page after page, story after story, comes with something like it. Sometimes they come with photographs — people he's rescued in the months or years later. There's six straight pages dedicated to simple before-and-after pictures of kids and their cats, kids and their dogs, and those kids older, taller, some now in their teens, showing off their still-beloved pets. There's graduation pictures — for high school, for college, for a few parents and grandparents that have managed to go back. Wedding pictures. Family portraits. Snapshots of average, ordinary life.

Since then, I finished school.

Since that day, I could start a new life. Thank you for giving me the chance.

We decided we didn't want to wait any more after that. We got married!!!

I was there to see my granddaughter's birthday. Now I'll get to see many more :)

After that, I met my best friend. We're opening a shop together after we're done with college.

Since then, we found out we're expecting. It's a boy! We're thinking of naming him Jaime ♥

Pages, and pages, and pages. Things he's done in the past year; things he's done in his first, and everywhere between. But even for as many full pages as there are, it's not even half, not even a quarter, maybe not even a tenth of the good deeds the Blue Beetle has done here. Not even a tenth of the impact he's had. And these are just some of the people he's helped, and only ones he's helped directly - between him and Khaji, they'll recognize most of them.

The book ends with about thirty blank pages — unfinished. Impossible to be finished. ]

Okay.

[ Jaime's not sure what he's expecting that she's so nervous about. Maybe it's something she worked on? She's a pretty artsy person. He's still gotta check out her games. Maybe it's something to do with that. Either way, he's not particularly expecting a book when he rips the wrapping open, and he makes a quiet noise of surprise as he lifts it out, sweeping one hand flat against the cover; even without the boon of feeling the emotions that come with objects, he's always been a tactile person, imbuing them with his own strength of feeling. Maybe that's why all of his knick knacks probably work for Ruka. It's probably why she chose the book she did, too, that soft, yielding cover that she knew he'd immediately run his hands over.

Then he opens it. ]

Oh.

[ One hand flips the pages, but now that the book's secure on his knees, his other hand travels, clasping to his chest, rising to cover his mouth, fingers scratching against the scruff of his beard. ]

Oh.

[ This, even without the other gifts, would be too much. More than he deserves. But every single page has the same thing etched on it, in its own way, Ruka saying what she thinks and how she feels with other people's words and other people's images - and is that really such a surprise? All of these say, over and over again, you've earned this and you deserve this and you managed to do something good. And that's all Jaime had ever wanted, really. To do something good. To do something that's worth something - anything.

It's the before-and-after pictures that really get to him. The rest do, of course, but this - this is why he does this. This is why he does anything. So these people will have a future, so they'll go on to make their own choices and live happily, so they can have the freedom that's been stolen from so many. How did she find these? How did she put this together? Jaime wouldn't have even known where to start. It must have taken her months. His breath hitches in his chest and his eyes well up despite him willing them not to - he's already cried in front of her so many times, and it feels like there's only so many times he should be able to go to that well in front of someone, but here he is, vision growing cloudy and words turning illegible in the face of it.

At least they're good tears this time. He hurriedly wipes the tears away, as though that can hide a dang thing when Ruka's staring right at him, feeling everything that he's feeling. It's good that she is, because he has no clue how to express it. How glad he is that so many of these people are doing all right, that they're flourishing, how touched he is to have remained in their memory, and possibly most potent of all, how overwhelmed he is that Ruka had put this all together. He wouldn't have expected anyone to. But Ruka, for all that he holds her in - in high esteem (he tries, with futility, to use such language even in the privacy of his own head; it's hard to go slow when his heart keeps on soaring ahead of him) shouldn't have had time for something like this. She's got more important things to do. Better things to do with her time. God knows Jaime couldn't cope with half the things Ruka has to deal with.

But here she is. And here this is. ]

Ruka...

[ Just give him a second. ]

[ Trying to hide his reaction is, functionally, useless, but it's like him all the same. She doesn't mind. It's a lot to take in, and it's what she expected — what she hoped for, even if the referred tightness in her throat and the burn of tears and gratitude makes it hard to speak.

She moves to sit closer, leaning against his side; her arm slips into the space under his, hand resting on his forearm. Not moving to hold hands, not while he's still holding the book, but it's contact. Weight and presence. ]

It's not El Paso, and... [ she murmurs, chin at his shoulder, heart in her throat, ] ... there's nothing that can replace the people you've lost. There never will be. But... you're not just an imPort, you know? What you guys do here, it's something that will outlast any of us. These are people that will never forget you. This world is better with you in it.

[ Jaime is sentimental. It's why she went for photographs, for kids' drawings, for the little mementos to remind him of the people he's met, the things he's done. But the letters, the after-words... time and again, she's found Jaime to be someone who craves for things without knowing, who wants for things he doesn't pursue. He doesn't dress to stand out, but he wants to be seen, to be noticed. He doesn't do things for praise, for a good word, for a prize — but he still wants it to mean something. More than anything, she thinks, he wants to matter. ]

This is where you belong.

[ It's taken Jaime a long time to get here. Years. Sometimes, when he speaks of home, he's still not thinking about this place - he's thinking about the place that had always been his home, where he'd grown up, the people he had loved, the places he had always visited. But more and more, home becomes here.

You can belong to two places at once. Maybe Jaime's just all the more luckier for it. And when Ruka's sitting here by his side, warm against him, something that can only be described as loving even though he hadn't thought she'd get there so soon - looking at this, clearly she had - it's hard to look around him and not call this home. There are people he loves here.

The past year has just given him one more person to love. That's it. He splays his hand across one page, looking down at it. When people had asked him why he did what he did when there's no guarantee that he'll stick around, he'd always told them the same thing: it's for the people that will still be here.

They'll remember him. They'll remember all of them. Hopefully they'll remember them for what they are, not what they could be, or what they thought they were. But they'd be remembered. It's hard to speak for a second, so he doesn't. ]

Yeah, [ he manages. ] I guess I do. I mean... my world's better with you in it too.

[ That's something he can't quite shake off. It felt like he'd been drifting for a while. Dreaming. Then in the past year, all of a sudden, he'd woken up. But the world around him had been awake and alive that whole time. He just hadn't ever been able to see it. He shifts a little, leaning on her even as he raises a hand to scrub a little at his eyes. ]

Ruka... thank you.

[ It doesn't feel deserved. But on every page, there's people telling him that's not the case.

That's something. ]

[ The hardest part is staying right where she is. His heart is brimming, overfull with affection, with sentiment, overfull. That much is fine. That much she expected from the start, but... when he turns the focus of it on her, it's hard not to deflect. It's hard not to knock those words from the air. His world is better with her? It's worse, too. Whatever good she brings, he could get that from a dozen other, better places, if he ever let himself look.

(But, already greedy, she doesn't want him looking for them anymore, either. Her fingertips, still gloved, sweep over his wrist, the line of his pulse. She doesn't want to lose him. Least of all to her own sabotage.) ]

So, [ she murmurs, voice quiet and throat dry, overwhelmed in her own feelings, ] was it worth the interruption?

You're ridiculous, [ he says, but it's fond, awe-struck in a way, something you say to someone who so stridently defies definition or expectation. Jaime doesn't think he's met anyone who fits that more than Ruka does.

Ridiculous. And the real shame of it is that nobody knows it. Or maybe a few people know it - but not enough. It makes him yearn for family, and for old friends. You'll never believe this girl I met, he'd tell them. And then they'd meet her, and maybe they wouldn't believe him, thinking him addled by some pretty girl. But they'd realize he was right, in the end.

Hopefully he'll be able to tell his friends here about that soon. Except for instead of you'll never believe this girl I met, it'll be the much less glamorous, yeah, you're right, I'm a big dumb idiot.

It probably won't surprise her that he goes straight for the hug, palm flat against her back, chin resting on her shoulder as he says, ] Yes. It was worth the interruption.

[ He's warm.

That's the thought that manages to register as he folds her into embrace. She could trace the outline of his hand on her back from memory by the burn of it, even through fabric, and where his arm leans against her ribs; she can feel the weight of his chin on her, but she can feel the distance between his cheek and hers just from the temperature, the negligent pressure and movement of air. She's too sensitive in a lot of ways, hyper-aware of herself and her surroundings, constantly receiving input from seemingly everyone and everything around her. Details cling, and hurts linger — but she's sensitive to this kind of thing, too.

A lot of their friendship has been confined to twilight places, offering shelter in a deluge of hurt. Holding hands like holding breath against high waves. Hugs less like affection and more like locking arms around the trunk of a tree and praying for the winds to pass. This isn't that. It's softer, calmer, more comfortable; it's easy, in a way so few things are. Easy, now, to let herself reciprocate. Easy to put her arms around his shoulders with that same deliberation as her play with BB had gone; easy to pull Jaime in closer, a little tighter, making warmth a complete circle for them both.

She's too sensitive, and she thinks too much, but for all that her thoughts and her heart can race on at a moment's notice, but for all that she can feel the way her thoughts stutter and her heart drum a little louder in her chest, there's no hesitation to returning the hug. ]

Good, [ she murmurs, quiet; even his mood is so bright and warm it feels like there's a little star burning away in his chest. A hidden sun. ] I'm glad you like it.

[ ... And maybe if she hides her face against his neck he won't notice how red her face has gotten. ]

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MoM IC Contact: TAKE TWO

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TWO HUG TAGS IN ONE EVENING!!!

hugbugs....