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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.]
"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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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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(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?
TWO HUG TAGS IN ONE EVENING!!!
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.
hugbugs....
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. ]