"We could camp sometime. I like the trees, too. I miss the forest; I miss wandering off the trails." Making his own way, seeing things that hadn't been seen by anyone else in years.
"I do. I thought it was lucky timing for me--it gave me a break from trying to get used to being around so many people and so many buildings." They've been in Duplicity almost a year, he realizes.
"I liked it anyway. I still wasn't used to people actually talking to me, then." He still isn't, really, but it's no longer the surprise that it was at first.
"I don't remember much of the games. They took most of my clothing and had me lift a woman I didn't know, then a second one and I think.... they thought it was too hard for me, because I didn't really know what they wanted from me and it hurt. They disqualified me after the second." Jesus knows, now, firsthand how ridiculous the thought is of it being too hard for K to lift a single human.
"I liked it, too. If we had slept together then I think it would have taken me longer to trust you." He would have relegated K to 'fuck buddy' in his head, and kept his distance.
"No," he shakes his head with a rueful smile. "Because I was trying to keep my friends and my sexual partners separate then. That didn't take, thanks mostly to you."
K is quiet then, trying to sift through that reaction, those words. He wants to insist Jesus didn't screw anything up - there's still no blame in him for Jesus needing to get out of a corner - but not only does he know that's how Jesus himself sees it, something has definitely changed and it wasn't K. They both have acknowledged it as a mistake, but they're still working back towards each other again.
It makes him cautious, and would even if Jesus weren't still recovering from the last several days. If they all weren't. So his question, when he asks it, is both careful and earnest: if Jesus says no, he'll willingly respect that.
"Can I ask you more about... How you view what we've got?"
Trying is all K can ask of him, but even getting permission, even seeing that Jesus isn't entirely reluctant doesn't make him willing to simply plunge ahead into this.
"How - you were using a lot of words before to explain. I don't know how much of that was fear, and how much you still believe." He can read the emotions Jesus is having real time, but the labels seem to be the problem this time, so he doesn't know how to get around that, or how to ask about that.
"I meant it all. Fear maybe made me more wordy than I normally would have been but I don't regret anything I said." He looks up at K as they trail out into the woods.
"I want to be together with you. I just don't know... What to call us. If you even want to go that way."
"I do. But you name something and it changes that thing. It's like quantum physics," he's about to start babbling like he had before and he bites his tongue. Stop. Breathe.
"I meant it when I said I love you. I wouldn't mind a word that means that."
He meant it when he said love, and isn't that something.
K tables the word conversation for the moment, just absorbing that. It's not that he hasn't seen how Jesus looks at him, it's not that he doesn't know he cares about him - deeply even.
But aloud is different, and they both know it. So he walks with that, and when he does finally say something it's, "Joi's the only one that's ever said that to me. She was gone a moment later."
He looks over at Jesus, hoping - hoping - it's not too soon to say in return, "I love you, too, you know."
What's it like to hold the hand of someone you love?
K slides their fingers together - finger to finger, he doesn't say but he thinks it anyway - and they won't be able to keep this up long but he lifts their hands so he can kiss Jesus's middle knuckle. He's careful of the healing split there, but unhesitating for all of that.
"Interlinked," he murmurs softly, with more warmth than he ever answered the script.
"Will you tell me the Baseline script someday? All of it?" Because the few things he's heard are intriguing, because it's important to K, and also because there are pieces of it he wants to answer for K. Like how it feels to touch finger to finger. Like what it feels like to be loved.
It's not something he's ever been asked before either. Most humans don't even know it exists, of course, which isn't their fault but they wouldn't have asked in Los Angeles anyway.
"It's important to you. Almost a part of you, in a way." The way K uses it to steady himself, to assess himself. "Is that okay? You don't have to if you don't want to."
"I don't... know," he admits, but in the way that he would have answered if he'd been asked what a banana tastes like before coming here. Not hesitant, necessarily, just completely without the information.
"I've never tried to explain it to anyone before. Or share it."
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"It's funny what you can get used to. City seems so small to me." He glances around them.
"I kind of liked the forest though. Wish it would have been different circumstances, but I liked the trees."
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"You need to heal first, but. I'd like that, I think." He'll have to find out before he can say for sure, but he's pretty sure anyway.
"Remember that campsite? For the games?"
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"What do you remember about them?"
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"They put me in weightlifting. I was still healing up from..." He waves his hand. Dying. Arriving. Whatever.
"I went to a party with Sara, and you and I drank aphro potions."
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"I don't remember much of the games. They took most of my clothing and had me lift a woman I didn't know, then a second one and I think.... they thought it was too hard for me, because I didn't really know what they wanted from me and it hurt. They disqualified me after the second." Jesus knows, now, firsthand how ridiculous the thought is of it being too hard for K to lift a single human.
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"Do you wish it had?" he asks instead.
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"I like this. What we've got. I know I screwed it up but- I want it. Like we were before. Maybe even better than we were."
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It makes him cautious, and would even if Jesus weren't still recovering from the last several days. If they all weren't. So his question, when he asks it, is both careful and earnest: if Jesus says no, he'll willingly respect that.
"Can I ask you more about... How you view what we've got?"
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"How - you were using a lot of words before to explain. I don't know how much of that was fear, and how much you still believe." He can read the emotions Jesus is having real time, but the labels seem to be the problem this time, so he doesn't know how to get around that, or how to ask about that.
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"I want to be together with you. I just don't know... What to call us. If you even want to go that way."
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"Do we need a word?" he asks, still feeling a bit like he's on ice that should hold but with no way to tell. "Do you want one?"
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"I meant it when I said I love you. I wouldn't mind a word that means that."
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He meant it when he said love, and isn't that something.
K tables the word conversation for the moment, just absorbing that. It's not that he hasn't seen how Jesus looks at him, it's not that he doesn't know he cares about him - deeply even.
But aloud is different, and they both know it. So he walks with that, and when he does finally say something it's, "Joi's the only one that's ever said that to me. She was gone a moment later."
He looks over at Jesus, hoping - hoping - it's not too soon to say in return, "I love you, too, you know."
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They've said it. It feels good. He hadn't expected it to feel good.
He's smiling as they walk. The ground is uneven now, so he'll have to let go sooner than he wants, but for now he takes K's hand.
"I'm lucky."
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K slides their fingers together - finger to finger, he doesn't say but he thinks it anyway - and they won't be able to keep this up long but he lifts their hands so he can kiss Jesus's middle knuckle. He's careful of the healing split there, but unhesitating for all of that.
"Interlinked," he murmurs softly, with more warmth than he ever answered the script.
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Now he looks at Jesus, curious. "Yes, but - why?"
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"I don't... know," he admits, but in the way that he would have answered if he'd been asked what a banana tastes like before coming here. Not hesitant, necessarily, just completely without the information.
"I've never tried to explain it to anyone before. Or share it."
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