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xp_logsAfter passing out, Kevin dreams fitfully. When he wakes up, he gets a very awkwardly crash-course in basic hygiene.
TW: blood and gore, child neglect, child abuse, attempted murder, self harm (no blood)
It was….odd having hands. Unsettling to see skin pulled taut over sinew and bone, to be able to feel the dirt on his body and the grass under his feet. Toes flexed experimentally against the freshly upturned dirt, the soft cool earth beneath him that reeked of death. The pale moonlight was masked behind the clouds but he could see hands illuminated below him. The dirt caked under the nails, the bleeding scrapes and scratches that covered his naked form, the way the blood shone in the moonlight was beautiful, he wished he could see it in the sun. He’d once seen a human smile, had been told that it meant they were “happy,” and despite the pain it caused in muscles who had never once formed that shape he found himself smiling as mud caked hands smeared dirt and blood over himself.
All was as it should be. Gone was his true form of green lightning with sharp jagged teeth. No longer a towering giant whose incorporeality allowed him to choose whatever host he found most pleasing. The power that surged through him had been so strong then but he hadn’t been solid, had relied on the strength of others, sucking them dry to fuel himself, doing whatever it took to reshape the world in his image, to make things as they should be. To make them see that they were just as monstrous as he was.
If only he weren’t so hungry. Tired eyes itchy from dirt blinked into the darkness and settled on the light of the house. Of his house. Yes, his mother would make an excellent first meal.
Kevin stood on the curtain wall, staring down at the people below him. From here they were so small, but he knew that they would always think themselves bigger. From here he could feel their minds, pushing at him as if they actually stood a chance to get in.
“Ye want in, eh? Tryin tae force yourselves on me. Bein so aggressive...it's no nice. Ye should always ask first. But a'm glad ye're here...ye want in? “ Kevin thought for just a moment before the land underneath the party disappeared and they fell, falling through the darkness until they landed on the cold stone of the throne room he had moved himself to, taking the time to lounge on the throne before he allowed the others to arrive. “Come on in.”
Cyclops stood first, always the leader. Colossus righted the “good” professor’s chair, his mother stood there, staring. He looked like a monster. He looked like his father.
“What are you doing, Proteus?” Cyclops asked, hand pulled to his visor.
Kevin laughed, turning the man’s arm to stone, making it far too heavy to lift. “Tell me this- dae ye think redemption's possible? That's why they build prisons, aye?”
“Or perhaps they exist to protect society from monsters.” His mother said, voice steely cold.
“Maybe, a suppose it depends on whether ye're an optimist or a pessimist. Me? A believe change is possible. Dae ye know how old a wis when they locked me away?” Kevin asked, sitting up on the throne, looking at the group fully, eyes flickering between them in order of most to least powerful, a predator analyzing his prey.
“Nyet. How old?” Colossus replied, wary, but at least polite.
“A dunno. Ye'd av tae ask Moira. Ma whole life has been cages. Now that a'm oot a won't ever go back. A want freedom for me n for everyone. If ye try tae lock me away again a'll defend maself.” He spat, distracted from the danger of the metal man by his hatred of the woman that had brought him into this world. The woman that had carried him in her body for nine long months, who had changed his diapers and fed him.So distracted that he missed Xavier’s telepathic command for the man to attack.
The metal man was much larger than Kevin in this body, cold and unrelenting as he landed blows across the pale skin now blooming with bruises, covered in its own blood. He couldn’t fight back, could only hope to hurt the others but it was so hard, there was so much pain.
“Stop! A cannae hurt anyone now.” He screamed.
Twin voices, belonging to his mother and the man she’d always loved, echoed in the stone room, spoken in time to the blows to his head. “Finish the job Colossus.”
As the darkness overtook him, he twitched feebly, lips split and sore as he mumbled, “A wish a were loved. Naw love here.”
The boy was small, a shock of too long red hair that had matted against his head, only a medical gown to adorn his body. He stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the keyhole of the door, hoping for a glimpse of his mother. He was so hungry. It was cold. Maybe today she’d let him hug her! He knew what hugging looked like, he’d seen Mammy do it with the bald man who visited sometimes.
He perked up at the sound of her heels clicking down the hallway, scurrying away from the door so she wouldn’t hit him when it opened- she usually hit him anyway.
“Mammy!” He yelled, rushing towards her where she carried the tray.
She scowled at him, setting the tray unceremoniously on the floor. “Don’t call me that, Mutant X.”
“Can a come back oot now? It’s cold.” He asked, staring up at her with large eyes, shuffling closer to try to sneak a hug. He wanted to know what it felt like. It looked nice.
“No.” She spit, and then boxed him on the ear. “Don’t touch me, you little monster.”
The touch hurt, but he felt stronger from the contact, less hungry, and he liked the lights he saw every time she touched him, they were pretty. “But- but a love ye mammy, a wanna come back oot.” He’d heard the bald man and Mammy use that word before, the l one, it made them smile, maybe it would make her smile now.
“You don’t know what love is. You are Mutant X, a monster, I have no son.”
Neither boy had expected to find another. The connection had been forged through sheer chance, a consequence of two lonely minds groping for connection. Now they whispered to each other through the astral plane like children through a tin can telephone, one from a cell deep beneath the main complex, the other from the unresponsive body housed above.
~My dad, um, he could hear what people thought, too, but sometimes he'd . . . change stuff.~ The boy who had identified himself as Davey spoke with the halting uncertainty of someone voicing truths he’d never dare say aloud. ~My mom never knew when he was listening. Or what he'd do if he didn't like what he heard. It's a bad power. Maybe that's why your mom doesn't let you practice, either. What's her name? My mom's name is Gaby.~
Moira Kevin thought, full of bile and anger and an overwhelming and indescribable sadness. She hates me. Tells me a lot she wish I didn't exist. Her and her Charles take stuff from my body sometimes- he gets mad he can't hear what I think.
~Moira?~ There was a flood of genuine shock from the other boy. The name evoked a visual association: a series of indistinct, overlapping impressions, like a figure from a half-remembered dream that dissolved to leave behind nothing more than the shadow of auburn hair and a clean white coat.
~Her? Mom's friend?~
She loves him. He's mean though. Talks about me like I'm not a person. Like I'm not real. I wish he wasn't real. Kevin flopped back down onto the cold, hard ground. The back of his head ached now. That was fine.
~But she's so nice. I can hear her when she's in the room with us. She . . . she didn't say she was a mom. She--~ Davey stuttered to a stop. His confusion bloomed in Kevin’s mind like an opening flower. ~She told my mom she had a baby that died.~
Kevin screamed, raw and full of anguish. In a flash he was standing again - but only for a moment before he started slamming his body against the walls and door of his cell. Angry, hurt, confused. Why didn’t Mother love him?
NO NO NO NO NO NO. Kevin thought, fighting back both tears and the urge to crawl up in a ball on the floor. I’m here. I’m here. Why won’t she love me? What did I do? Why does she get to be loved and I don’t?
~Stop! Stop, please stop! I'm sorry!~ Somewhere beyond the roar of Kevin’s emotions the other boy’s panic and distress throbbed, as if Davey could feel each slam in his own body. There was a sense of wild grasping as he searched for something, anything to stop the violence, and then a memory pulled from the depths of Moira’s mind spilled free–
~Kevin!~
The bed creaked under Kevin as he sat up hastily, almost in a panic, face twisting into an unfamiliar expression as his skin stuck to the sheets, pulling apart with a zippering sound.
“Davey?” He asked, throat sore and scratchy. He hacked up some more mud. “Why does everything feel…..bad?”
Jim, who had made sure to situate himself within easy view of the open bedroom door, looked up from his laptop.
Standard procedure would have been to settle Kevin in the isolation ward until they had a better idea of his physical state, not to mention what level his powers were or were not operating on, but it had quickly become apparent that it was in no one's best interest to force the other man into one of the island's subterranean facilities. To Kevin it had been less than 72 hours since he'd been a prisoner there.
In the end, Jim had taken Kevin to his own apartment. He'd spent most of a month sleeping on Arthur's couch, what was another few nights?
The question, however, was on the broad side. "There are . . . a few possibilities," Jim ventured, taking in the man caked in dried mud and blood. "Is it a physical ache? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
Kevin frowned. “Words are…..hard.”
He knew what they meant….mostly. He’d picked up some things from his father’s mind. But he understood much less than he “knew.”
“It- Bad.”
Jim frowned. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, but it was a little sad. If they were viewing this in the context of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, Kevin was still trying to secure the ground level.
Closing his laptop, the telepath stood. "Okay, we'll start with the basics. Do you want to get cleaned up? That should make you feel a little better, at least."
Another frown. “C-lean?”
He knew that word. But the mechanics of how to “get cleaned up” were a mystery.
Jim blinked, then recalibrated his expectations a few more notches.
"Come on, I'll show you."
Gently, Jim directed Kevin to the bathroom. They'd given the other man a set of scrubs the previous night, but he'd either taken them off before bed or managed to wriggle out of them in his sleep. Inexplicably, Jim found himself thinking of Warren. Somehow he suspected that whenever the other man found himself leading a naked stranger to his bathroom it was a lot more entertaining.
"Okay, this knob controls the water," the telepath explained. "Twist it up, like this" and here he twisted the knob in demonstration "and the water starts. If you want it to get warmer keep twisting it to the left. Just be careful not to burn yourself."
Kevin watched with almost single minded focus trying to commit the other man’s motions to memory. “Did- wis this thing always here? Jus no where a wis?”
"I guess so." Not even a shower? Some mix of emotion clotted in his chest, but Jim pushed it down. Instead he focused on his tutorial. "If a place has them they're usually in a bathroom, like this. Pull this plunger up" again he demonstrated, "and the water comes from the showerhead. You can step underneath the water to get clean."
Gangly awkward limbs tripped and nearly fell into the shower, caught with a hard thud against instinctually raised forearms. The basic cascade of the water helped some against the grime. Kevin shook his head like a dog then froze, hands reaching up to touch his hair. “…..it’s no all together an scratchy? Did a dae that?”
"Yes, it's clean. Or, well, cleaner." Now that the bathwater was clouding with dirt and the rust of blood the man's original hair color was starting to show. Jim hesitated, then grabbed a bottle of shampoo. "Here, put out your hand. This is a type of soap that will remove more dirt. Rub it into your hair until it starts to foam. Be careful not to get it in your eyes. It stings."
Kevin held out his hand for the soap, and then clumsily rubbed his flat hand over his head. The bubbles felt odd against his skin and his lips pulled back in a grimace. As the blood and dirt slid off him he could move more.
Eyes still squeezed shut, Kevin mumbled. “Oh….ye can feel it move under the skin…..”
Not skin, Jim thought, only under layers of dirt and grime you might think of as skin because you'd never been able to clean it off before. Aloud he said, "It's not dangerous. You might be a little colder and lighter afterwards, but you'll feel better."
The water was sluicing the shampoo from Kevin's hair, revealing the natural color. It wasn't auburn like Moira's, as Jim had first thought, but a vibrant red darkened by the water. His skin was shockingly pale, too, and Jim was unsure whether it was a consequence of the reconstruction or if that was Kevin's natural complexion.
Skin that had never seen the sun.
After a brief primer on body wash the water finally began to run clear. Jim shut off the tap, found a clean towel, and offered it to Kevin. "Here, you can use this to dry off."
Kevin held the towel in a shaky hand and just stared at the other man. Still holding the towel in one hand, Kevin shook himself, sending water droplets flying. “It didn’t work.”
Jim stared back, uncomprehending. Then:
Oh no.
"Here." The counselor took the towel from Kevin and carefully began to rub the cloth lightly against the sides of his face and top of his head. It was strange; the other man was only a little shy of six feet and seemed to be in his thirties, but working with him was like taking care of a child. Jack, always protective, always watching, was so close to the surface Jim wasn't sure which one of them was moving his arms.
"Like that," Jim said, giving the towel back to Kevin when he was sure the other man had gotten the sense of what was needed. "You don't need to press hard, just enough that you're not so wet anymore. I'll get you something to wear."
"Not the uh- the - the wee green dress wae nothin for the arse." Kevin said sharply, remembering what he'd been told to 'wear' as a child.
Jim's ever-evolving Kevin McTaggert-to-standard-English dictionary engaged before another blank stare set in, though not before the mental image did. Fortunately he'd had the foresight to pick up some scrubs while Kevin slept.
"No, I wouldn't do that to you. These should work until we can get something better." Jim quirked an eyebrow as he handed them over and decided to risk going off script. "Did you have to wear gowns a lot, too? I didn't like them very much either."
Kevin frowned, and then stared down at his hands, pausing a moment before holding up one finger. "Only.......one? This is one, aye? It got smaller fast."
"Only one gown?" Jim repeated. "You mean . . . ever?"
"Aye......how'd yers get so big?"
Pieces. That's all he'd gotten of Kevin's memories: pieces. The worst experiences had been like shards of glass driven into his mind, but those jagged moments rested on a lifetime of splinters. A lifetime of barbs so constant their pain had become only background noise to someone who'd never known anything else.
Jim stared into Kevin's eyes -- Moira's eyes -- and tried to comprehend a life without speech or basic hygiene, living in only one set of clothing. He failed.
The telepath forced a smile.
"We'll talk about that later. Right now, let's get you something to eat."
TW: blood and gore, child neglect, child abuse, attempted murder, self harm (no blood)
It was….odd having hands. Unsettling to see skin pulled taut over sinew and bone, to be able to feel the dirt on his body and the grass under his feet. Toes flexed experimentally against the freshly upturned dirt, the soft cool earth beneath him that reeked of death. The pale moonlight was masked behind the clouds but he could see hands illuminated below him. The dirt caked under the nails, the bleeding scrapes and scratches that covered his naked form, the way the blood shone in the moonlight was beautiful, he wished he could see it in the sun. He’d once seen a human smile, had been told that it meant they were “happy,” and despite the pain it caused in muscles who had never once formed that shape he found himself smiling as mud caked hands smeared dirt and blood over himself.
All was as it should be. Gone was his true form of green lightning with sharp jagged teeth. No longer a towering giant whose incorporeality allowed him to choose whatever host he found most pleasing. The power that surged through him had been so strong then but he hadn’t been solid, had relied on the strength of others, sucking them dry to fuel himself, doing whatever it took to reshape the world in his image, to make things as they should be. To make them see that they were just as monstrous as he was.
If only he weren’t so hungry. Tired eyes itchy from dirt blinked into the darkness and settled on the light of the house. Of his house. Yes, his mother would make an excellent first meal.
Kevin stood on the curtain wall, staring down at the people below him. From here they were so small, but he knew that they would always think themselves bigger. From here he could feel their minds, pushing at him as if they actually stood a chance to get in.
“Ye want in, eh? Tryin tae force yourselves on me. Bein so aggressive...it's no nice. Ye should always ask first. But a'm glad ye're here...ye want in? “ Kevin thought for just a moment before the land underneath the party disappeared and they fell, falling through the darkness until they landed on the cold stone of the throne room he had moved himself to, taking the time to lounge on the throne before he allowed the others to arrive. “Come on in.”
Cyclops stood first, always the leader. Colossus righted the “good” professor’s chair, his mother stood there, staring. He looked like a monster. He looked like his father.
“What are you doing, Proteus?” Cyclops asked, hand pulled to his visor.
Kevin laughed, turning the man’s arm to stone, making it far too heavy to lift. “Tell me this- dae ye think redemption's possible? That's why they build prisons, aye?”
“Or perhaps they exist to protect society from monsters.” His mother said, voice steely cold.
“Maybe, a suppose it depends on whether ye're an optimist or a pessimist. Me? A believe change is possible. Dae ye know how old a wis when they locked me away?” Kevin asked, sitting up on the throne, looking at the group fully, eyes flickering between them in order of most to least powerful, a predator analyzing his prey.
“Nyet. How old?” Colossus replied, wary, but at least polite.
“A dunno. Ye'd av tae ask Moira. Ma whole life has been cages. Now that a'm oot a won't ever go back. A want freedom for me n for everyone. If ye try tae lock me away again a'll defend maself.” He spat, distracted from the danger of the metal man by his hatred of the woman that had brought him into this world. The woman that had carried him in her body for nine long months, who had changed his diapers and fed him.So distracted that he missed Xavier’s telepathic command for the man to attack.
The metal man was much larger than Kevin in this body, cold and unrelenting as he landed blows across the pale skin now blooming with bruises, covered in its own blood. He couldn’t fight back, could only hope to hurt the others but it was so hard, there was so much pain.
“Stop! A cannae hurt anyone now.” He screamed.
Twin voices, belonging to his mother and the man she’d always loved, echoed in the stone room, spoken in time to the blows to his head. “Finish the job Colossus.”
As the darkness overtook him, he twitched feebly, lips split and sore as he mumbled, “A wish a were loved. Naw love here.”
The boy was small, a shock of too long red hair that had matted against his head, only a medical gown to adorn his body. He stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the keyhole of the door, hoping for a glimpse of his mother. He was so hungry. It was cold. Maybe today she’d let him hug her! He knew what hugging looked like, he’d seen Mammy do it with the bald man who visited sometimes.
He perked up at the sound of her heels clicking down the hallway, scurrying away from the door so she wouldn’t hit him when it opened- she usually hit him anyway.
“Mammy!” He yelled, rushing towards her where she carried the tray.
She scowled at him, setting the tray unceremoniously on the floor. “Don’t call me that, Mutant X.”
“Can a come back oot now? It’s cold.” He asked, staring up at her with large eyes, shuffling closer to try to sneak a hug. He wanted to know what it felt like. It looked nice.
“No.” She spit, and then boxed him on the ear. “Don’t touch me, you little monster.”
The touch hurt, but he felt stronger from the contact, less hungry, and he liked the lights he saw every time she touched him, they were pretty. “But- but a love ye mammy, a wanna come back oot.” He’d heard the bald man and Mammy use that word before, the l one, it made them smile, maybe it would make her smile now.
“You don’t know what love is. You are Mutant X, a monster, I have no son.”
Neither boy had expected to find another. The connection had been forged through sheer chance, a consequence of two lonely minds groping for connection. Now they whispered to each other through the astral plane like children through a tin can telephone, one from a cell deep beneath the main complex, the other from the unresponsive body housed above.
~My dad, um, he could hear what people thought, too, but sometimes he'd . . . change stuff.~ The boy who had identified himself as Davey spoke with the halting uncertainty of someone voicing truths he’d never dare say aloud. ~My mom never knew when he was listening. Or what he'd do if he didn't like what he heard. It's a bad power. Maybe that's why your mom doesn't let you practice, either. What's her name? My mom's name is Gaby.~
Moira Kevin thought, full of bile and anger and an overwhelming and indescribable sadness. She hates me. Tells me a lot she wish I didn't exist. Her and her Charles take stuff from my body sometimes- he gets mad he can't hear what I think.
~Moira?~ There was a flood of genuine shock from the other boy. The name evoked a visual association: a series of indistinct, overlapping impressions, like a figure from a half-remembered dream that dissolved to leave behind nothing more than the shadow of auburn hair and a clean white coat.
~Her? Mom's friend?~
She loves him. He's mean though. Talks about me like I'm not a person. Like I'm not real. I wish he wasn't real. Kevin flopped back down onto the cold, hard ground. The back of his head ached now. That was fine.
~But she's so nice. I can hear her when she's in the room with us. She . . . she didn't say she was a mom. She--~ Davey stuttered to a stop. His confusion bloomed in Kevin’s mind like an opening flower. ~She told my mom she had a baby that died.~
Kevin screamed, raw and full of anguish. In a flash he was standing again - but only for a moment before he started slamming his body against the walls and door of his cell. Angry, hurt, confused. Why didn’t Mother love him?
NO NO NO NO NO NO. Kevin thought, fighting back both tears and the urge to crawl up in a ball on the floor. I’m here. I’m here. Why won’t she love me? What did I do? Why does she get to be loved and I don’t?
~Stop! Stop, please stop! I'm sorry!~ Somewhere beyond the roar of Kevin’s emotions the other boy’s panic and distress throbbed, as if Davey could feel each slam in his own body. There was a sense of wild grasping as he searched for something, anything to stop the violence, and then a memory pulled from the depths of Moira’s mind spilled free–
~Kevin!~
The bed creaked under Kevin as he sat up hastily, almost in a panic, face twisting into an unfamiliar expression as his skin stuck to the sheets, pulling apart with a zippering sound.
“Davey?” He asked, throat sore and scratchy. He hacked up some more mud. “Why does everything feel…..bad?”
Jim, who had made sure to situate himself within easy view of the open bedroom door, looked up from his laptop.
Standard procedure would have been to settle Kevin in the isolation ward until they had a better idea of his physical state, not to mention what level his powers were or were not operating on, but it had quickly become apparent that it was in no one's best interest to force the other man into one of the island's subterranean facilities. To Kevin it had been less than 72 hours since he'd been a prisoner there.
In the end, Jim had taken Kevin to his own apartment. He'd spent most of a month sleeping on Arthur's couch, what was another few nights?
The question, however, was on the broad side. "There are . . . a few possibilities," Jim ventured, taking in the man caked in dried mud and blood. "Is it a physical ache? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
Kevin frowned. “Words are…..hard.”
He knew what they meant….mostly. He’d picked up some things from his father’s mind. But he understood much less than he “knew.”
“It- Bad.”
Jim frowned. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, but it was a little sad. If they were viewing this in the context of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, Kevin was still trying to secure the ground level.
Closing his laptop, the telepath stood. "Okay, we'll start with the basics. Do you want to get cleaned up? That should make you feel a little better, at least."
Another frown. “C-lean?”
He knew that word. But the mechanics of how to “get cleaned up” were a mystery.
Jim blinked, then recalibrated his expectations a few more notches.
"Come on, I'll show you."
Gently, Jim directed Kevin to the bathroom. They'd given the other man a set of scrubs the previous night, but he'd either taken them off before bed or managed to wriggle out of them in his sleep. Inexplicably, Jim found himself thinking of Warren. Somehow he suspected that whenever the other man found himself leading a naked stranger to his bathroom it was a lot more entertaining.
"Okay, this knob controls the water," the telepath explained. "Twist it up, like this" and here he twisted the knob in demonstration "and the water starts. If you want it to get warmer keep twisting it to the left. Just be careful not to burn yourself."
Kevin watched with almost single minded focus trying to commit the other man’s motions to memory. “Did- wis this thing always here? Jus no where a wis?”
"I guess so." Not even a shower? Some mix of emotion clotted in his chest, but Jim pushed it down. Instead he focused on his tutorial. "If a place has them they're usually in a bathroom, like this. Pull this plunger up" again he demonstrated, "and the water comes from the showerhead. You can step underneath the water to get clean."
Gangly awkward limbs tripped and nearly fell into the shower, caught with a hard thud against instinctually raised forearms. The basic cascade of the water helped some against the grime. Kevin shook his head like a dog then froze, hands reaching up to touch his hair. “…..it’s no all together an scratchy? Did a dae that?”
"Yes, it's clean. Or, well, cleaner." Now that the bathwater was clouding with dirt and the rust of blood the man's original hair color was starting to show. Jim hesitated, then grabbed a bottle of shampoo. "Here, put out your hand. This is a type of soap that will remove more dirt. Rub it into your hair until it starts to foam. Be careful not to get it in your eyes. It stings."
Kevin held out his hand for the soap, and then clumsily rubbed his flat hand over his head. The bubbles felt odd against his skin and his lips pulled back in a grimace. As the blood and dirt slid off him he could move more.
Eyes still squeezed shut, Kevin mumbled. “Oh….ye can feel it move under the skin…..”
Not skin, Jim thought, only under layers of dirt and grime you might think of as skin because you'd never been able to clean it off before. Aloud he said, "It's not dangerous. You might be a little colder and lighter afterwards, but you'll feel better."
The water was sluicing the shampoo from Kevin's hair, revealing the natural color. It wasn't auburn like Moira's, as Jim had first thought, but a vibrant red darkened by the water. His skin was shockingly pale, too, and Jim was unsure whether it was a consequence of the reconstruction or if that was Kevin's natural complexion.
Skin that had never seen the sun.
After a brief primer on body wash the water finally began to run clear. Jim shut off the tap, found a clean towel, and offered it to Kevin. "Here, you can use this to dry off."
Kevin held the towel in a shaky hand and just stared at the other man. Still holding the towel in one hand, Kevin shook himself, sending water droplets flying. “It didn’t work.”
Jim stared back, uncomprehending. Then:
Oh no.
"Here." The counselor took the towel from Kevin and carefully began to rub the cloth lightly against the sides of his face and top of his head. It was strange; the other man was only a little shy of six feet and seemed to be in his thirties, but working with him was like taking care of a child. Jack, always protective, always watching, was so close to the surface Jim wasn't sure which one of them was moving his arms.
"Like that," Jim said, giving the towel back to Kevin when he was sure the other man had gotten the sense of what was needed. "You don't need to press hard, just enough that you're not so wet anymore. I'll get you something to wear."
"Not the uh- the - the wee green dress wae nothin for the arse." Kevin said sharply, remembering what he'd been told to 'wear' as a child.
Jim's ever-evolving Kevin McTaggert-to-standard-English dictionary engaged before another blank stare set in, though not before the mental image did. Fortunately he'd had the foresight to pick up some scrubs while Kevin slept.
"No, I wouldn't do that to you. These should work until we can get something better." Jim quirked an eyebrow as he handed them over and decided to risk going off script. "Did you have to wear gowns a lot, too? I didn't like them very much either."
Kevin frowned, and then stared down at his hands, pausing a moment before holding up one finger. "Only.......one? This is one, aye? It got smaller fast."
"Only one gown?" Jim repeated. "You mean . . . ever?"
"Aye......how'd yers get so big?"
Pieces. That's all he'd gotten of Kevin's memories: pieces. The worst experiences had been like shards of glass driven into his mind, but those jagged moments rested on a lifetime of splinters. A lifetime of barbs so constant their pain had become only background noise to someone who'd never known anything else.
Jim stared into Kevin's eyes -- Moira's eyes -- and tried to comprehend a life without speech or basic hygiene, living in only one set of clothing. He failed.
The telepath forced a smile.
"We'll talk about that later. Right now, let's get you something to eat."
