It's a genuine question, cautious still, but he's willing to hear Jesus out. He wants to understand, not just humans but this one in particular. The things that make this one in particular look at him like he sometimes does.
"I spent so long fighting for people to be able to have their families. Their homes, their gardens, a place they could be safe." A place they could vote, a place they were free from tyranny. "But I can't have any of it. I don't want any of it when I have it."
K feels an element of satisfaction when he's forced to engage violently with rogue replicants; it's not pronounced, it's nothing like his primary driving force, and it doesn't last past the heat of the fight so K has always assumed it's from one blade runner mod or another. He doesn't understand finding any joy in it.
But he does understand this: "Like you said - feel what you feel? That alone doesn't mean there's something wrong with you, unless or until you act on it."
"I know. Logically. But I know who I was before the world ended." What he means is just, "I still feel broken. I always have, in some ways, but it's worse since I came here."
K presses his lips together, but doesn't try to say anything else. He knows what that's like, to feel wrong, to feel different than he thinks he should. He's not sure there's anything anyone could say that would make him feel better.
So he traces the first half inch or so of the line on Jesus's palm and he nods.
"I hope it's a matter of healing," he offers, quietly.
It's funny how such a light touch on a part of his body others rarely touch can soothe him.
"This helps." Just so K knows, because he knows how helpless he has felt when other people have said things like this to him. "I think it's one reason I like being with you. Whatever I am now, you're okay with it."
"I needed a little time." But it was, in the scope of things, very little time taken to recover. "I decided that I wasn't going to let anything that happens here take me farther away from the people I care about."
"So do I. And I do want to touch you again." He laughs a little, because the wording is a bit forward, the words aren't ones he ever thought he'd put together into a statement, but it's true.
He smiles, relieved by the laugh, by the statement; by the way he can see both that Jesus means it but that there's no expectation still. He would like to, but he doesn't feel entitled to it regardless.
He traces a bit further along the lifeline of Jesus's palm and back again.
"The injection scared me. I don't want to do that again."
"I don't want that for you, either." His gaze falls to K's fingertip on his palm. "Or for me. I was willing to see how far I could resist, but I don't want that. But I still want this to feel safe for us."
"I'm glad we decided to stay away from each other for it." Not that he's happy he risked Vrenille, but the other man knew what to expect. He encouraged K, and he was ready after.
"And we have time now. I think I need a bit, to acclimate again."
"I'm glad it doesn't bother you that I'm sleeping with other people." It shouldn't bother K. They've only slept together once--but it was the one time Jesus wasn't doing it to evade a punishment. "I'm never going to pressure you."
The other thing - the sleeping with other people thing - still seems strange to K but he doesn't know how to ask about it. Instead he risks sliding his fingers between Jesus's, glancing up at him.
"I don't want there to be pressure here. I want what you want, no more." Less, maybe, sometimes, but not more.
His expression shifts a little, becomes more distant. The words don't sit right. It's not possible for K to want what he wants; Jesus has no idea what that is. But that's not the only reason it makes him uneasy.
His reaction is immediate: he pulls his hand back, sets it back in his lap. He doesn't know what he said but he's watchful, cautious of that distance.
"I meant - if you don't want something, I'm not going to insist. I don't want something we don't both want." The word has been repeated too many times and he shakes his head, tries to find another way to say it.
"We're equals in this." Maybe it needs to be said out loud. "I know that's not how things work where you're from. But I need that to be true here. It's a friendship, a partnership."
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It's a genuine question, cautious still, but he's willing to hear Jesus out. He wants to understand, not just humans but this one in particular. The things that make this one in particular look at him like he sometimes does.
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"That makes you different," he agrees, "But why does that make you broken?"
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"Or do you feel useful?"
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"But there is some happiness in it, too."
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But he does understand this: "Like you said - feel what you feel? That alone doesn't mean there's something wrong with you, unless or until you act on it."
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So he traces the first half inch or so of the line on Jesus's palm and he nods.
"I hope it's a matter of healing," he offers, quietly.
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"This helps." Just so K knows, because he knows how helpless he has felt when other people have said things like this to him. "I think it's one reason I like being with you. Whatever I am now, you're okay with it."
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"I'm glad. I was... Concerned that whatever happened to you in the Zoo would make this too difficult."
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This place might have introduced a new angle K wouldn't have pursued otherwise but it isn't the only reason he's here or wants Jesus here.
"But it's important to me that part of that feeling safe is physical, too. I like that it has been."
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He traces a bit further along the lifeline of Jesus's palm and back again.
"The injection scared me. I don't want to do that again."
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"And we have time now. I think I need a bit, to acclimate again."
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The other thing - the sleeping with other people thing - still seems strange to K but he doesn't know how to ask about it. Instead he risks sliding his fingers between Jesus's, glancing up at him.
"I don't want there to be pressure here. I want what you want, no more." Less, maybe, sometimes, but not more.
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"You want what I want? What about what you want?"
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"I meant - if you don't want something, I'm not going to insist. I don't want something we don't both want." The word has been repeated too many times and he shakes his head, tries to find another way to say it.
"I won't put myself before you. Not in this."
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Now he's not so sure. "What does that mean to you?"
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Which wasn't what K had said, but he knows that's what K was built to believe: Jesus, as a human, matters more.
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He doesn't want to get it wrong with Jesus.
"You've already shown me that."
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