[ Jim has always been a tactile person. Touching, being touched--it's how he expresses affection, fondness, how he makes and sustains connection with other people. But he understands it's not everyone's preference. Sort of. There're very few times, Jim Kirk is convinced, that a proper hug can't make a shitty day at least a little better.
But he's only met La'an a few times and even he can tell she's someone who keeps to herself. Who holds herself apart, collected and composed, the barriers she puts up keeping everyone away. He's seen the way she moves when she's working; how she uses exactly enough energy in every step and turn and not an ounce more. Always conserving something in case she's called upon to act. Now that he knows about her childhood he figures maybe that's where it's born from; never knowing when you might need to run and hide.
Now, at least, he hopes he can give her a space where she doesn't have to do that. Doesn't have to be so tightly wound. She's too exhausted for it, and trying now will only wear her into something threadbare that can't be properly patched, even with his sewing skills--a poor metaphor, maybe, but it's what he has to offer.
Her fear twists that same part of him that longs for her, the complicated bit that aches, and he reaches out a hand to smooth out the lines on her forehead, gentle fingers running softly over the creases he finds there. ]
I'm not going anywhere. Promise. [ If he makes a promise, he keeps it ] Staying here as long as you'll have me.
[ he lets his hand fall away, down to her knee, where he gives her a gentle squeeze. He's not going to think about the truth behind that comment, the way it rings true for more than just being here and being her friend. She's asked him for platonic. He can give her that. ] Come'n, Lieutenant. Get in bed. No one's going to miss you until morning, and I'm pretty sure you're under doctor's orders.
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But he's only met La'an a few times and even he can tell she's someone who keeps to herself. Who holds herself apart, collected and composed, the barriers she puts up keeping everyone away. He's seen the way she moves when she's working; how she uses exactly enough energy in every step and turn and not an ounce more. Always conserving something in case she's called upon to act. Now that he knows about her childhood he figures maybe that's where it's born from; never knowing when you might need to run and hide.
Now, at least, he hopes he can give her a space where she doesn't have to do that. Doesn't have to be so tightly wound. She's too exhausted for it, and trying now will only wear her into something threadbare that can't be properly patched, even with his sewing skills--a poor metaphor, maybe, but it's what he has to offer.
Her fear twists that same part of him that longs for her, the complicated bit that aches, and he reaches out a hand to smooth out the lines on her forehead, gentle fingers running softly over the creases he finds there. ]
I'm not going anywhere. Promise. [ If he makes a promise, he keeps it ] Staying here as long as you'll have me.
[ he lets his hand fall away, down to her knee, where he gives her a gentle squeeze. He's not going to think about the truth behind that comment, the way it rings true for more than just being here and being her friend. She's asked him for platonic. He can give her that. ] Come'n, Lieutenant. Get in bed. No one's going to miss you until morning, and I'm pretty sure you're under doctor's orders.