It's a little bit like being in a rollercoaster, living in Jim's head, and right now he's in one of the downward plunges. Maybe a fucking double loop
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Jim has never been what Martha would consider much of a talker. At least, not in her personal experience. They've spent enough time together now that she instinctively recognizes his footfalls and the cadence of his breath, but speech patterns are a little more difficult, because when they talk, it's seldom more than a few words at a time. Even so, the accent carries, and she knows it's him when the curse drifts down the hall and into the kitchen.
When she finds him at the bookshelf, he's clutching a book that's both incredibly appropriate and incredibly not, and it's all she can do to not jerk it out of his hands and toss it away, to tell him to forget it, to forget this poor excuse for hell and come have a cup of tea.
"Some fucking joke," Jim agrees, shaking his head. It's a joke, and he gets that, but it's a fucking poor one.
Flipping through the pages, he scans bits of it curiously, eyebrows rising at the chapter titles. "Should be glad they don't know what it's like," he mutters.
"I'm sure they would be, if they had any idea," is Martha's quiet reply, and unable to take it any longer, she gently extracts the book from Jim's fingers and slips it back onto the shelf. "Maybe we should be thankful they don't."
Jim's mouth curls up into a humorless smile, and he shakes his head slowly. "Easier said than done."
Most of the time, the last thing Jim thinks about is other lucky people who don't know what the hell he's been through. He doesn't care either way, not with everyone he knew dead.
"Yeah, well." Martha made a faint sound of agreement, and then gave Jim's arm a brief tug. "Come on, come have a cuppa. It's better than waiting to see what new ways this thing is going to find to torture you."
"Hey, I was just looking for something to read." Jim makes a show of protesting, but he lets Martha lead him on anyway. It's not like he has anything better to do.
"D'you take anything in yours?" Martha asks once they're in the kitchen, as they don't exactly go to the trouble of making tea in the field. It's odd, realising that she knows so many of Jim's intimate quirks, but not something so obvious as how he takes his tea.
When she finds him at the bookshelf, he's clutching a book that's both incredibly appropriate and incredibly not, and it's all she can do to not jerk it out of his hands and toss it away, to tell him to forget it, to forget this poor excuse for hell and come have a cup of tea.
"Some joke," she offers instead.
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Flipping through the pages, he scans bits of it curiously, eyebrows rising at the chapter titles. "Should be glad they don't know what it's like," he mutters.
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Most of the time, the last thing Jim thinks about is other lucky people who don't know what the hell he's been through. He doesn't care either way, not with everyone he knew dead.
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