Another week gone, and the scar on his face was mostly healed. It no longer itched, but, barring cosmetic procedures, he would likely have that thin, pale ridge down his face for the rest of his life. A battle scar, of sorts, although from a battle he'd lost. If he won the war, however, he'd be willing to accept a lost skirmish or two.

He looked over what he could see of the city from his (admittedly precarious) perch on the roof of the inn (and please don't ask how he got up there, because if he thinks about it he'll probably not be able to get back down). Somewhere out there was Pavel and his demons, his fire that was burning him alive. Just barely two weeks ago, he thinks, he'd have given his life for Pavel, keep him safe from himself, and now? Scott doesn't know. He wants to leave, wants to forget all about this, give Pavel the distance he's obviously seeking.

Except he promised he'd never leave. Except Pavel wanted his forgiveness for what he did. Except he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can still save Pavel. Whatever it was that made him want to push Scott away so violently isn't Pavel; not the Pavel he was proud to call brother. He wants that back, wants his little brother home safe and sound. He hopes he's right, that Pavel pushed him away because he couldn't control whatever that darkness is any longer and wanted him safe, and not because Pavel was willingly giving in to it and wanted to be a monster.

He finds it a little strange how, in the end, Pavel had wanted to be his brother at the same time he wanted to push him away. A rather newly minted cynical part of his mind says that Pavel was just aiming for what would hurt him most... but the more rational, easy-going part counters that with the fact that Pavel would probably choose that, if it was meant to hurt, to make Scott more likely to keep his distance.

It's enough to make his head hurt, just a little. He rubs his temples, shivering as his fingers brush over rather sensitive scar tissue. That'll be fun to see how that goes if he ever gets more than friendship with Jamie.

His thoughts drift to the young man who he'd last seen fast asleep in his bed. At first, he'd been so willing to yell curses at a God he only really sort of believes in because that's how he was raised, good little Roman Catholic, for taking away whatever it was that made the lad so fond of him... but the odd sort of trust they had remained, and so did the memories, and, for whatever reason, Jamie still wanted to try. In the end, he thought, perhaps it was better this way. No matter what, he figured he'd have a friend, if not another little brother, and if things worked out for the best... well, it would be even better than if they'd just stayed the way they'd been on the beach. Attracted with no substance to it. Good if you were having a bit of a lark, but worthless if you wanted an actual relationship.

Which, by this point, was what he was after. He lays back on the roof, staring up at stars half-shrouded by a thin whisper of clouds. It had been a while since he'd had a serious relationship. Ten years. Long enough to have had what little fun he'd sought out, and figure that he just really wanted to settle down. Just knowing Jamie was here was enough to help improve his mood, and knowing he wanted to try and build a relationship despite everything going against it... it gave him hope for the impossible again.

He could do this. He'd done the impossible before, often. Transwarp beaming, three targets from two locations with one transporter, singlehandedly fixing a dangerous dilithium leak that was supposed to be unfixable and deadly enough that anyone who had not gotten out when the alarm went off had been doomed to die... Well, compared to all that, he figured courting a straight lad and figuring out how to defend himself from someone who could kill him before he even knew they were there had to be pretty damn easy.

Now, how to get down from this bloody roof...

Problems in Multiple Counting Systems

He made himself comfortable on a bench in an out of the way part of the Marketplace, where he could watch the people as they bustled about. He had the lingering feeling that venturing out the day after what appeared to be the Rhy'din equivalent of Thanksgiving wasn't the brightest idea; a niggling little instinct honed by years spent in California. He'd made that mistake all of once, and (as he told the story) barely survived to regret it.

However, things seemed far more orderly and calm. Probably not such a big shopping day here, he supposed. Beside him was a small lunch purchased from one of the Dwarven vendors. He nibbled at it idly as his gaze followed the crowds.

People-watching was, in and of itself, a rather soothing activity for him. It was calming to watch the ebb and flow of humanity (and other forms of life, in this instance) as they went about their daily business. Tended to give him a chance to sort through things in his mind.

The first problem that came to mind was Pavel Chekov. One that made his head hurt and his face itch (despite the current lack of a scar). The more he thought on it, the more it confused him and hurt his brain. Deep down, he knew he'd be discontent if he didn't at least try to work out what was going on there, but damn if he didn't want to just throw the towel in there. That, however, was the coward's way out, and he was done being spineless. He had a spine, he knew it. Would a coward have done what he'd done on the Potemkin? No.

Besides, it was the right thing to do. Try and work things out with Pavel. Figure out if it had been the dear lad who'd done it, or something he could no longer control. Only way he could think to do it, though, involved a phaser, and he couldn't say he was all that fond of the idea of pointing a phaser at the lad. It could help? or it could backfire spectacularly. If he were a betting man, he'd place his money on the spectacular backfire, because that's how things seemed to go with him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. His head had been aching off and on since last night, and he couldn't pinpoint the source. Sometimes it was just a faint ache, barely noticeable, and other times it was pure agony pounding in his skull. A deep breath, followed by a few bites of food. Medicine didn't really seem to help any. Probably a side effect of what the Nexus had been doing to him. Would be his luck.

Problem number 11 was the matter with the cadet. That, however, had been thought through enough that there was no more thinking to do on the matter. Just needed to find the time to act. The right time. Poor timing would only make things worse. Thinking on that increased the headache.

Then there was the matter of problem D. Which wasn't so much a problem as the rest, he supposed. It was a very pleasant thing to think about, actually. Jamie. Honestly, he hadn't quite felt like this about someone since Jon. That instant happy warm feeling just from seeing them. He hoped it panned out the way he wanted.

He slouched back against the bench, picking at the remains of his lunch, still watching the people as they passed. The sight of a curly-haired young man gives him pause. No? can't be him? He relaxes when he sees it is some other young man, no one he knows.