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Jace Rethal doesn’t bolt awake gasping like people do in the movies. At least, not at first. He stirs ever so slightly as Ibex rests a hand on his head, trails slender fingers through greasy, sweat-stiff curls. Oh, this golden boy. Hero of OriCon, the sleeping prince. He shifts again when Ibex shuts down the simulation and initiates the rousing sequence, a shadow of movement under his eyelids, a parting of the lips, a feather-light sigh. Ibex watches him from the console as his head rolls restlessly to the side, sweat beaded around the electrodes at his temples. The room is temperature-controlled at a precise and stagnant 78 degrees, and Ibex switches on the localized air circulation system to get a cool breeze blowing over the sleep cradle before settling himself in the room’s only chair to wait.
It takes a moment for Jace’s face to turn up towards the source of the coolness. His chest rises with the first deep breath Ibex has seen him take, and only then does he arch up out of the cradle, open-mouthed, entire body straining for air.
“Shh, shh,” says Ibex, placing a palm on his chest, pressing him back down, gentle and firm. Jace struggles weakly against the weight as Ibex removes the electrodes with his free hand and brushes back the hair that has grown over Jace’s forehead, heavy with grease. He’s got a beard now too, Ibex sees, not a particularly thick or well-formed one, having grown for ten years unattended. Beneath it, his cheeks are hollow. They’ll have to see to that. “You’re safe here. You can relax.”
Jace coughs, convulsively, chest bucking under Ibex’s splayed hand, and when he speaks, his voice is rough as a file. “Addax.”
“Jace, do you know where you are?” says Ibex softly.
He opens his eyes now, pale and watery, and the shadows beneath them are bruise-dark. Recognition sharpens his gaze. “Ibex? Wh - fuck -” he coughs again, “What are you doing here?”
Ibex speaks in a lilting cadence, soothing. “I’m here to wake you up, of course. Don’t you think you’ve slept long enough, Jace?”
Jace knocks his hand away and sits, bracing his elbows on his knees, breathing hard as if even that slight effort has him reeling with vertigo. He moves with none of the coiled energy Ibex remembers from their time together on the fleet, his limbs slow and clumsy with the lingering effects of ten years’ stasis. “Where’s Orth?”
“Occupied at present, I’m afraid. Should you wish to see him, however, I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Letting his chin fall to his chest, Jace says, rasping, “No. I don’t - I don’t want to see anyone.” And then the coughing overtakes him again. It’s a wretched, hacking cough, dry and painful, and his thin shoulders shake with it.
Ibex waits. Ibex is good at waiting.
“Help me up,” says Jace when he can get words out again, and Ibex does, taking him by the arm as he lifts his legs out of the sleep cradle, his papery bodysuit crinkling under Ibex’s fingers. His knees buckle immediately as he attempts to stand. He slides to the beige-tiled floor of the stasis cube with a grunt, half-clinging to Ibex, dragging the other man down with him, and there on the floor he stays, head bowed, trembling, panting, tears coursing down his cheeks where the freckles have long since faded. Ibex draws him close, kneeling beside him on the tiles, holding Jace’s greasy head against the breast of his impeccable maroon suit jacket, making low, comforting noises, rubbing Jace’s back in steady circles. Jace presses his face into Ibex’s chest and weeps with all his heart.
Ibex moves a hand to the back of Jace’s neck. Finds the knobs of his spine standing out sharp under the skin. He’s so fragile now, this boy, little more than a skeleton leaf clinging to a bare branch. Ibex lets Jace cry himself out, glancing at his watch over Jace’s shoulder. They’ve got time.
“You smell really good,” mumbles Jace, at length, into the front of Ibex’s jacket.
“You don’t,” says Ibex placidly, shifting Jace around so his back rests against Ibex’s front. Face still wet, breath coming in little hiccups, Jace makes no protest as Ibex produces a pocket square and dabs at him with it, mopping up sweat and tears and the crusted mucus that has gathered at the corners of his eyes since his last perfunctory cleaning at the hands of some hapless aide or other. Your fearless hero, good people of OriCon, thinks Ibex as Jace lolls against Ibex’s lapel, taking shallow, shaky breaths, staring straight ahead, slack and glazed. Even with a mostly clean face, he looks abysmal. “There’s a good boy,” Ibex says, tucking away the pocket square, and Jace scowls and says “Fuck you,” which Ibex takes as a good sign. A little of that old spark.
They get him on his feet after that, and Jace only leans a little on Ibex’s arm as the two of them make their way to Processing to retrieve Jace’s clothes and personal effects and check him out of the memory den.