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He has to wear glasses to drive.
It has been that way ever since he got his scar. (He has never told anyone the truth about how he got it. Fortunately, no one is stupid enough to ask.) His eyesight is only one of the dozens things that is wrong with his body. Here, to himself, he can admit the truth of it--though uncommonly handsome, his body is, in so many ways, broken.
His eyes are quite bad, his back a complete wreck. He tires easily, he sleeps poorly, he is prone to migraines. He inhabits a corpse and day by day it decays and disappoints him further.
His body is his weakest point. The slightest little thing could upset its hastily cobbled-together functionality, and then he would fall. He would expose his extensive list of vulnerabilities, and he is not and will never be ready to do that again.
Fortunately, his pain is an old friend and he knows how to host it. He’s been a liar since he was very young, and by now he is a master: he can drop into the world of a lie and make it his own without the merest effort. Affectation is his way of life--the stage lost a brilliant actor when fate threw to his lot the will to rule. He is his own creation, the living incarnation of the man he created for himself when he razed to the ground all that could be destroyed about his origins.
Whatever he had been born with in the way of habits or quirks he has long forgotten; if he ever had a genuine smile, he hasn’t used it in more than thirty years. He has plotted out the man he wanted to appear to be, and everything he has ever bought, everything he has ever said, all the ways he ever said it, everything down to the exact number of degrees he flicks his fingers in their smallest gestures is another careful choice that he has made to create the illusion of himself.
There are certain aspects that he cannot eliminate, though he has tried; the only thing to do is to control them, to lash them down and cover them over with bored urbanity and strengthen his mask against potential cracks. Pain, embarrassment, shame, desperation, desire--any strong feeling is a crack, and were it inspected or picked at, it would reveal him in his weakness.
He has seen himself weak before and is not foolish enough to think that he will always be able to maintain his disguise. But he has promised himself that he will never endure his weakness again. The day when he asks for mercy, for charity, for care, is the day he puts a bullet in his brain, because the only man worth being will have died when the words were pulled out of his mouth. Whatever would be left is something he would far rather kill than be forced to be.
His lies are his life, but they require maintenance. He is a one-man show, actor, writer, director, and stage manager. He is constantly polishing his lines, giving himself notes, perfecting the details, collecting props.
He has a lot of props, but he chooses them with extraordinary care. He would wear contacts lenses, but they are not an option, his near-sight sufficiently good to render them pointless. He does the second-best he can. The only prescription glasses he has have dark lenses. He wears them because everyone knows that sunglasses are purely optional--no one would ever think he wears them because he is cannot see at a distance without them. He wears them because he wants to.
He sits in his car, forcing his hands not to shake as he puts the glasses on his face. The pain is unusually bad today. His back had spasmed in the shower this morning and he’d nearly fallen. Humiliating, to be brought low by his own body. All he has managed to do today is walk to and from his car this morning, and then to the car after work. His steps are measured, his spine straight, his jaw carefully, carefully relaxed--he appeared normal, his gait easy, as if he wasn’t fighting dizzying pain with every step. He lounged in his chair during class, lecturing from there and pretending that he was too willfully lazy to get up and bother pacing. “Won’t” suits him so much more than “can’t,” but he knows he would prefer “could” if anything was able to affect that change.
Almost as bad as the pain itself is the mystery of its origin. Half a dozen specialists have yielded nothing of value--there is hesitant talk of scoliosis, but no one seems to really believe that. It is unknown, and that essentially boils down to simply another way his body has betrayed him. Merely another obstacle between him and the attainment of his will; albeit the worst obstacle, far more difficult to work around than even the hatred of his family is.
As far as he knows, he is the first in his family to experience this. But then again, he is so different from them, imaginative where they are dull, subtle where they are blatant, careful where they are thoughtless. His superiority in all things mental comes at its price, of course. He has always been weaker than the other men of his family, the shorter, the slimmer, the more-easily wounded.
The price of his gifts fluctuates from day to day. When it all hangs together, when the pain is only the smallest little hum that reminds him that he is still alive, he laughs at the concept of betraying his greatest asset for mere physical comfort. Some days, however, he regrets the genetic sacrifice that put a brilliant mind and a heart full of willpower into a wretched body.
This is one of those days. On days like this, when pain clouds his reason, he would give, oh, half his mind for a spine that worked without trouble. It is his cross to bear, he supposes...after all, nature was really rather kinder to him than his brother. That marvelous body, and such a worm to inhabit it.
Sad, really. Then again, when it came to Mufasa, what nature withheld, luck had provided. His brother did always have the upper hand on the uncontrollable parts of life. Beauty, strength, and charisma will hide such a multiplicity of sins...
He fantasizes about the day when that luck runs out. He enjoys his little daydreams about killing his brother, about taking back by force what he lost through no fault of his own. As yet, they are nothing more than idle imaginings, but if ever the day might come that he will stand to gain from Mufasa’s death...he has a long list of options. It seems appropriate, doesn’t it? He has promised himself that, if he cannot have his full birthright, which includes the legitimacy and (yes, another weakness, to long for this) love that he deserves through kinship, he will at least enjoy the trappings of his family’s position. He was disowned, declared dead to the family, and that death yielded his rights to his brother. It would be suitable, that the death of his brother would someday return those trappings to their rightful owner.
His brother pities him for his loss. Scar hates him for it, though he isn’t sure that he’d hate him any less if Mufasa had simply ignored his continued existence like the high-and-mighty flawless bastard he is. Happily, Mufasa is incapable of taking his brother’s misfortune as his own good gain, and persists in feeling guilty.
Someday that tenderness may yield some ‘good faith showing’ that will provide the motive Scar lacks. At the moment, he has no interest in killing his brother, besides petty emotion. He’s not willing to let his feelings determine his actions and get the better of him.
He’s not willing to let pain get the better of him, either.
Scar sits in his car, his throat constricting around his breath as his back spasms. It renders him temporarily helpless, and in the privacy of his car he lets himself grimace. A gross indulgence--but it has been such a long day, and if he doesn’t allow it to become a habit, he cannot feel too much annoyance with himself.
A cane would make his life so much easier, but while he can move the little distance he must without crawling, he will not show himself to be affected.
He is fairly sure that no one knows. He is very good at watching people and reading their thoughts from their faces. Certainly none of his students have a clue, but the faculty is another matter. For now, he has control, not only of his appearance, but their perception of him. He knows who he is; they can only see what he shows them.
That control is so easy to acquire, if it is done right, but once lost, it is nearly impossible to regain. He will never, ever lose his footing again.
Fortunately, they do not look. What would they do if they saw? Honestly, he doesn’t know. In all likelihood it would be no more than smirks and superior looks, but he will not have even that. He is no less than they are--perhaps it is even the case that they are the ones who are inferior--and he will not bear the gleeful contempt of his decrepitude. He will not endure it from them, though he knows that he does quite the same thing. He looks for the weakness, the chink in the armor, the lever he can use to push another tumbling over the edge of their own inadequacies. The veneer of civilization painted on all of them is so very thin, and they pretend to believe in it for appearance’s, or humor’s, sake. They are all sharks, swimming together and waiting for someone to bleed.
They’ll gorge themselves on a fellow. It’s their nature.
As it happens, he rather suspects that his colleagues are indeed fools. They look for the obvious weaknesses, the vices and dirty little secrets. He has checkmated them there. He is shameless in his sins, and therefore he has no dirty little secrets. He only does what contributes to his act, and so nothing needs to be hidden. He hides his physical weakness and they do not see--no one sees--that he is helpless.
Shere Khan is very nearly an exception because of their unfortunate closeness, but he is certain that the man does not know for sure. Shere Khan must suspect--how could he not, when they are so physically close so often?--but then, Shere Khan suspects everything. Scar trusts no one, but it’s almost difficult to keep his walls up around Shere Khan. They are so very alike, and they communicate so well. Shere Khan is the closest thing to a friend he will ever allow himself to have, and sometimes maintaining that distance is harder than it should be. Keeping the man at arm’s length and reminding himself that on occasion he does in fact hate Shere Khan helps.
Part of the difficulty with the man is that Scar doesn’t know what Shere Khan is after. If he knew that, he would know everything he needs to know about the man. He has a few ideas, but they are pale, ordinary, and terribly obvious. The man wants control, though not necessarily power. He wants to possess things, though he is not greedy--he is interested in ownership, of fine things and weak, slightly useful people. He will have his way, and he will not adjust that way to allow for the needs of others. Often, he wants sex.
Perhaps he too is a liar. It would not surprise him if he and Shere Khan shared that similarity. Scar does not relish the idea of another person knowing his desires, so he would hardly be surprised to learn that a man with whom he shares so many traits would be no more keen.
He starts the car. Driving home will be its own torture, with all of the full-body motions necessary to the completion of the task. He takes a slow breath, beating back the pain with fresh oxygen, and winces behind his glasses as he forces his arms to move and shift the gears.
Out of the passenger window he sees a familiar figure. Oh, damn it.
He rolls down the window, looking over the glasses at his companion. “Well?”
“My, my, rather feisty,” Shere Khan replies, lightly plucking up the lock and opening the door. “I had been intending to throw myself on your charity for a ride, but perhaps I ought to let you be.”
Letting him be would be an act of divine mercy. He is running on fumes, and there is no guarantee that his body will leave him the dignity of walking into his home without leaning on walls and rails.
“And what, exactly, is wrong with your car?” Scar asks, as Shere Khan invites himself in.
“Nothing in particular,” he murmurs, visibly relaxing. Oh, to be able to relax. The lucky bastard. “I confess a rather deep and unyielding boredom that I suspect you might yet be able to relieve.”
“I would be delighted to serve,” Scar drawls. “Unfortunately, I am afraid I am rather busy--”
“Oh, pray do not let me interrupt,” Shere Khan murmurs. “Only you’ve been sitting in the parking lot for ten minutes and I rather assumed that you were unoccupied.”
Damn it to hell. He is usually much more on top of everything.
“I shall deposit you at your home then, shall I?” he inquires, lifting his eyebrows. He shifts a little and forces himself not to tighten his jaw as his back screams against the motions of his limbs. The pain shrieks up his spine and infects his brain, and for a moment he almost reacts to the sudden, murderous headache that wracks his skull.
But he has no time for pain, no time for weakness. He is performing now, he must maintain his role.
“Oh, I think I’ll just tag along with you,” Shere Khan replies. There is something of the sadistic in his smirk, and for an instant Scar half-believes that he completely misread the man and that he knows.
Reason asserts itself. His headache is getting to him, he realizes, and he forces his way through the pain to consider this. Shere Khan is coming onto him, nothing more--that’s the way the man smirks when he’s hungry. He’s seen that smirk a thousand times or so. It’s nothing he hasn’t known before.
“Not to disappoint, but I sincerely doubt that I shall have time to properly enjoy your company.” It can’t end well, saying that he doesn’t want Shere Khan, even if only for the moment. It’s the first time Scar has turned him down, and neither man likes to hear ‘no.’ He has no doubt that Shere Khan will take it with grace and artfully-imitated understanding, but he is a fool to think that he will not pay for the insult.
He’ll take the chance. All that matters right now is getting home and resting his back.
“Ah, yes, that incredibly urgent business you claim to have. I shouldn’t like to intrude, naturally.” Shere Khan smiles again, his expression icy. He opens the door and places one foot out. “I’ll leave you to your affairs. Do enjoy your evening.”
“And you, yours.” He can only barely play their little game today. Talking to this man is one of his chief frustrations, certainly, but it is also one of his chief pleasures. He does not have enough of his mind on his mouth to play adequately. It sends a spike of something alarmingly like misery through him, to be incapable of rising to the occasion for the only person he has even the faint shadow of respect for.
He squelches that feeling. Such concerns are repulsive, infantile, and deeply, deeply pathetic.
Shere Khan gets out of his car and makes an incredibly sarcastic little bow as he closes the door. Scar rolls his eyes and, pretending he is fine, peels out of the parking lot.
--
There is no one around to see him, once the garage door closes, but he is humiliated nevertheless by the way he gets out of his car. Panting like a mutt, he clings with a despairing grip to the door of his car, pulling himself out with a small noise rather like a muffled groan. Once upright, he leans with his arms on the roof of the car, trying to breathe and focus.
Pathetic. Pathetic, pathetic. He hates this body, hates how it seems to hate him. He has grown used to the betrayal of others, and it is hard to feel anything anymore no matter who turns his or her back on him--but his own body’s treason is harder to get used to.
He forces the door shut and leans heavily on the car, all but throwing himself against the wall of the garage to keep his body upright as he takes step after shaky step. The sofa. If he can just get through to something he can sleep on, he can drown out everything else.
He wants to just collapse, right here on the cement floor, let the cool concrete numb his body. But he is half-afraid that if he lies down here, he will not be able to get up. At least on the sofa he will be within distance of a telephone, not that he would use it.
He trudges on, sensing in his bones the illimitable space between him and his goal and feeling as if he has never been forced on a longer walk.
He fumbles--this is what he is reduced to, the man of the perfect prestidigitation, the graceful, the ever-intentional: fumbling--with the doorknob that leads into his kitchen. Eventually, he gets it open, and takes a circuitous route around the room, leaning on the counters. Step after step, trying to feed oxygen to his aching cells, his body weakening too fast, too terribly, when he is so, so close.
Damn it. Damn it. He needs to rest. It’s been bad but it’s getting worse, impossibly worse, and he is going to very soon be rendered completely--
There is someone in his living room. He can hear the person’s breathing, the faint rustle of motion.
The private face of the man he has made for himself fades and the public face comes on. He stands as straight as he can, his headache pounding at the base of his skull as his back protests in fury. He hasn’t got a weapon on him, not that he could do much with anything less than a fire arm at the moment.
He’ll have to rely on his brain. Too bad it’s clouded with agony.
He keeps a hand on the door frame in a casual manner, artful body language dismissing the notion that it is all that keeps him standing. He stares into the room.
Shere Khan flicks down the newspaper with a smile.
“I see the notion of private property is not one you credit,” Scar says dryly. The dirty whoreson is sitting on his sofa. Scar needs that sofa, immediately.
“Are you aware that ten minutes have elapsed between your car's engine turning off and your arrival into this room?” Shere Khan asks mildly. “I cannot imagine what you have been up to.”
“I do not recall giving you a key.” He does not, because he never would. Shere Khan is breaking and entering, in all likelihood.
“Don’t linger in doorways, it’s rude,” Shere Khan smirks. “What on earth would Emily Post say? Come along and sit down and we’ll have a little chat.”
Scar stiffens, giving him a haughty stare, and immediately regrets the motion as his back punishes him. Shere Khan’s smirk becomes a grin.
He saw it.
“Oh, now this is really too delicious, you realize,” he purrs. Scar longs for a pistol. First he would shoot Shere Khan in the stomach and let him malinger, and then when he was dead, he’d shoot himself in the head. Shere Khan stands up and, with the easy, catlike grace Scar so painstakingly pretends to possess, rounds the coffee table and approaches him. “Poor dear creature. You’ve done marvelously to hide it, I daresay...”
“Do not touch me,” Scar growls. He’s in pain, but he’s a damn good liar. He must maintain control, he must tip this balance back before it is hopelessly lost--
Shere Khan takes him by the wrist and loops the arm around his broad shoulders, one of the other man’s arms sliding around Scar’s waist. He puts up as much of a struggle as he can, which earns him a condescending grin. He is dragged over to the sofa, completely supported by Shere Khan although he hisses at him and, contrary to all that he prides himself on in the way of good breeding, rains down on him the filthiest insults he can imagine. When he runs out of English swears, he drops out of his carefully-cultivated British accent and falls back into his native Swahili, calling Shere Khan all the vilest things he can think of.
“I was under the impression that you were too busy for me,” Shere Khan smirks, thoroughly enjoying this. “I entreat you, don’t get me all excited with dirty talk if you’re going to turn me away later.”
He tries to pull away. It doesn’t do any good. His body has relented and his legs will not obey him.
His body is a coward and a traitor, desperate for whatever it can get no matter what it must do or how it must humble itself, unconcerned by the way it drags his mind in with it. It’s one of the reasons they don’t get along.
Shere Khan sets him down on the sofa and lays him out, nearly grinning in amusement. Scar’s body delights in its temporary relief, and he is unable to stop his muscles from relaxing, although he knows that he is vulnerable and must be on his guard. His body has ceased to attend him. “My dear boy...all that elegance and grace. And this is really all you amount to, isn’t it? You put up a rather good fight, I’ll certainly give you that.”
Scar is silent. He will not make excuses for what he cannot control. He knows that there is no such thing as a reason for this: there is either succeeding or failing. He has failed, and asserting that it is not his fault, that he cannot control it will only make him even more despicable. It is his fault. He is strong everywhere else and he should be able to work around his body.
“My, my, I certainly never would’ve suspected. All those time I’ve seen you behaving in a nigh-acrobatic fashion...I’m quite impressed, my dear, you don’t let on at all, do you?”
“It is not a constant problem,” he says tightly. It isn’t. All the times he’s gone to bed with Shere Khan, his back has been cooperative. He could never sleep with the man like this, least of all because anything like arousal is impossible when he is in this much pain.
“What is it, Scar? The legs? The back? I’ve seen my fair share of spinal injuries in India; I know a bit about this sort of thing.” He’s all mocking concern and attention, and Scar hates him so much.
“My spine,” he admits grudgingly. “No one knows what is wrong.”
“Oh, a mystery, of course. You don’t really fancy anything straightforward, it’s true...” The kettle whistles from the kitchen. “Ah, at last. I’m amazed you didn’t know I was here the instant you walked in from the garage. You really must be off your game--not noticing an open flame in your own kitchen? I should imagine you would be dead if I weren’t here to key an eye on you.”
Shere Khan leaves him on the sofa, and Scar would drag himself upstairs and behind the locked door of his bedroom if he thought he could do it fast enough. His body is an outright enemy now. It will lay here and await whatever may come upon it.
He didn’t notice the kettle. Idiot. Nitwit. Weakling. The sudden self-hatred is unexpectedly potent and he shoves it back down as hard as he can.
Shere Khan comes back, carrying a tea tray. Scar would gladly murder this man to take his tea. Shere Khan gives him another smirk and pours two cups, making one the way Scar likes it and placing it closer to him on the coffee table.
He hopes the man laced it with arsenic, because there is no way he’s ever living this down. He’d rather get it over with now.
“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself,” says Shere Khan, grinning a bit. Scar’s legs only made it halfway up onto the sofa, and Shere Khan sits, posture perfect, on the remaining cushion. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can control. After all, it’s an unknown malady. No one could expect you to be master of it.”
That is such a complete crock. Scar stares coldly at him, discreetly moving his fingers to check whether or not he will humiliate himself in collecting his tea.
His hands are twitching too hard. He imagines the tea cup rattling on the saucer as if some doddering old man is trying feebly to drink it. He will not drink it, although merely looking at it is enough to torture him with want. He has exposed far too much of himself to this man--he will not invite new mortification.
Shere Khan sips his tea. “Mm, bracing.”
He sneers. “When you are quite finished with your unseemly little giggle-fit, do be so kind as to see yourself out, won’t you?”
Shere Khan lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, I have no intention of doing that, my dear boy, none at all. It’s quite clear to me that you cannot possibly take care of yourself in this state. Won’t I be embarrassed if I should visit you days from now and find that you had starved? It wouldn’t take long by the looks of things and I make bold to say that it would be rather undignified of you.”
An almost epileptic fury bursts inside Scar’s chest, and he fights the agony of his newly-awoken back to shout. “I can take care of myself, you infantile bloody jackanapes! I have done it before and will do it again and you are to leave my house immediately!”
“And how shall you enforce that?” Shere Khan inquires. Contrary to his hopes, his outburst just makes Shere Khan smile. He admits that shouting from a supine position is not the most intimidating display he’s ever performed, but he’d hoped that whatever passed as respect between them would entitle him to the privacy to suffer in solitude.
He can’t really do more than make noises and expressions of inarticulate rage, but he is beyond that. Instead, he shuts it all down into a cold, furious glare, and does not otherwise respond.
“I didn’t think so,” Shere Khan smirks. “So very sensitive, my dear boy...I’m sure the best defense is a good offense, but you have to be able to offend a bit to keep that true.”
Scar is silent.
“Come now. Don’t pout, it’s unbecoming. I anticipate a quiet night in and this shall be far pleasanter if you do not persist in being resentful.”
“If you do not appreciate my attitude, you may leave,” Scar says.
“I shall not, thank you.” Shere Khan sets his tea down and collects Scar’s, placing it on his chest. His hands must come up to steady the thing, and he tense desperately, trying to refrain from shaking. With both hands on it, it only quivers slightly, and he takes advantage of the moment to have a drink.
He will not feel gratitude for that.
“As I have already said, I simply shudder at the idea of you quite alone here. Someone’s got to look after you. I might as well do it, if I don’t want you dead.”
He swallows his tea and lifts his eyebrows, sneering. “You don’t want me dead? That’s so touching,” he drawls. “Can you be telling me that I am adored?”
Shere Khan’s own eyebrows bounce up and he looks down at Scar wordlessly. There is a pause tellingly long enough to wilt the coldly contemptuous look on Scar’s face, and he is at a loss. The man can’t be serious. It’s a joke, it has to be, because if it isn’t, it’s weakness, and Scar is obliged to exploit that weakness without mercy.
Shere Khan shrugs placidly, a smile returning as he sips his tea. “I suppose this is the evening for airing all of our little unmasterable deficiencies, isn’t it?”
He is used to reading Shere Khan’s sentences the way a jeweler reads an uncut jewel: picking it up, checking for marks or telling cracks, testing the tone, imagining what is within the stone that can be brought out, seeing its final, more perfect form thorough its obscuring excessive bulk.
He cannot read these words. He has the horrible suspicion that they say exactly what he thinks they say, but that cannot be. They say something he never wanted, that he is not prepared to deal with.
He is cut to the quick. It had been easy, it had been meaningless. It had been perfect. It had been about appetite--he’d craved the man, in and out of his bed, for surely his company was the only one that Scar actively sought out. This is a new one on him, a twist he had not been prepared for. He’s quite familiar with the sudden reveal, the unhappy but expected truth that he was hated, that someone had attempted to make use of him, that he’d been lied to about having any value. He knows that betrayal and he’s become very good at shutting those types of traitors down before they make a move.
He has never been betrayed like this, faced with someone turning coat to reveal that they actually are fond of him. That all the little jabs and hateful things they say to each other are part of a flirtatious, entertaining little game, and not an expression of real feeling.
“Take a breath, my boy, unless you fancy a panic attack on top of your spinal difficulties,” Shere Khan says, rolling his eyes. Aside from that little pause at the beginning, he acts perfectly natural, as if what he’s just said isn’t one of the most horrible and horribly lovely things he could say.
He can go mad over this later. He’s still acting, clinging to what few shreds of illusion he can muster.
“I believe you have bet on the wrong pony in this one,” Scar replies, collecting himself. To be perfectly honest, he expected Shere Khan to have better sense than to feel anything like affection for him. While he’s the first to say that he’s brilliant, he’s exceptional, he’s ruggedly handsome, he’s well worth the loving, he’s also got first-hand evidence that he is not all that he is cracked up to be. And now, of all moments to say something like this, when he’s practically an invalid...
Shere Khan should and could do better, if he wanted to adore anyone at all. If anyone, he should adore himself.
That’s what Scar’s working on, anyway.
“Don’t I know it.” Shere Khan looks him up and down, giving him a little sneer. “You certainly don’t seem to be the type to run at all, much less well. But I have a fondness for underdogs.”
Scar growls under his breath. Bastard.
“And don’t get all excited, you silly creature,” he adds, smirking. “I’m not about to do anything mad because of it. I’m terribly fond of you but to be perfectly frank I find that you cause me to entertain more than a few daydreams of using your skin as a throw rug so that I can take you out now and then and beat you. I happen to find that your company is generally amusing, if not charming, and that you are acceptable in bed.”
He almost misses the last sentence in the overwhelming relief he feels. Good. It isn’t love, it isn’t tedious emotion, it isn’t anything but convenience and companionship. Good. He doesn’t want more than that; that alone suits them fine. He can have a modicum of respect for the man again, he can enjoy him, now that he knows he isn’t a sap and a fool.
Then the last sentence catches up. “I am brilliant in bed,” Scar replies, giving him a supercilious look. He will not have this disputed. Shere Khan makes a see-saw motion with his hand. “I’ve made you scream. I made you pass out once, as you well recall.”
“I thought we agreed never to discuss that,” Shere Khan murmurs into his teacup.
“I’m going to discuss it now, if you’re going to talk about using me as a throw rug.”
“Shall I bring up this little episode at the next faculty meeting? See if I can get you a bit of invalid leave?”
“I will destroy you so thoroughly that no one will ever even find the smear you’ll leave,” Scar promises darkly.
“Right then. You don’t talk about what embarrasses me, I shall not talk about what embarrasses you. Do we have an accord?”
“Yes. Now I’m afraid that I shall be rather indisposed for the rest of the evening, so if you don’t mind simply--”
“I do. Regrettably, all of my business for the evening is here, and I shall have to remain.” Shere Khan smiles, and Scar reads the meaning of that smile as ‘we can do this the easy way or the hard way.’
Scar chooses the hard way. He’ll manage to force the man out of his house if he has to die in the attempt. He scowls and tries to move his legs. It doesn’t go well, for despite the interest his mind had taken in the conversation, his back is still completely out of the game. His muscles seize up and surprise him, and he only barely holds back the shocked noise of pain.
A hand alights on his knee. “Easy, my dear,” Shere Khan cautions, as if it needs saying. “I strongly advise you to cease struggling and, in the vernacular of our students, ‘lump it.’”
“I despise you.”
“The feeling is more than mutual. Stop twitching.”
“I would if I could.”
“Oh, a confession of inability? My dearest, you’re opening up. Such a pleasure to see.”
“I should tear you limb from limb for this--”
“You and every big-game animal on the sub-continent. I invite you to take a number.”
He cannot throw Shere Khan out. Surrender becomes an acceptable option when he struggles himself into a gasp-inducing fit of blinding agony and Shere Khan sits there, watching and smirking.
He yields.
Eventually it shakes out that they order a Chinese and find a copy of Hamlet to watch. After a while, they forget Scar’s back and take to relaxing on the sofa as if they never intended to do anything else. The evening devolves into a long conversation on the political troubles plaguing the kingdom of Denmark--though they pause to laugh a little at the death of Polonius--and how they would improve upon Claudius’ ham-handed behavior. This leads to a great deal of talk about their coworkers and all the more unkindly bits of gossip they’ve acquired.
Later, when night falls and the film ends, they fall silent and simply sit. Somewhere in that time, Scar loses consciousness.
The next morning, he finds himself rising from sleep alone on the sofa. He tests his limbs. Painful, a little, but responsive and so much better than yesterday that he’d have clicked his heels together, if he’d been a demonstrative sort of man. He can stand on his own two feet and retain his balance, and as he paces, the pain recedes to a dull ache in his lower back.
What bliss.
On the way to a shower, he passes his bedroom and spots Shere Khan sitting up in his bed, shirtless, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. He has his reading glasses perched on his nose, and for an instant Scar wonders how he can bear to expose his poor eyesight like that.
“Well, do make yourself comfortable,” Scar drawls, finally taking off his rumpled tie and suit coat and reveling in the experience of moving his limbs without pain.
“With what little luxury you have to offer, I assure you that I already have,” Shere Khan replies. He glances up at Scar with a little smile. “You’re looking rather better. I trust you have bucked it?”
“For the nonce,” Scar agrees. He strips out of his shirt. “Get out of bed when you decide that you can bear to face another day. No rush," he drawls, smirking as Shere Khan gives him a bit of a leer over the rims of those reading glasses.
He walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, and sets about recreating the man he is supposed to be.
If he is full of extra vitality for the rest of the week, no one seems to notice. He thinks about it a bit and eventually decides that he can bear being adored.
At least he’ll have someone to hate other people with.
It’s the little things that make one happy, after all.