#(ALSO ILU FRIEND I AM HERE WAITING PATIEMTLY FOR YOU ♥)

[barebcnes]

@paramounticebound asked: ‘ numbers do not lie. politics and poetry, promises, these are lies. numbers are as close as we get to the handwriting of god. ‘

How poetic. Yet, Leonard has long since learned that Khan tends to be exactly that - poetic, in one way or another. It makes sense; His whole existence is poetic if one were to look at it from a different perspective, and so are his chosen words from time to time.

It's funny, considering the other has just said that poetry is a lie, yet here he is, exchanging words with McCoy who almost feels a bit amused by the contradiction - and the intense sincerety Khan speaks with, as if he's ttrying to carve the word of god into slates made of pure marble.

Yet he's right with what he's said: Numbers are solid, the conclusion of many what-if's, while promises and poetry oftentimes consists of wishes, but not of fait accompli. However, it does not mean that every bit of poetry and every single spoken promise is made of lies; Perhaps, to Khan, it feels like such, considering his past and what he's gone through.

And to be honest? God, Leonard can relate. In more than just one way. While his past is disctintively different - thank fucking Jesus, Maria and Joseph - he's gone through his own fair share of promises that turned out to be false, and words of poetry that have been written onto his skin without ever having been truly meant.

It's disappointing, sad even, and that's why Leonard does not chuckle, nor allows a smirk to play along his lips from the short-lived amusement that had briefly existed within him. He merely hums a low, thoughtful tone from somewhere inside his chest; His nimble, warmed up fingers continue to press into Khan's neck, the spot where a strong jaw attaches to an equally as strong muscle, feeling for lymphatic glands during what is a routine check-up necessary for someone who's been frozen twice.

Khan, however, is here. That's almost a miracle in itself - awoken from another slumber made of the freezing cold, alive, breathing. 300 years old.

"---Seventy-two.", is what the doctor says then, after a few seconds of silence have passed between them. He inhales, then exhales, fingers applying a bit more pressure as he finds what he's searching for, deeming the shape and size of the glands perfectly normal.

"And you. Seventy-three."

Only then a pair of hazel eyes flicks up, away from a neck that should have no right to be this long, slender and durable at the same time; His gaze meets Khan's own, lingers, accompanied by a hint of a bittersweet, lopsided smile.

"It's a number. And it's a truth. You're all here, you're all alive. It might not change what has happened in the past, but... I tend to keep my promises."

The promise of not letting another soul die under his attention. No matter what's going to happen in the near future, these people are, well, exactly that: People. Leonard is a doctor. He swore to cause no harm - and he won't.

"...Okay?"