It's a quiet walk home, even if conversations are attempted, because it seems like there's really no topic that can penetrate Jefferson's internal monologue of self loathing. He isn't a good father, nor is he any sort of person worth knowing as a friend or lover, and if he had to pick a word that summed him up in his entirety, he'd probably have to go with pathetic. Or cowardly. Or weak. All right, so it's hard to pick just one, and at first, his chat with himself-- his let's just be honest with ourselves: you're worthless moment of truth-- pushes him headfirst into despair so overwhelming that he can feel his eyes burn and prick with tears he tries to hold back as they trek home.
Funny how one innocent conversation about his daughter can unleash every monster that had been gnawing away at his mind for decades. He has no illusions of having ever been a brave or strong man, but he used to be more than this. He used to be witty and charming and clever, outspoken, funny, reckless, exciting, but loss started to chip away at that man. Losing Priscilla, then Grace, then his head, and then his own mind took care of the rest, and now he's this-- this-- this.
How did he ever think he could hide in the little life he's built here, as if he had any right to?
Once they're home and Eliot maneuvers him to the couch, Jefferson really does want nothing more than to do what he proposes. Cuddle and get lost in him, the way he feels, that soothing voice and now-familiar scent of him. But that's just... peace and comfort that he doesn't deserve. If he allows himself to have it, he'll continue to hide here, in this town, instead of doing what he must.
He shoots Eliot a reassuring smile, which is fake, though the fondness in his expression is all real. "You're sweet," he says, a hint of curiosity in his voice, because he's still surprised by sweetness in general after all those miserable decades of Wonderland and curses. "But I'll be okay. The last thing I should do right now is wallow."
That's what he declares as he gets to his feet, moving with purpose until he's in the study. Shortly after moving in, he set up a worktable there, with everything he needed for sewing and tailoring and hatmaking, materials and equipment collected over the months spent in Wayward Pines. He hadn't made an earnest attempt at building a portal hat since his arrival (reasoning, before he even gave it a shot here, that it wouldn't work, that he'd drive himself mad trying to get it to work), and that was such a foolish decision he could almost laugh. This land isn't Storybrooke, and it isn't Wonderland. There's magic here, different from any he's seen before, and that changes things.
He'll get it right this time. Make a hat, get it to work.
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Funny how one innocent conversation about his daughter can unleash every monster that had been gnawing away at his mind for decades. He has no illusions of having ever been a brave or strong man, but he used to be more than this. He used to be witty and charming and clever, outspoken, funny, reckless, exciting, but loss started to chip away at that man. Losing Priscilla, then Grace, then his head, and then his own mind took care of the rest, and now he's this-- this-- this.
How did he ever think he could hide in the little life he's built here, as if he had any right to?
Once they're home and Eliot maneuvers him to the couch, Jefferson really does want nothing more than to do what he proposes. Cuddle and get lost in him, the way he feels, that soothing voice and now-familiar scent of him. But that's just... peace and comfort that he doesn't deserve. If he allows himself to have it, he'll continue to hide here, in this town, instead of doing what he must.
He shoots Eliot a reassuring smile, which is fake, though the fondness in his expression is all real. "You're sweet," he says, a hint of curiosity in his voice, because he's still surprised by sweetness in general after all those miserable decades of Wonderland and curses. "But I'll be okay. The last thing I should do right now is wallow."
That's what he declares as he gets to his feet, moving with purpose until he's in the study. Shortly after moving in, he set up a worktable there, with everything he needed for sewing and tailoring and hatmaking, materials and equipment collected over the months spent in Wayward Pines. He hadn't made an earnest attempt at building a portal hat since his arrival (reasoning, before he even gave it a shot here, that it wouldn't work, that he'd drive himself mad trying to get it to work), and that was such a foolish decision he could almost laugh. This land isn't Storybrooke, and it isn't Wonderland. There's magic here, different from any he's seen before, and that changes things.
He'll get it right this time. Make a hat, get it to work.