IC: CONTACT (THE PINES)

[royalpassport]

❝ This is Jefferson. If I don't pick up, it's probably because I don't want to talk to you. ❞

[ Voice | Action | Passive Aggressive Post-It Notes | Message Board Texts ]

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March 15 | voice

[comic_relief]

<sub>[It takes a while for him to suss out the right number, and even longer for him to find a quiet moment alone in the house to figure out how to use the phone system. It's not the same as teknology in Rubrum--and it's because Jack can now tease apart the differences between Wayward Pines and home that he's doing this at all.

Anything that can bring him closer to home feels worth doing, however small.

So he dials. After a mildly confusing conversation with the person manning the motel's front desk ("I'm looking for that dude who runs the tea shop" isn't as helpful a descriptor as a name or an exact room number, funnily enough), he's directed to a room. Ring ring, phone call for you!]</sub>

Hey there. Is this the guy who runs Go Ask Alice? Jefferson. Jefferson's who I'm looking for.

[royalpassport]

[ There's a bit of a pause before he responds, mainly because Jefferson isn't used to getting calls here at his motel room. After letting the silence stretch for perhaps a bit too long, he answers, voice cautious: ]

This is Jefferson.

[comic_relief]

<sub>[No one's saying anything... Hello? Should he say hello? What's the protocol for talking to strange civilians in a strange town when you have equally strange questions in mind?

--Oh, there we go. Someone's talking! And it's the same voice he remembers from his misguided visit to Jefferson's business, which reassures Jack he's got the right guy.]</sub>

Oh good, it's you! Hey, hi. Yeah, so I was hoping to talk to you.

_{[Duh, Jack, that's why you're making a phone call.]}

This is Jack. Maybe you remember me: blond, blue-eyed, gets into staring contests with menus? If you have a minute, I need to ask you something.

[royalpassport]

[ It's a good thing Jack can't see the totally dubious look on Jefferson's face right now. He's just sitting on the edge of the bed, on the ugly, scratchy, floral-printed comforter. Who ever wants to talk to Jefferson-- at least, besides the very small handful of people he can call his acquaintances. And he has to assume this has nothing to do with his shop, since he's being called at the motel.

So... ]

You're not selling something, are you?

[comic_relief]

<sub>[Dubiousness is perhaps the reasonable response to the amount of peppy good cheer coming through the phone right now. Jack laughs in a "fair question but I'm going to treat it like a joke and laugh anyway" manner.

If he was selling something, at least he might be making money which he apparently needs to feed himself here. He's never worked to support himself in his life--not in the conventional sense. He remembers the all-expenses-paid ease of a military allowance with fond longing.]</sub>

No, no, I'm trying to give away money if I can. _{[It's a near thing, but he stops himself before he substitutes the more commonly used "gil" instead. He doubts the phone line is all that secure.]} It might sound weird, but I need to get a uniform fixed up. It's seen better days, kind of torn up and stuff. I thought maybe you'd know someone who could do that.

[royalpassport]

[ Give money away? All right, that seems to warm him up to this conversation already. Almost like Jefferson used to be a pretty mercenary individual, in another life... ]

Ah. You thought I might know a tailor.

[ Is it really so unreasonable an assumption, considering it's correct? In a manner of speaking, anyway. ]

I do my own tailoring. How much mending does the uniform need?

[sheriffing]

your shop should have hot chocolate all year round.

[actual conversation starter.]

[royalpassport]

[ ....siiiigh. ]

I'm not at work. Why am I getting a message about this now?

[ EMMA, HE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK SHOP WHEN HE'S AT HOME. ]

[sheriffing]

Because when you're at work, you don't listen.

[ YOU DO THIS TO HER ON PURPOSE, JEFFERSON.]

[royalpassport]

So you're using the computer to make me your captive audience? I knew there was a reason I didn't like these things...

[sheriffing]

You're still listening.

[royalpassport]

Why don't you just order the tea? It's a TEA shop, after all.

May 21st / Night / ACTION

[onteamdyson]

[Kenzi makes a B-line directly to Jefferson's room, eyes red and puffy from crying, still mildly covered in streaks of Matt's blood. She just barely knocks before opening his door and staring at him, looking more vulnerable than she's ever been with anyone since she got here.]

Jeff-- Can we-- ... I need to get out of here. Can we go somewhere? I don't wanna be alone.

[Her voice cracks at the end of that sentence. She's not wearing her wedding ring.]

[royalpassport]

[ Luckily, Jefferson wasn't even asleep. He's been up fretting over the tracker that may or may not be in his leg. And though he had no idea of any conflict between his other housemates, the sight of Kenzi has him immediately bolting out of the bed so that he can pull her into the room protectively. ]

What happened? Are you-- [ He doesn't finish the sentence before he's got both hands on her shoulders, looking her over for any sign of injury. ]

[onteamdyson]

I'm fine. [So fine that she's choking back a sob as she says the words. It's getting harder and harder to lie about her current state of being. She can't keep shoving everything under the rug and ignoring it.]

It's over. The ... marriage, the relationship, whatever the fuck it was, it's over now. He's not who I thought he was. I just-- ... I can't be here right now and I could really use a drink.

[Or ten. Maybe twenty? Probably twenty. She wipes at her eyes, feeling stupid for looking like such a mess in front of Jefferson. He's the most put together person she knows! Even during his breakdowns he looks flawless. Kenzi just looks like Alice Cooper with a serious case of hay fever.]

[royalpassport]

[ He casts a quick look out the door, into the hall, then shuts the door and locks it. At least the bedside lamp is on, so the room's not in total darkness. Ushering Kenzi to the bed, Jefferson sits down beside her, an arm looped around her small shoulders as he holds her close. ]

We'll go. [ Not even any hesitation there. He doesn't know what happened, but to see her shaken like this, there's no way Jefferson would keep her in this house. ] Did he hurt you?

[ Jefferson may normally be put together, but right now he's just wearing... his underwear. (Look, he was feeling his legs up for a tracker.) He'll have to at least grab some clothes and a scarf if they're going anywhere. But first, he wants to be certain she's okay. ]

[onteamdyson]

[It's not like she hasn't seen him in his underwear before! They live together. Oh god, where is she gonna stay after this? She sinks onto the bed feeling numb, leaning heavily against Jefferson when he sits next to her.]

No. No, he didn't hurt me. [At least not physically.] Blood's not mine. It's Matt's. He-- [She exhales shakily, arms circling around his waist.] He sliced up his leg and I was patching him up. That's not the reason, by the way. I didn't cheat or anything.

LATER, THAT VERY SAME NIGHT

[sybaritic]

Don't tell anyone this, but Eliot actually likes working at Weaver's enough that he might have stayed past close to help Lantar put various things back in order. That and ...grab a bottle of something that looks interesting. He has no intention of drinking it, he's going to use it to cook with. So it's almost 4 AM when he gets back to the house and ambles, in a freakishly tall way, into the living room, where--huh. That sure is a dildo on the coffee table. He's not sure what he expected from having house guests, but at the very least it looks like it's going to be interesting.

Oh, plus there was Jefferson's screaming on the phone. Was this the dildo in question, he wonders? Have there been multiple dildos out and about? Is he going to find them in his shoes, like cats often stash their toys when they like you?

...anyway. Since he's in his own damn house, he doesn't bother poking around to see who else might be inhabiting it, just flops down on the couch and puts the backs of his heels up on the table, right next to the dildo. "Fancy meeting you here," he ....greets it .........aloud.

[onteamdyson]

The sounds of a large, lanky, elf-man that lives in the clouds, towering above all others is what rouses Kenzi from her shallow sleep. Jefferson is... somewhere. Oh no, she's misplaced her Jefferson. It's fine probably, she's very drunk. Was... very drunk. Is slightly less drunk now? It's hard to tell. All she knows is that there were many shots, this is not her house, and she's incredibly on edge. Like, ridiculously anxious. No, scared. Why?

............... Right. The whole 'breaking up with your fake husband that is secretly a double agent nazi that tried to kill your fake surrogate family' thing. That's a valid reason to be scared, especially when you're in a strange environment and there are sounds that could very well be the aforementioned-fake-husband coming to murder you for leaving or betraying him or something.

Cautiously, Kenzi gets to her feet. She sways slightly, blinking rapidly until she regains some semblance of balance. What even is equilibrium? She sidles against the wall, slowly approaching the source of the sounds. The couch! No weapons... that's fine, we're just investigating. Just checking. Just making sure that it's not--

Oh no he's pretty.

"You must be Jeff's Eliot." She says, face peeking around the corner to size up the sizable hot-hottie on the couch. It's the clothes that tips her off. The clothes and the height. The hair is just a bonus. She smiles cautiously at him, suddenly feeling really weird about being wasted in the dude's house after a fucked up situation without ever having spoken to him before. It's WEIRD! She's weird. Oh god, he's gonna think she's weird.

Wait. Jeff is weird, too. Like, HELLA weird. These guys can't say SHIT!

[sybaritic]

Psh, Eliot would never call anyone weird! Except Quentin. And Alice. But they're precious nerds, so it's fine. Meanwhile, he slowly cracks open an eye and sits up, peering through the semi-darkness at the gamine, not-un-elf-like herself creature peering around the corner, sitting all the way up and smiling back, more inquisitive than cautious (because, you know, he lives) here. Probably he hasn't possessed the ability to blush since about age 12, but Jeff's Eliot makes him tip his chin down and affect something like throat clearing, or. You know, would be throat clearing on someone else.

"That's me," he elects to say, instead of. Trying to even quantify what's going on there. Much like Jefferson, elsewhere! How delightful. "In all my resplendent glory."

What, should he be trying to pretend he's not fabulous? Fffft. None of that. He pats the couch next to him with one giant paw, serenely, so apparently if anything is especially weird, it's not a train of thought Eliot has managed to board yet. "Sit down. I'm painfully sober, and that can't be allowed to continue."

To help put her at ease, perhaps, or because he's ridiculous, he nudges the table again, dildo accessory quivering on cue. "Is this your friend or mine?"

[onteamdyson]

It's pretty simple to Kenzi. The way Jefferson talks about Eliot, the way he looks... lighter than she's ever seen him before. It's almost like finding Eliot healed his heart. The change has been pretty obvious, even in such a short time. Jefferson's more himself. Less prone to fits of melancholy that hurt to watch because she knows there's nothing she can do to ease his pain. She can't bring Grace back. She can't help the cluttered lives in his head.

Eliot is helping. There's nothing complicated about that. Eliot makes Jefferson happy.

Kenzi smiles at the modest attitude and literally everything coming out of this guy's mouth. She likes him already. Even without being thoroughly saturated with alcohol, she'd like him already.

No longer needing the cover of the wall, she steps out into the room proper, looking more confident already. She still isn't sure if she trusts this guy 100%, but that's probably due to the fact that someone she trusted turned out to be lying to her and also killed a bunch of people and doesn't even feel bad about it. She slept in the same bed with a freakin' Nazi! You don't just get over that.

Pulling her hood up over her hair in a half-assed attempt at disguising her red, puffy eyes, she takes barely coordinated, very large, wobbly steps until she's close enough to the couch that she can just launch herself in its general direction and curl up into a ball next to Eliot.

"It's yours. I was trying to get Jeff to make friends. I think it came on a little too strong... so obviously I had to proudly display it on the table. Exposure therapy." She shrugs, smirking devilishly. "You have a lot of catching up to do. I'll replace your stash, I swear, it was kind of an ...emergency."

There's a reason they keep alcohol in the first aid kit! Of course... that's rubbing alcohol. Don't drink that. Maybe they could invent a first aid, emergency booze kit that is made entirely of tequila to induce blackouts and possible memory loss to numb the pain! Damn. They could be RICH!

after the glug-glug gala, not accidentally tagging you with ignis

[sybaritic]

As nights out go, Eliot has had plenty that ended in far more emotional wreckage than this, it's just ...usually that's him, and less frequently Margo, and generally they deal with that with like. Drugs. Or drugs and watching 4 AM Charmed reruns until neither of them can breathe from laughing.

Because he has two brain cells to rub together, he's pretty sure the adventures of Piper, Phoebe, and uhhh, the other one, Eliot stopped caring after Pru left, arent exactly what Jefferson needs. Therein lieth the problem, of course, he's not sure what his not!ex would find soothing. But maybe not all of his fake memories are useless, unless--you know, they are. He could just ask! If only that weren't directness and not dancing around a problem until it begged to be allowed to sit on the bleachers for a while.

So. Not that, yet. In the interim he brooks-no-arguments gets Jeff to sit on the couch, then flops next to him with one scrillion mile arm draped along its back. "I don't really know...how to ask if you want, um. Cuddling. I remember we used to do that, except we never have, but you--seem like you could use it. So. I'm here for that. No cuddle-kinkshaming, cross my heart."

[royalpassport]

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.

[sybaritic]

It's hard for Eliot not to get behind a lack of wallowing, even if wallowing is absolutely what he himself would be doing right now, with as much hedonism as he could realistically cram into a single human body and then some, but...well, he thought this was going to be a lot more difficult, so he's cautiously optimistic as he follows Jefferson into the sewing room formerly known as the study.

Which is. Where that starts to give way mostly to just caution, inasmuch as even Eliot has to subscribe to the idea that repeating the same action over, and over, with the expectation of a different result is--he knows what it is. Knows it a little bit, in fact, from previous wallowing sessions: if he found a new vice to distract himself, surely this one would be the one that made him less constantly and terminally miserable. Magic, or sex, or drugs, or eating every stupid feeling, or a lot of other things that never helped for very long anyway.

He turns the spare chair around and perches on it with his legs straddling the sides and feet tucked around the bottom rungs, long arms draped over the back with his chin on top of them. "Creative projects are infinitely superior to wallowing, I'm coming with you on that one."

A pause. By now he knows their fake relationship isn't really anything to go by, but--it does remain true that in this one, he has no more real ability how to gently inquire after a person's mental health. Pretty much every time he's tried to check in with one of his friends about Alice has been an unmitigated disaster.

It's too important not to try, though, even if he fucks it up. "So...you feel better? I mean--it's okay, if you're not. I'm here for you, you know that, right?"

[royalpassport]

Jefferson's movements are a little jerky as he fusses around his work station, making sure he has everything in place before he starts to dig through his fabrics for something he can deem acceptable. It's been a while since he's made a hat-- several months-- but he's made so many over the decades that he knows he hasn't lost his touch. His hands have been trained so completely that he can do it automatically, without sparing a thought.

It's almost soothing.

He spares Eliot a quick glance, corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile, before he lays down the fabric and begins cutting. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and he notes-- with some frustration-- that it's making his cut a little sloppy. Imperfect. Determined, he keeps at it anyway.

Eliot's question gives him some pause, and as much as he wants to nod and claim he feels better, he can't bring himself to just slip into that comfortable lie. He opens his mouth, he really tries to say it, but instead, Jefferson finds himself looking down at the half-cut fabric and the shears in his hand, and he's just shaking his head.

"I don't-- I don't feel any better." He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, wishing he could find the right words to convey that it's just... always going to be like this. There's no feeling better, really. Just fleeting ups and a whole lot of downs. He resumes his cutting, until it's time to move on to the next step. "But I'll fix things. You don't have to stay."