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 ]

Comments

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."