cacophonish | APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX

[His recent considerations of magic, and those who use it, have drawn a somewhat delayed realization for Stephen: that perhaps the person he spoke with on the network, regarding music and magic, could have been the same guy he had a flyer tussle with on the street. It’s worth a shot, at any rate, to reach out.]

Jeff, right? This is Stephen Strange. I have a feeling the last time you saw me, I sent a flock of handbills your way.

Sorry about that.

oh yeah

[ 'Oh yeah,' like he totally forgot about The Flyer Incident until just now. ]

dont worry about it man. i was being a total dick

[ Understatement. When he wasn't using magic to sabotage people, he was using it to make them alarmingly giddy over the idea of the circus. AND BESIDES: ]

your magic kicks ass

Edited 2021-10-08 23:50 (UTC)

[Oh. Well. That was easy enough. Stephen likes it when social expectancies like apologies are made easy.]

Let’s consider it this way: we’re even now. Water under the bridge.

And thanks for the sentiment, but no. My magic is frustratingly underpowered and underutilized right now. I regret wasting it just for the sake of annoying someone.

[ Luckily, Jeff is always pretty easy to appease, and getting him to hold a grudge is like hard mode: possible, sure, but pretty difficult. ]

so are you like

[ Wait for it. He's trying to figure out just how to word his question. ]

out of juice now? tapped out?

Juice levels at an all-time low. I felt like I had more potential when I was a student.

Tricky, isn’t it? Having to depend on some faceless, nameless patron to fuel my magic. Can’t say that I’m a fan.

yeah its weird

[ Tricky, yeah. That's the right word for it. What's tricky is how normal it feels sometimes. Natural and familiar. When he thinks about it, is it really all that different from his relationship with the Gift? It always felt kind of... alive, in its way. ]

do you ever wonder if the patrons are actually as bad as they say?

[ He's going out on a limb, even asking this question. But he has to know. He's so sick of trying to talk about this with normal people. When he talks about magic, they just don't get it. They can't get it. To them, it's just a tool he plays with, a fancy superpower.

One thing sticks out to him, though. The way Stephen describes the Entities. Faceless. Nameless. ]

i don't know if their so nameless
do you know which one's fueling you?

Edited 2021-10-10 18:24 (UTC)

Well, I’d call them less names and more *descriptors.* But what do I know?

[It’s a throwaway comment, as he better decides how to reply to the rest of it.]

But no, I don’t. Not exactly. Though there have been unusual inclinations that I could do without. A pull to make people understand what can only be described as

[The verge of which they balance on a bleak nothingness, the danger of one single choice spiraling out into the oblivion of all they hold dear. Disease that ravages skin and bone.]

a very specific kind of existential dread.

You don’t think they’re as bad as ADI makes them out to be?

[ By the sound of it, Stephen isn't tied to the same entity he is, though he doesn't know enough about the others to guess which one it could be.

Not the Cheshire Smile, that's all he knows. He isn't sure what else to say, if he should offer up any observation of his own, or... or just glide right past it. ]

i think of it like

like not good and not evil. just other. different

[ He's thinking about Ziggy, about how even if he tried to explain it to people, they'd just hear demon and conjure up images of old priests, young priests, and little girls with spinning heads. ]

just because people dont understand you it doesn't make you a monster

That’s true. It doesn’t.

[A statement which, if taken without the framework of outside context, is very true. Yet Stephen wonders if this is coming from somewhere else — where they stand on the “feeding your patron for magic battery juice” issue is skewed by their own experiences. He’s no different; he would bet good money that Jeff isn’t, either.]

But at the same time, I don’t think that’s what all the warnings are for. These entities might be beyond the whole of our human understanding, but that’s the problem. The individuals who try to wield what they don’t understand, what might hurt themselves and others around them, in our very material and immediate world.

In regards to that, I don’t think ADI is exaggerating their various precautionary tales.

Edited (omg I’m so sorry for your inbox) 2021-10-10 21:23 (UTC)

[ Malcolm's said something similar, but it lands a little harder, coming from somebody like... well, like him. It takes him a few minutes to respond, because he's not sure what to say-- or, rather, how to word just what's on his mind. ]

is magic a tool in your world? or is it something more. because magics a part of me. i don't know how to be anything else

[ Even if it means embracing some kind of thing that he doesn't fully understand. At least it's the closest he can get to the Gift. ]

i havent heard any of their precautionary tales

[That’s a question that is both simple and very, very layered to Stephen.]

I’ve lived the majority of my life without magic; I’d be lying if I said this is completely foreign to me. And some might view magic only as a tool or a means to an end in my universe, but ever since I became a sorcerer, it’s something more. Not wielding it here is like having the spirit ripped out of me. A piece of identity gone missing.

[When he could no longer be a surgeon, he could be a sorcerer. One purpose to another. Now that’s severed itself, too, leaving him feeling hollow and more useless.]

It feels like ADI is asking you not to be yourself, right?

[They can get to the horror stories of those who lost themselves to their patron later.]

[ Finally, finally somebody gets it. Every time he tries to articulate it to regular, run-of-the-mill humans, he always feels like they must think he's just some stupid, selfish brat, whining about the toys he doesn't want to put away. ]

yeah. that's exactly how it feels

[ It feels like such a relief to say that and know it won't be brushed off as him just being a melodramatic kid. ]

and its like they think its as easy as Just Say No. "just say no to being yourself!" why should we trust anyone who says that?

I think they’re low on options. Lehrer told me of sorcerers and magic-users who had good intentions when they arrived, only to have them warped with time. Setting fire to the city, causing natural disasters, trapping innocents in sewers and feeding off of their fear. Things that you and I probably don’t want on our resumes of Not-So-Good-Deeds.

[Which leaves them in, once again, a very tricky situation.]

I’ll be honest with you, I’m split. At home, my magic inherently uses the power of various planes and dimensions of the multiverse, so relying on an outside source for energy isn’t a new concept. But I’ve also seen what happens when sorcerers choose to align themselves with a very questionable choice of entity to bolster their strength; bad things. End of the world things. Not unlike what ADI is touting here.

[So, he doesn’t think that ADI is lying. He doesn’t think that makes them worthy of full trust, either, but Stephen sees no reason why they would stretch the narrative so far, not yet.]

So the opinion of another magic wielder is welcome. Knowing the risk, would you still choose to harness energy for your magic in this world?

[ His stomach drops, reading that, and his mind's already racing to come up with some kind of logic why none of that should concern him.

Maybe Lehrer lied. Maybe it's all twisted and exaggerated to prop up some anti-magic agenda. Or maybe... maybe all that did happen, just the way Strange is telling him now, but it's not like Jeff could do any of that.

Even if he wanted to go on a rampage, what's the worst he could do? ]

magic always has risks

[ Which is as good as saying yes. Yes, he would choose magic, even with the risks. ]

its not that different where i'm from. when you commune with the Gift theres always a risk that sometimes

[ He hesitates, almost deletes his own message, before continuing. ]

sometimes something else is gonna notice you instead. it was still worth the risk back home

[ And it's worth it now. But man, he realizes how he must sound. ]

its not about power. i dont care about being a super powerful wizard or anything

I agree with you. Magic does have its risks. And while I don’t think any of us here are in it for the power, I wonder how many affected magic users were once of the same mind.

[That said.]

I’m not here to lecture. I think I’m willing to take that risk, too. But the difference between recklessness and making an informed, wise choice is information.

I think it’s worth talking to Lehrer further, or ADI in general, about those who came before us and lost their way. Research what happened to them, so we don’t do the same. And judge how *you* want to move forward based on that.

[ Strange is right. Information, that's what they need, not abstinence. ]

ive never been great at research. but if youve got their names i can try to help look into what happened

what's lehrer like?

[It’s a step towards the right path — the question is what that right path is, which will only be revealed through information and research. Stephen would rather not risk trial and error, since their margin for error is slim at best.]

A young man named Alan who manipulated fire and torched the apartments. A woman named Alina who commanded the weather, who summoned tornados and caused power outages. And Deepthi, an architect who manipulates the earth and other objects associated with construction. Apparently, she’s still around. She closed off sections of sewer pipes with people in them, and left them to die.

[So you know. An excellent crowd, one that they totally would like to be associated with someday, right? Absolutely not.]

As for Lehrer herself, she’s what you’d expect from upper-tier administration. No nonsense, rules are rules. But she doesn’t sound unreasonable, and she was willing to listen to me, knowing that I couldn’t have been happy with the magic situation in this world.

If you want to talk to her sometime, just to get another perspective on all of this, I don’t think it’d be a bad idea. Just don’t go in expecting more leeway than what she’s already shown.

[ It's fucked up, but he takes some comfort in what he's just learned. Even if he lost all control and went dark side, he wouldn't be able to cause damage at that scale. It's not that bad. He's not that bad. He couldn't be that bad even if he wanted.

....that's probably the wrong message to take from this. Especially when he considers what Deepthi apparently did to her victims. What a horrible fucking way to die. ]

so she skipped town and the other 2 are dead?

i dont know if talking to her will be

you know

"productive"

she probably responds better to someone like you then to someone like me

[ Strange, at least, can command some sense of authority. Jeff's just a fuckup bard no one takes seriously. ]

Yes. ADI took care of the other two.

[Which also does not bode well for how they may or may not be treated if they find themselves too far in the deep end. Though the latitudes they should be given once they’ve crossed that line, if any at all, is another conversation altogether.]

And why do you think that?

[ Oh. Yikes. ]

shit

[ Maybe that's just what he needed to learn to start taking this just a little more seriously-- or, at least, to tread a little more carefully where the ADI's concerned. ]

well i mean your a doctor. im just a dropout who plays guitar on street corners :)

[ Which, hey, he's not ashamed of. But he knows he's not exactly the kind of person who presents himself as any kind of... peer? To someone in authority. ]

[That’s about the right sentiment, yeah.]

I don’t think that matters. I could have been the President of the United States, or some random guy off the street, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. We’re all strangers to her. But there’s value in Lehrer understanding where we stand on the issue, and why. I’m not going to pretend to speak for all of us.

she's never gonna understand us. they never do

[Someone’s already made his mind up on the matter. That might be a problem.]

Don’t you at least want to say that you tried?

[ It's true, he's got something of an attitude where nonmagical people are concerned. Sure, he likes them well enough, but he doesn't see how they can ever truly understand what it's like to be connected to something like the Gift. His few attempts at reaching that understanding haven't left him feeling much hope on the matter.

But. But-- ]

yeah. i guess i do. i just dont see it going any other way then her telling me to just quit being what i am

i mean smarter people than me have tried. right?

Edited 2021-10-29 19:25 (UTC)

[Worth the try, he thinks. Lehrer wasn’t unreasonable or unsympathietic, she was only certain that magic didn’t lead to anything good — he thinks it might be beneficial to see that sympathy first-hand.]

Everyone’s experience is different. I’m sure you as an individual could have something to add to the conversation that no one else can.

Irony is: finding himself walking to Bonnie's on a Saturday evening without having called ahead.

He's dressed the part of a guy eager for a night out, as much as his scheme relies on staying in for-- well, he's too... bashful? to want to presume he's staying in for the night. There's too many emotions running with his blood and making him feel too warm for the borrowed-slash-stolen jacket that's over his button-down. His hair's tamed and gelled, his jeans are pressed and just the right amount of, uhh, restrictive? and a part of Tim that he's struggled to bury alongside all the parts of himself that have died and decayed

is disappointed.

Knows this is the wrong way to get what he's chasing. Knows he's muddling waters that may be better left unchurned.

But time is never on his side, and besides--

he's grown the fuck up.

He can do this. And maybe not sacrifice some scraps of fun, or thrill, or whatever may be kin to those emotions he wishes he could be feeling instead. He can survive the utter whirlwind that is Jeff Calhoun, and better yet, learn his part. Lean into his role. He can thrive on the total disconnect between loose reins and absolute control. He hikes the backpack up his shoulder and breathes out and wonders what the hell is happening. And that's about all the pause he'll allow himself. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne lies like he breathes-- lies to himself, most of all. Maybe. He knocks on the door he's sure is Jeff's. It'll be alright.

He knocks again, for good measure, and leans into the doorframe just ever so slightly out of consideration for neighbors as he announces, "It's Saturday!"

(Frankly he's never one-hundred percent on whether or not Jeff knows what day he lives in.)

"Put a shirt on and open up. We have plans, and I have discount bin flicks."

(God, he misses his friends.)

It's a smart bet to assume that Jeff might not know what day it is. Under normal circumstances, he's generally not operating with full awareness of his surroundings. It's not helped by the fact that he tends to keep weird hours, and frequently forgets the date when there aren't any gigs to keep track of. And it's only gotten worse in the past few weeks, what with the strange music and all the random bouts of narcolepsy.

So yeah: Jeff thinks it's Friday.

He's only been up for a few hours-- long enough to shower, shake off a probable hangover, and eat a poptart-- and he's just hanging out on his bed, noodling around on his guitar, trying to decide what he wants to do with his Friday night, if he's going to go out, or keep working on this new song, or try to practice some magic, or or or--

Someone's knocking. Wait. That's Tim. Wait. It's Saturday? And how does he know Jeff's not wearing a shirt??

"Shit!" he hisses, jumping up off the bed, scrambling to put his guitar away and grab something clean to wear.

"One sec!" he calls out, partially muffled by the shirt he's pulling over his head. It's black, it's clean, and it doesn't have any holes. Just for a little flair, he pulls on a button-down over it, some bright and colorful floral nightmare. Finishing touches: he runs his fingers through his hair to try to make something presentable of it (it decides that it's going to keep on doing its own thing, as usual), then grabs a bottle of body spray and gives himself a spritz.

Jeff wrinkles his nose. Strawberries and cream? Where the fuck did that come from? Oh well, too late now. He'll just have to own it, make like he totally meant to smell like dessert.

Okay.

He's ready.

Jeff opens the door, looking all casual and laid back, like he wasn't just rushing around his room trying to make himself look presentable.

"Hey, man. What's up. Wanna come in?"

It just occurs to him: are they watching movies here, or somewhere else? Fuck. He doesn't have a TV, or, like, a VCR or anything... Maybe they can get a private room at the Midnight Cinema on short notice. Lucky seems cool...

Jeff's room, for the record, is pretty messy, though somehow not as messy as Tim's. His own clutter-- clothes, liquor bottles, music gear, weird knickknacks, multiple mirrors, handwritten notes-- seems to have some vague semblance of organization. There's also potted plants placed here and there, in various stages on the life-death spectrum. He's trying out a new hobby, okay.

The bed's clean, though!

Edited 2021-10-28 21:12 (UTC)

Oh, that's depressing: the collection of mirrors wasn't there the last (first) time he had entered Jeff's room. And there's still more floor visible than in his own den-- cords, amp, miscellaneous glass bottles and all. Tim feels that indescribable weight of total uncertainty. So he must be playing this game right. He shoots Jeff a mischievous, knowing, (anxious) smile and strolls on in.

Jeff has half a head on him in terms of height, but Tim's the one built for brawling. No matter what happens: he's convinced he had the advantage. The physical and strategic advantage.

It makes it easier for him to perch on the arm of that one ratty sofa, swing his backpack onto the seat and chirp, "Revenge is a dish best served cold." as he fishes out 2 chilled red bull cans. Tim tosses one to Jeff-- who looks and is acting sober and the obnoxious amount of caffeine is fair game-- and he explains. "Gas station was fresh outta sushi. Sorry. Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?"

Tim will just have to acclimate to the relentless self-awareness, he guesses.

Edited 2021-10-30 20:21 (UTC)

He shuts the door behind them, his own smile relaxed, easy, laid back, definitely not nervous, because Jeff's a pro.

(He is nervous, and he's definitely not a pro when he, like, actually likes someone. It always turns him stupid. He hates getting crushes. Everything's simpler when he just doesn't give a shit about whether or not he's going to see the other person again. But he's a pro at pushing aside his nerves, at seeming cool and confident, because in the end, this is all just another performance, and he's good at performing and--)

Jeff very nearly fumbles in catching the Red Bull, but by a small miracle, he manages not to drop it. "Revenge," he repeats, drawing the word out in an amused drawl. "Why would anyone want revenge? I'm a fucking angel." He flashes Tim a grin, then heads to his collection of bottles, none of them full, and none of them empty. It's like he never finishes one before acquiring the next. Jeff's fingers hover over them as he decides what to pick. "And nah, I wasn't doing anything." He waves the Red Bull at one of his guitars. "Just fucking around a little, you know, practicing."

He grabs a bottle of tequila that's got a couple shots left in it, and makes the very short trip back to the couch. He flops down, his legs draped over the other arm, looking up at Tim from his vantage point on the lumpy couch cushion. He holds the tequila up as an offering, like a gentleman.

"You look good, dude." Suuuuuper casual.

That's his cue to hike his brows up, an obvious challenge to that defense. Unless, of course, that was some well-crafted double entendre. In which case, Tim can valiantly confirm it's gone straight over his damn head. He shifts a little, surveying his surroundings, and rests his gaze again on Jeff's current dilemma. He hums. "Convenient," he says about the empty schedule. "You wouldn't have gotten rid of me anyway. Show up uninvited, refuse to leave--" he pops the lid off his drink. "That's basically how I got adopted."

Which is to say, it's sort of a habit.

He quietly moves his backpack to the floor to make room for Jeff, who's all legs. And he's still smiling easily when he shakes his head. "I'm not big on the taste." Because too much sugar has ruined him, Tim mourns. "Believe me, I've tried."

Or are the Teen Titans supposed to be, like, teetotalers? True, he's a little stunted in the... department of healthy social norms, but if he's lacked anything in his life it's adult supervision, not freakin' peer pressure. And. Maybe. He's lacked some casual compliments thrown his way, too. If the sudden rush of red to the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks is anything to go by.

He scratches idly at the crook of one elbow. Gotta remember to not get Malcolm's jacket dirty. "Yeah?"

Wait for it--

"You smell nice. Like strawberry poptarts."

Help.

Jeff lifts his brows, and he smirks teasingly. "That mean you're planning on staying the night?" But hey, don't worry, he punctuates the comment with a laugh, just to show that it's, like, no pressure or anything. Just a joke. The last thing he wants is to come across like a pushy creep.

He's just. Easy. He wants to be easy. No expectations. No nerves.

With a relaxed shrug, he takes his own pull of the tequila and sets the bottle on the floor. Now to crack into the Red Bull as a chaser. "I've got other stuff if you want to try anything." He makes a thoughtful face for a moment. "I think someone even left a bottle of Midori here..."

And-- oh. Tim's going red. That's fucking cute. Jeff tries to bite back an amused smile. "Yeah." Confirmation.

Then.

Oh god. Somehow, that's the best compliment Tim could've given him. Now Jeff can't hold back his stupid smile.

"Yeah?" No, wait, say something else. "I was going for that."

No. That doesn't even make any fucking sense. Jeff looks mildly panicked, then says. "No, wait! Good enough to eat!" He closes his eyes and groans. "Aw, man, it was right there..."

Edited 2021-10-31 00:38 (UTC)

This is dumb. He's too easy to rile up and fluster, and Tim's watching his carefully schemed evening go right down the drain. (Except-- not.) He's redredred, and Jeff is giddy and Tim huffs. "Maybe if you feed me," he counters, and it's so weak that he has to give in and laugh, too. Kinda.

But then he's sputtering, a real laugh startled out of him and Jesus Christ this is so

dumb. The homesickness can take a backseat to the question of keeping the red bull in the can, in his hands, as opposed to all over-- Jeff's front? What with how they're awkwardly positioned. One exhausting, shoulder-shaking moment of raw amusement later, Tim figures he can blame the over-warmth of the air on the exertion.

He kicks (lightly!) at Jeff. And thinks he should probably take off his shoes.

And he, again, has no frea king clue

"You look nice, too."

He gestures lamely at-- himself. The jacket? Meaning Jeff's floral... thing. That second layer they've both got going on over plain shirts. Huh. Black and white.

Poetic.

His cheeks burn a little less. Tim takes a swig of his drink to save his voice. And he clears his throat. "Bright colors fit you."

Like he knows or cares about fashion. Uhh. Tim. Starts to toe his shoes off. Stops. "Uh. Do you mind? If I... stick around?"

Laughter's infectious, and once Tim starts, Jeff's doing it, too. Only it's more like... a giggle? Which isn't the sound he intends to make, but it's the one that comes out, anyway. He always worries it makes him sound a little, like, uncontrolled. Unhinged. Un-- whatever. Tim's seen him actually seek out delusions before, with the reflections, and he's still here. So that's something, right?

It means he really likes him.

Fuck, he's got that goofy, giddy smile again. Is he getting a teeny tiny bit warm? No, it's the tequila.

"Thanks." Jeff swings his legs over the side and sits up, making room for Tim if he wants to get on the couch proper. "I, um." He reaches out and tugs at the hem of Tim's jacket. "That's a nice jacket. You look smart." A beat. "Like handsome-smart."

Jesus christ. Even if Jeff's cringing on the inside, he plays it off like he just said a very cool thing and this is how normal people flirt, and takes another drink of Red Bull.

"I want you to stick around. And--" He points a finger at Tim, like this makes it all very serious and official. "--I'll feed you and everything."

Dress up as a Bat and mug petty criminals in the dead of night preaching of Justice, then Tim might have words about delusions.

His thoughts, all of them, stutter to a stop as Jeff touches the jacket. It's beyond dumb, it's reckless idiocy: Tim sneaks a moment of nothing and clears his throat a second time--

"Jeez, you're a lightweight."

Nothing like some friendly ribbing to let him breathe again. Tim wonders how friendly it really is when he's well aware the man's got some dependency on-- but it won't matter as much. Today. Tim's here. He can help. Which is a good indication that Tim's sobered up, at least, is back to his baseline sort of disconnected interest.

He slides on down to sit as a normal human person, feels... trapped, and so he crosses his legs underneath himself.

Just two dudes chilling out and-- right. (He does not clear his throat a third time.) "I brought... a laptop," he offers, voice carrying despite the very short distance between them. It's not his fault. He's not, like, good at-- being normal. (That, dear friend, is his anxiety spiking. Jeff would know his tell by now, same as that night at the barbeque: Tim's words just flow out, take on a life of their own.) "And, like I said, some movies. If you want. I don't know what you want to-- you forgot--"

Jurassic Park, The Lost World.

Tim has no idea what to do with his hands.

Tragic.

"And, a few other DVDs. I don't have a hotspot for this thing that I could bring in here and I, uhh. Like. We don't have to? I probably should have called ahead, huh?"

Okay so.

Jeff can pick up on Tim's nerves, the way that anxiety bursts through in a stream of babble. Give him a few decades and a fuckton of therapy, and he'll be pretty good at helping people navigate through these things with gentle patience.

But Jeff doesn't have the benefit of maturity or therapy, so here he is, hanging out on the couch with a boy he likes, watching him start to spiral out, and the only thing he can think to do is act on pure impulse.

So he reaches his free hand up, taps his fingers on Tim's jawline, and gives him a kiss. It's kind of chaste, for Jeff, in that he doesn't slip any tongue, or suck on any lips, or use any teeth, or even linger for very long. Just a kiss, pretty simple.

"Dude. It's fine." He grins. "I'm good for anything."

God. He should not be reading so much into that. Bad. No. But Jeff does smell like poptarts, and Tim inhales the sharp sting of alcohol. And here's the deal, for all of a Family Values Man that Jack Drake had been, Tim had never worried about this. To be fair though, Tim hadn't thought a lot of important things through back then. (what the everloving hell is he doing, thinking about his dad right now?)

It seems disrespectful, the mechanical, physical response. Tim Wayne, Seen Entering Bonnie's for New Beau: Exclusive! End of the Line for Gotham's Drakes?

But this isn't Gotham City.

Tim doesn't care about the noise in his head, save for the light, sweet, bewitching tiny sound their lips make when they separate.

--cool.

Even the weight of every breath in his chest is welcome.

He's-- got an opening. Cool.

He can do this.

Tim blinks, as if Jeff's (god, he's sweet) smile is blinding. He places the can of sugar and caffeine on the floor and, as he straightens, gives an experimental tug at the hem of-- Jeff's... flowery thing. And there's noise in his head, but Tim doesn't care about it so he mirrors that grin, wolfish and boyish and "You did say you were going to impress me."

Grins that are wolfish and boyish are just full of Jeff's favorite things, and what can he do, really, when faced with that? It's a good look on Tim, and Jeff, for all his aspirations of being some cool, aloof, laid back rock star, is weak.

He's weak to people who are sharp and clever, driven, big thinkers with bite. And he likes that... that he can actually feel normal around Tim. Not 'normal' like all his problems just fade away into nothing, but 'normal' like they're both fucking weirdos to begin with, so there's a kind of equilibrium. That's the word, right?

Jeff doesn't have any thoughts beyond the here and now. What's going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or six weeks, or twelve months from now? Who knows. Who cares. He just knows he likes this, right now, and if Tim expects to be impressed, he'll do his best to deliver.

He's already starting to shrug off that flowery thing, which just so happens to be a very fashionable shirt, except-- wait. Hang on. He throws back another swig of Red Bull and sets the can down. Okay. Now he can get to tossing aside that floral shirt.

"Oh yeah--" He tugs his t-shirt up, messing up his hair as he yanks it over his head. "You know, I can hum all of Bohemian Rhapsody while I'm going down--" He stops himself, making a thoughtful face, before looking at Tim all wide and doe-eyed. (Or, at least, it's a decent parody of innocence.) "Too much?"

Jeff's stripping.

Tim's staring.

He's seen shirtless guys- come on, he's not exactly a sheltered soul. He's seen naked women too-- big deal. Locker rooms, med bays, abhorrently bad timing, it all happens in a vigilante's everyday life. Not that it happens every day but. Anyway. Shut up. Shit. Shit.

He's staring.

Jeff is talking, and Tim swallows the lump in his throat. The guy's carefree and fluid and his brown-blond hair just... looks really good, all screwed up like it now is. It fits him. Tim needs to remember to breathe out and go entirely into manual drive, but he's

determined, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Too much?

"No, just--" he's trained to work under pressure. And god, if this isn't pressure. Not that Jeff's pushing-- Tim shrugs off Malcolm's jacket to give warm hands something to do, to shed some weight that's on his shoulders, to feel-- cooler, a little. At the idea of pushing. He needs to

shut up.

"Give me a sec--"

It's his... first time. Undressing.

Well.

Wrangling the shirt off, and he's regretting the buttons and forgetting the neat and the mangled scars on his skin, slices or slashes or splashes of burns.

And he can't undress smoothly, apparently, white noise in his ears and his head and he looks pitifully up at

and then he looks away, cheeks splotched red, and he huffs because his insides are burning and he's fighting goosebumps and "I've had way too many energy drinks today; don't judge." And there. They're... even.

Tim's struggling. Should he help? Does Tim want help? Jeff's gonna help, just reach over and get a few of those buttons undone-- at least, if Tim doesn't swat his hands away or something.

Has it occurred to him yet that he might be dealing with a virgin here? No. It hasn't, not at all. He just thinks it's nerves, regular nerves, not first time nerves. Maybe it's the scars (noticed, of course, because he can't not notice them, and he's curious, not repulsed, but he doesn't want to stare so--) or maybe it's just been a while, maybe he's only hooked up with one or two guys before, or--

Jeff snickers at the excuse. It's cute. Tim's cute. "Oh yeah, 'cause I'm notoriously judgmental," he teases. Really, who's he to throw stones at a Red Bull addiction? He slides an arm around the other boy's waist, then sort of adjusts himself on the couch, reclining back against the arm rest, pulling Tim over to him. Or, like, on him. It's a light tug, kind of like a suggestion rather than an attempt at being pushy. He figures: if Tim's on top, he can feel less caged in, more like he's calling the shots? Maybe it'll relax him.

Sometimes two dudes just need to cuddle a little while they make out on a couch.

"Gonna call Malcolm and stage an intervention," he murmurs, lips brushing against skin. Cheek, jawbone, neck, lips, wherever.

No protest, no batting hands away. Just a small gasp, a hitch of his breath, when skin meets skin. Even if it's just fingertips for now. There's a lot of things Tim should be doing instead of following, pliable to the maneuvering after a twitch of his obliques at the shockingly foreign contact.

He's breathless, he notes, and the chill of the room is strong against his bare back and with Jeff's body under him he's just

embarrassed.

"Sorry--" not for what they're doing (it's strange and new and he has no road map he's just... wanting to get lost) but different is good, because Jeff's lips trail the line of his jaw and Tim groans and moves his knee from where he had knocked it against the poor guy's leg. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he shifts and huffs an "Oh my god" he swears isn't loud enough to hear.

Oh my god, he's making out with a dude.

Making out registers as a welcome activity and a preferred one of his, and Tim hovers over the inviting warm of Jeff and pulls back enough to reciprocate-- he dips his head to catch Jeff's lips, he experiments with a gentle suck.

It's absurdly thrilling.

It takes some adjusting, some mutual fumbling as knees knock and hands float around (then land, then float again and land somewhere else), before Jeff feels like they've found some kind of a groove with their bodies.

When was the last time he's been totally sober for a hookup? usually there's all kinds of shit coursing through his system, more than just a single shot of tequila and an energy drink. He's used to things being fuzzy at the edges, to being both in the moment and disconnected at the same time.

But Jeff's here, now, grounded under the warmth of Tim's body, and pinned to reality. It's just the two of them in here. No Ziggy. No voice in his head. No watchful eyes. No delusions creeping at the edges of his senses. Tim's real, and he's solid, for a guy who Jeff's got half a foot on.

It's a little strange, being so present and aware of everything, but it's not a bad strange. It's more... novel. He likes it. Likes being aware of the sounds of Tim's breathing, and his own, and all the little gasps, the words they're both breathing out. Or. Words, in Tim's case, and laughter, in Jeff's. Light, airy, and fucking delighted in those moments his lips aren't otherwise occupied.

"Fuck," he huffs with a giddy laugh, chasing that last kiss with a gentle scrape of teeth on Tim's bottom lip. "I've had such a stupid crush on you for a while, dude."

Like, whoa, bombshell. Jeff just revealed the best kept secret in the world. But. Whatever. Less talking, more exploring.

Oh god. So. He likes the biting. Tim holds in the whine, tells himself to stuff it because it's not ever the guy who's, like, vocal in these sorts of things. He swallows and swears his every hair is standing on end and he shudders for what he thinks is absolutely no valid reason at all. They're just... fitting really well, together. Physically. There's hardly any space left between them and Tim can feel Jeff's chest against his own, and he knows he's panting. It's embarrassing.

He's-- all worked up, already.

It's just a lot, okay? It's a lot of moving parts and keeping track of who is doing what is proving to be too much for his head. Case in point, Tim hadn't known his hand had been palming at Jeff's side-- just at the ribs where-- he thinks it might have been the tattoo that had drawn his attention there but.

"What?"

Jeff is all mirth and merriment and his soft laughs are something Tim wants to be surrounded by.

It takes him a moment to remember how to process basic language. Tim can feel the blush creep- the red heat settles at his collarbone. "Really?"

--talk about wanting.

Malcolm had said something about vulnerability, about it being something to look forward to.

Tim doesn't ask what he wants to know: Why me. He isn't ready for that.

He rocks his hips. And thinks-- maybe that's the first time he's-- with someone, y'know? God, his every hair is standing on end, he's hot and chilled and kissing Jeff again, a high little noise--

"I--I'm-- flattered." And winded beyond belief and "What does, um-- you said something about Queen?"

Edited 2021-11-06 04:27 (UTC)

"Yeah, really," he laughs. Okay, so maybe he wasn't as painfully, embarrassingly obvious as he'd thought he was. That's a good thing, right? Or maybe it's just-- a thing. Not good, not bad, nothing worth rewinding and revising his memories of those little moments where he'd thought he was coming across like a dorky kid dancing around his first crush.

And-- yes, okay, yeah, keep doing that. As soon as Tim rocks his hips like that, all the little insecurities fly right out of Jeff's head. He lets a groan escape, rolling his hips appreciatively, sliding a hand down to Tim's hip, tracing his fingers just past the waist of the other boy's jeans.

"Mm, Queen?" A beat, then he remembers, stifling a giggle in the crook of Tim's neck. "Oh! I was, um, just being dumb, you know, about, uh... hummers? I don't know if those things reaaaally matter, I mean, a blowjob's a blowjob, right?" He slips his fingers along towards the front, tracing Tim's hip bone. "We could try it out, if you want."

Look.

Blowjobs are one of Jeff's favorite things. So he's only too enthusiastic about offering.

Armored codpiece robbed a guy of many a sensation. Who knew, right? And Tim has all the bandwidth left to mourn and regret his choice of fitted jeans, a sting of self-awareness sabotaging further attempts to grind against the body beneath his. He feels years younger, lighter, and every gasping laugh of Jeff's is pulling him further into the waters and away from the island of restraint. It's a shock of adrenaline, too much and too little stimulation against his

y'know. He's aroused.

He's breathing against the temple of Jeff's head, god he's sweet, and Tim's planting uncoordinated open-mouthed kisses and embarrassing whimpers against the man and he's feeling the guy's chest and he's blinking stupidly at the lumpy, old fabric of this sofa and saying, "The... like the Jeeps?"

Hummer.

No.

Blowjob.

Wait.

"Wait!"

Or stop. Or-- sorry. That's Tim putting too much of his weight on his hands on Jeff's chest, sorry, but he needs that space and he's all but bolting upright, hands grasping desperately at Jeff's. On his waistband. He's sorry. "Wait, Jeff, wait--"

"Ah-- ow--" Oof, Tim's crushing-- ow, okay, they're hitting the breaks. Jeff's hands shoot up once he realizes he misstepped-- misgrabbed? He either said something wrong, or did something wrong, but either way, he doesn't want to keep on doing whatever it is that's got Tim recoiling like Jeff just burned him.

"Sorry, sorry!" He's got his hands up in surrender. "I didn't mean-- sorry-- was I being pushy?"

"No!" Shoot him. He's rushed and... loud. Tim flinches and somehow now he's kneeling, leaning back, all of him broadcasting that he's gone and shut down that erratic and permissive part of himself. He's careful of not knocking any part of Jeff, (god, he's... sweet) eyeing that unconditional surrender with guilt. And frustration.

Tim throws a hand up to comb through his hair, mouth running all the while. "No, you're fine. You were great. You were really great. I--"

Kind of feel like crying? What the fuck. What the fuck, Drake. It's a lot of emotion. Tim's not good at... emotion. Not when he's half dressed and out of breath and he's been straddling this man and his dick is hard and what the fuck, Drake. "It's me. I'm sorry. I don't think I'm good for... this."

Jeff sits up. Well, he doesn't sit up entirely, with Tim on him, but, he props himself up on his elbows and looks at him with something like confusion, crossed with concern, and a little wince of guilt to top it off, because it's hard not to feel some responsibility for this.

He must've been too pushy. What if Tim's a virgin? What if he's not ready? Fuck, what if he didn't even know if he liked guys, and he decided to give it a try, and it turns out he's totally straight and Jeff's just-- No. Stop. Don't make this about yourself. That's bound to make everything worse.

It already doesn't help that he's still hard and Tim's on him and fuck there's a lot of emotions going on and he's not sure he's capable, functional, or even smart enough to help him breathe and come down and step away from the emotional precipice he's about to stumble over.

"Hey-- no, it's--" He puts a hand on Tim's thigh, though it's not any attempt at rekindling the hot and heavy making out, just. He's trying to be comforting and it's the easiest spot to rest his hand. "You're fine. You're good, um... We-- we don't have to do anything you're not feeling, you know? We can just hang out and watch movies or talk or... not talk, whatever you want. It's okay."

It's that... feedback loop. White noise enveloping coherence and wearing it down until it's just that old and knowing voice trying to get Tim to admit what he knows: he's disappointed. Not that he is disappointed. He has disappointed. His eyes widen at the realization, imagined or otherwise, and he can't pinpoint a moment where he's felt so alive before. He's not sure if it's all that great. --stop. "Sorry. I."

He forces himself to swallow, he doesn't know what to do.

Jeff... is really trying, isn't he? And Tim laughs, a forced and tiny and not at all convincing laugh but it was necessary all the same. His breath hitches-- what, why is his breath hitching?

He's not sure if he ever imagined his first time being with Steph.

He takes initiative, starts to move to untangle himself, untangle them, get them away from anything compromising or implicating or dangerous. His fingers brush against the knuckles of Jeff's hand, his heart leaps at the small connection, and he needs to come clean and "I don't know..." he pauses, searches for his perfect excuse and can't find it. "I don't... know what happened." But he does, and he's disappointed, and there's white noise and mortification where common sense should be. "I've. Never. Uh. Thanks. For stopping."

Above it all, it's there: relief.

There's a hitch in Tim's breath, and fuck, Jeff wants to help. He wants to, but he's all caught up in the paralysis of how and if and all the other questions. Is it wanted, needed, possible? What if he makes Tim feel worse? Jeff is... well, he's Jeff, so the possibility of fucking up and making everything worse is pretty high.

He sits up, scoots back until he's against the arm of the couch, legs pulled in criss-cross applesauce.

Tim's trying to explain something that, who knows, maybe it can't be explained. These things happen. There's always the chance that everything can get... messy and weird and awkward, and that's normal, even if it stems from some well that Jeff can't possibly know or get.

"Yeah," he nods, a little too emphatically, like he really wants to prove that it's all good. "Of course, uh. I-- yeah, I'd never... never wanna do something that wasn't-- um. Wanted."

Wow, he's so fucking articulate. Jeff wrings his hands together, glancing down at his finger, at-- himself, really, and feeling that odd wave of self consciousness that tends to come with these things. He's only got his shirt off, and he feels impossibly exposed.

"Um." He swallows, then looks back up at Tim and offers a wry smile. "I... The first time I had sex, it was with this girl, we were kinda dating, I guess, and... I was at her house, and we thought we had a couple hours til her dad came home. So we were going at it, I mean, I'd, like, just found my, uh, my rhythm, you know, and-- Then he started banging on the door, fucking yelling and shit. And he was a cop, so I totally thought he was gonna shoot me. Anyway, I had to get out through the window, and my pants were falling down, and there were dogs barking and I had to jump a fence and..."

Look, there's a point to this, and that point is: to buy Tim some time to kind of... find his bearing again. And maybe to help him feel less like a freak, too.

"And, uh, it really stuck with me. I mean it messed me up for a while. Like for the next six months, any time I tried to hook up with a girl, I'd just hear his voice in my head and totally freak out." A beat. "You don't have to tell me anything, you know. I just... Um." He shrugs. "Icebreaker."

It's all so easy with Jeff. Tim wars with himself. He's got no right to downplay the fact that the awkward atmosphere isn't stifling but there's the genuine reaching out that's coaxing a (mildly... reasonable?, hysterical? nervous?) snort-turned-giggle. And his shoulders shake, because it's a little more long-lived than it should be. But who the hell says what Jeff's just said aloud? Tim scrubs his hands over his face. His heart's hammering, he feels like a prey animal.

Jeff's huddled in the opposite corner and Tim simultaneously feels the grounding of his palm coming back wet (gross-- he won't think about it, he won't think about it, he won't) and the... flutter of adoration.

Two prey animals.

He's comfortable.

All things considered.

God, it's so weird. He's so weird. He laughs, a little looser, a little more self-conscious. He... has no idea what to do with his legs. He tucks in his feet.

"That story... is a right of passage. I was, I think, fourteen?" He can't remember. His voice reveals as much. Tim drums his fingers over his thighs just eager for the outlet of that roll of anxiety. "My first girlfriend. She had invited me over and I was used to doing whatever, so I didn't think anything of it. She was all dressed up."

And he doesn't even feel bad about saying it. Did anybody know this story? But he's blushing, because of course he is. Jeff's gotten used to blue eyes peering at him from a red face, Tim figures. "But we were kids, and she didn't want to-- you know, it was more like she felt that she had to. We ended up just chilling out in the living room until her uncle came back from manning the shop. He kept screaming that he was going kill me. Got his gun and everything."

And fuck it, Tim thinks that's funny. He's still looking the part of an apologetic dope, but his voice is. Fine.

"I was breaking a new personal best in getting outta there. So I get back home and my dad's heard I was messing around in ways I shouldn't have been. He was pissed." But it's not like Tim to say the word: he mouths it, though, makes it pretty obvious he just doesn't give the curse any volume. He scrubs at his face a second time.

Fuck.

He has hang-ups about sex.

This isn't how valuable introspection is supposed to happen. He's smiling, wry. "I think that was the first time I was in enough hot water to have to scope out military schools."

Icebreaker?

Edited 2021-11-18 21:38 (UTC)

Jeff feels like a prey animal pretty much all the time, so maybe there's something in the way Tim's holding himself that's recognizable. There's a lot they don't know about each other, but this is familiar, at least.

(And, now, there's a concept: getting to know someone before he sleeps with them.)

Tim's laughing, and that gets Jeff to laugh, too. It's a fucking ridiculous story, isn't it? But hey, it's more common ground. A rite of passage, like Tim says. Jeff props his elbow on his knee and rests his cheek on his palm, an amused-- and ridiculous and smitten-- smile half-obscured by his hand.

And he laughs again, muffled into his own palm, when Tim doesn't even say the word. He really is sweet. Fucking cute...

"Shit... Really?" Jeff drops his hand now, picks at a little tear in his jeans with a lingering smile. "Parents are so weird, man. When my mom found out, she like, sat me down for a really long talk about consent and, uh..." He cringes a little. "Mutual... pleasure? Orgasms. Stuff like that. It was so embarrassing, I wanted to die." A beat, then: "And what's with these dudes and their guns!"

"They're overcompensating," Tim mutters, and he hears it before he even truly realizes he's said it aloud. Brainless little prod at uh, toxic masculinity?, or something, because in reality he'd been wondering if he shouldn't be shuffling to put on his shirt if they're talking about parents. He feels naked.

Which is funny because he's very much no longer... excited. In that way.

He thinks, Kon would be so disappointed to learn he's thrown away his one good hormone on doing Nothing.

He thinks, mildly alarmed and unbearably bashful at the sight of Jeff's amused smile, what the hell is wrong with him. God, it's a long story. Tim laughs, but it's to clear out the lingering nerves. He sucks in and lets out a deep breath theatrically enough to clue Jeff in to the fact that he's alright. Then he balls his fists and steels himself and admits, "I really wanted to--"

Uh. His brain doesn't work that way, Tim remembers, and his confession blanks. He wilts, and makes up for it by leaning forward a little, into Jeff's space once again. Apologetic, once again. Appeasing, because he doesn't know what to do. "I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed."

It does make Jeff feel a little flutter of... relief? Maybe happiness? that Tim had wanted to. Whatever happened, at least there was a point when they'd both wanted... that: the elephant that's still lingering in the room, awkwardly outstaying its welcome. He smiles a little, adjusts the way he's sitting, pulling his legs up to bump his knees to his chest.

"Dude." He reaches a foot out to lightly-- gently!-- kick Tim, now that he's moved closer. "You don't have to feel embarrassed around me. I'm, like, the most embarrassing fucking person. Maybe that's why I always rush things like, um, like this." There's a wry edge to his smile, because god it's scary (and: embarrassing) being like... vulnerable. Even as he dresses it up in irreverence, like it's all a big joke, he's still skirting on the edge of actual vulnerability here. "So I can screw and run before the other person realizes what a big fucking mess I am."

He exhales. It's kind of a laugh. Then, softly, without any jokey irreverence to hide behind: "Anyway. I'm sorry I pushed so fast."

And now Jeff holds up a finger and waggles it in Tim's face. "New rule: no one's allowed to say 'sorry' anymore tonight."

Edited (NITPICKING AGAIN ok i'm done) 2021-11-30 02:28 (UTC)

[He hasn't even seen Jeff in... too long.

Tim doesn't give himself the moment to have his thumb hover over the screen of his phone. It's not even in his hand. The phone just barely touches his hip, anyway, where he's laid on the fucking floor of this room. Handsfree texting. It's all the rage.

God knows Tim has enough... mana. To fuel magical instances like this. He closes his eyes and sighs and the message sends.]

Are you okay?

[ He's not sure how he feels when he receives the text on his... BRAND NEW ADI-ISSUED PHONE. RIP his last one, it was filled with wasps.

Jeff's used to drifting in and out of people's lives. He doesn't expect them to take it personally, just as he doesn't take it personally. Drifting... is passive. It just happens.

Ignoring is totally different. It takes a fucking decision. And for all of Jeff's hippie, drifty, dreamy flakiness, he's still, like, a bard: emotional, needy, and fucking dramatic. They've got a rep back home for a good reason.

What Jeff should do: tell Tim he's okay, and ask if he's okay, and what the fuck happened, with Ren and the bugs and the whole Jim fiasco--

But Tim ignored him, and so Jeff's stupid hurt feelings take over. He looks at the phone, and he decides to leave him on read while he goes to drown himself in other people. There's a house party he wants to hit up, anyway.

A response does come, though, a few hours later, texted from some stranger's couch. ]

you're a dick

Edited 2021-12-19 22:55 (UTC)

[This is why he has no friends. This is why he has no one.

(Not true, a desperate voice in his head cries. That's not true.)

It feels true, though. And there's precedent. Logically. This wouldn't be the first time he buries something good

Ari
Ives
Steph
Zo
Tam

or buries someone he only barely knows

Z
Owens
his dad

so it doesn't even hurt. Really, it doesn't. Tim had long suspected he's dead inside, or well on the way there. He waits a full two minutes for a response before allowing himself to drift off to sleep.

Words blare across his closed lids, blinding color fires through his head. He wakes up because the phone tells him to.

Sure.]

are you okay?

[He knows he's a dick. Thanks.]

[ He honestly doesn't expect a response. It's a surprise when one comes, and he's half-tempted to ignore it and get up off the couch and go back to drinking, maybe see if anyone has any pills on them--

--instead, he opens it, and he reads it, and... thaws a little. If only because Tim's sticking his ground and didn't insult him with some bullshit 'I'm sorry.'

But he's still emotional, and impulsive, and hurt, so while he responds faster this time, it's still petty: ]

you couldve asked last month when i needed it

[ Just getting that off his chest helps him thaw a little more. At least enough to finally answer the question... with a non-answer: ]

i'm fine. i'm the same as always

[ Then: ]

are you ok?

[ There's two chicks on the couch with him, their faces illuminated by the glow of their screens as they text, too. Huh. Jeff is finally fitting in with his Fellow Kids. ]

Edited 2021-12-19 23:29 (UTC)

[Last month? He almost can't think that far back; it's like he hadn't been conscious all the way back then.

He'd thought Malcolm would have... helped. Would have helped better than Tim could have.

"I lost track of time," he tells the ceiling, but it doesn't answer.]

yeah

[Yeah, he should have done better. Yeah, he's... same as always, he thinks. (No, he's not.)]

I'm sorry.

[There it is.]

ok

[ It's not much of an answer, and this being text and all, who can even say what Jeff's tone here is, if it's a simple "okay, apology accepted," or a reassuring "everything's okay," or... a dismissive "okay whatever". Or maybe it's just what it looks like: neutral affirmation, with no deeper meaning.

It's vague because, fuck, Jeff isn't even sure how he feels or what his tone should be. Unloading at a crazy chick over a wasp-filled phone kind of awakened his own hurt and frustration, and he doesn't know how to dispel it yet. He's not angry anymore, just confused, uncertain, and guarded. ]

whats going on?

Edited 2021-12-20 15:35 (UTC)

[--okay.

That's so much more than what he's gotten from so many other people.

He kind of wants to cry but of course he doesn't.]

I don't know.

[...]

I'm fucked up.

[...]

I fucked up. I screwed up. I always do that but I thought this would be different and it would work. It did work.

[...

No it didn't.

You dumbass.

Imbecile.

Didn't he make a promise? That he'd put a gun to his head and pull the trigger before he ever got to that point to this point isn't this what he'd been trying to stop to end he needs to stop he needs]

I don't know.

[Who the hell is he talking to, even.]

Jeff?

[.] Are you okay?

[ Oh.

There goes whatever frost had been remaining in his chest. It's too familiar-- painfully, intimately familiar-- like he might as well be looking at his own thoughts, reflected back at him. ]

it's ok

i'm fucked up too

[ Acceptance. It's about the best he can offer. ]

i don't know if i'm ok. but that's fine. that's normal i guess

[ Then, in case it needs to be said: ]

i didnt get hurt by that bug chick

did she go after you?

[ And, after some hesitation: ]

can i come see you?

Edited (fussy word choice) 2021-12-20 18:33 (UTC)

No.

[...] Yes.

I don't know.

[Did she go after him? Should Jeff come see him?]

I was going to turn the phone off. It hurts. I don't know how to make it shut up, but it gives me a headache.

[ Jeff looks over that last message with a frown, unsure what he really means by it. Is it... the screen, is it giving him a headache? Or-- ]

are people blowing up your phone? turn it off. unplug or whatever

[ And then, since he doesn't REALLY know what to make of the yes no maybe response to his question: ]

i'm at a party btw
if you want to get out and get away from all the bullshit

[ He shoots Tim the address, then: ]

if not... goodnight. see you around

I can't walk, jerk.

[...

...

!

Holy hell, Batman he did not just send

yeap, he sure did send that message.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, everything fucking--]

I didn't mean that

youre not a jerk. Sorry. I'm messed up

[Well. He's said that already. Tim fights the urge to chuck the phone at the wall regardless. Shaky fingers type away.]

I don't think I'm fit for a party man I got pretty bruised up, I'm staying at

hold on.

[Fuck, he wants to cry. But he sends off the address: it's a ritzy place, a hotel above the pay grade of ADI grunts.

It went down like this:

He left B1. For a bit, you know. He needed... space. But he hadn't gotten paid. Stupid. What the hell's he doing, thinking about pay? Of course he hadn't gotten paid. But.

He didn't need pay.

It's all about just... fudging some numbers, when he slipped his previous prepaid card to the bewildered, frowning receptionist. And the thing is
Tim knows how. Had been trained to know how to make these sorts of transactions seem legit.

It's so much easier when he can just lean on the card reader and suddenly that's it, he can afford a good room.

Anyway.

Anyway, he'd just wanted to sleep. He hadn't gotten much sleep.]

dude what the fuck?????

[ "Can't walk" and "pretty bruised up" are two wildly different conditions, far as he figures.

So.

Obviously Jeff is going to leave the party and make his way to the address and-- ugh, is he going to need to hitch a ride? He's probably going to need to hitch a ride. Time to bribe the most sober person at the party with a $20.

It may take him a little while to get to the hotel, but he does. And, ugh, okay, he really doesn't look like he belongs here, and this looks like the kind of hotel that might actually try to keep the riff raff out... So Jeff just waits until the front desk is occupied by someone checking in and/or out, and strolls past, confidently, like he's already got a room here.

Knock knock. ]

Open up before I drink up a tab and charge it to your room.

[Tim reads the frenzied response and before he can gather the energy to type a reassurance that he still does have his legs, he's just lazy, he wonders if Jeff's thieved this stranger's phone. Or if he's kept his own. Or if he left both behind.

And then he drifts back to sleep, one arm hugging the cast loosely against his body.

He wakes up with a worse headache and a parched throat, and it takes time for him to figure out where that obnoxious banging comes from.

...right.

...christ, when had anyone come to ever visit him back home? This isn't about that. There's no morose, lonely longing for big, quiet rooms and gilded accents on oakwood.

Tim gets his feet under him. He huffs something like 'yeah yeah I'm coming', even if it's been... some minutes, now. Since Jeff arrived. Fuck.

He opens the door, steps smally off to one side and he doesn't say much of anything. He's got on Malcolm's sport coat, smart slacks. And it's like he's staring down Superboy again. Again-again, that time in Gotham?

This is real, right? Right?]

Hey.

Hey.

[ Okay, so he does have both of his legs and they seem to be in working order. He's also dressed like a tiny businessman, which makes sense, given the whole... fancy hotel situation. A kid strolling up looking like Jeff would probably be turned away before they even whipped out their card.

Jeff looks at Tim, and he takes in the injuries-- at least the ones he can see. Bruised face, broken... hand? Fingers? ]

Who-- Did... did the bugs do this?

[ Bugs: notorious for breaking bones and punching people in the face.

And then, because it doesn't occur to him that there might be injuries he can't see... Jeff pulls Tim into a totally ill-advised hug. ]

[What.

He's not awake enough for this. He almost believes he's back in San Francisco, but the hall just outside is too quiet for it. But the bite of heavy pining doesn't care. Tim sucks in a breath, singular and low, and he's being pulled into a hug.

He's not awake enough for this. There's several things wrong here. His arm doesn't slot well between the bodies, his good hand still feels tired and torn and it weighs against the pull of a shoulder. Tim is burying his head into the front of Jeff's chest and he smells the smell of a late party, its smoke and drink and bodies. And despite it there's the cool of December night air still clinging to Jeff Calhoun, and Tim thinks that cold relief against his throbbing head is going to kill him. Or maybe it's the lack of breathing he's doing that's going to kill him. The hot pain of a fire in his right leg, the shock after shock after shock of lungs desperate to expand.

There's several things wrong here.

Tim is sure he's crying. He doesn't know why he's crying.

He's not awake enough for this.] You're crushing me.

[High, small, airy words because he can't breathe because his ribs are barely set because Jeff is an octopus of a man, all limbs and

intelligence?

Tim's no better. He'd be hanging tight if he could, a dependency for validation and affection just suddenly there, between them.

Tim laughs, short and rough and even his throat is parched and hurt. And his chest hurts-- seriously fucking burns

and Jeff's got December air on his person, still, lightly generating a contrast against flush skin that Tim's half delirious for. He's crying, but the tears are drying fast. Tim Drake's not used to

this.] I'm so screwed up, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Edited (A Word.) 2021-12-20 23:05 (UTC)

[ Tim sounds-- ]

Oh-- shit! Shit, sorry--

[ --like he might be a little, uh, tender. Like maybe he needs to breathe. Jeff lets go, abrupt, as if one of them might be burning to the touch. He ducks his head a little, tilts it, looks a little guilty (for suffocating the dude, for exacerbating injuries, for being cold, earlier), a little concerned, and... ]

Hey.

[ Is Tim crying or laughing? Jeff reaches up with a tentative hand, gingerly brushing a thumb on Tim's cheek, trying to swipe away some tears with a chilly fingertip. Tim's so warm, and he can't tell if it only feels that way because he's just come in from outside, or if Tim's running hot, flush with a fever or... or something. ]

You're not-- [ He stops himself. ] Okay, maybe you are, but so what. I'm screwed up, Mere's screwed up, Malcolm-- Everyone's screwed up. [ We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. ] It's okay.

hey mr. calhoun
do you have any pot

not for anyone who calls me MR CALHOUN 🖕

mr. calhoun sir?

i'm throwing all my weed down the garbage disposal now

bzzzBZZZZZZZZZwrrrrrrrrrr

that's the sound it's making right now

[ It's very possible Jeff is drunk or high as we speak ]

god, fine
jeff
what if I bring munchies?

oh yeah
sure ok
come over!

bring powdered donuts

can do
you want andy capps too?
i'm definitely getting licorice whips too

fuck yeah

oh! dude!!!!!

and sour punch straws!

okay but what are your thoughts
coke or diet coke

curveball: fanta

do you have popcorn

so diet coke and fanta then got you
I do
microwave okay?

yes! you're the best

dude you know what else would be great
easy cheese

oh I see how it is
now that I have munchies I'm the best but I wasn't even worth a pot share earlier
I get how it is

easy cheese it is

that's because you hurt my feelings and i'm very sensitive

😀!

tell me about it
I had no idea my old history teacher was such a baby

do you want hot doritos

i'm going to remember this and give you an F on every fucking assignment

doritos come in hot flavors now?
ok sure
and cool ranch
hot and cool

joke's on you, I got fs on every assignment anyway
(that's a lie)

yeah they sure do
okay picking up both

thanks i forgive you again for being the worst

do they still make teddy grahams? i love teddy grahams

[ ABBY, YOU CAN STOP THIS. HE WILL KEEP GOING. ]

it's okay, I forgive you too

yep, they're right in the cookie aisle

[It's a battle of wills now. Who will win, Jeff's stubbornness or Abby's wallet?]

can you get me a box

RING POPS!!!!
and ring pops 😊

got it!

important question: box of ring pops or just a loose one?

just a loose one i dont want to get greedy

sure
that'd be you
getting greedy

Hey, it's Ches, the guy you learned throwing a punch from a while back. You still up for another lesson?

hey ches

yeah i could go for another lesson
i haven't had a chance to try punching anyone in like
real life

so i dunno how much the lesson stuck you know?

Sounds good to me. Maybe tonight? 7 pm or so? Or are you all booked up on a Friday night?

nah i'm a total loser. totally free

do we have to meet at the ADI tho? i don't really like it there

Nah, not a loser.

No sweat. Do you know if there's a gym in town? I'm still pretty new to the area.

look at me! do i look like i know where the gyms are? ;)

can we go punch trees or something?

[ no wait it's winter. it's cold out. ]

nevermind we can go to the adi

Never judge a book by its cover, ya know?

Let's do ADI tonight. I'll fins out if there's a gym for next time. Deal?

deal. see you at 7 :)

At 7 pm he's waiting at the ADI gym they'd met at before, wearing his sweatpants and a tank top under an open hoodie, leaning against the wall beside the door. When he sees Jeff coming, he lifts a hand and offers an easy smile, giving him a wave and pushing away from the wall.

"Hey Jeff! How are you doing?"

Today, Jeff looks... moderately more prepared for a workout than the last time they ran into each other. He's got a surprisingly nice, well-fitted winter jacket (Patagonia! The pricey stuff!) that was most definitely stolen, but underneath it is a hoodie, tank top, and sweatpants.

He's ready to punch shit and take names. Sort of. Okay, maybe only the first part. Lightly.

"Hey!" He lights up with a smile and offers... a fist. To bump. Like manly men do. "I'm good, same as usual, so I guess it's less 'good' and more like..." A hot mess? "Um. Getting by. Whatever. Hi! How's it going?"

He needs to stop rambling now.

Frankly, Ches couldn't care less if the jacket is stolen, he's just relieved to see Jeff a little more prepared for a workout this time. He's not sure if it's because the kid seems to have a little more confidence in himself than last time or not, but he hopes so. It sucks to see anyone experiencing that level of self-consciousness.

Ches bumps Jeff's fist back when it's offered, and smiles back. Jeff's smile is a good one, at least.

"Well, that doesn't sound promising. What's up?" Ches asks, his tone genial, and opens the door to the gym, holding it so Jeff can go in first, "I'm doing well enough, all things considered."

The gym feels like an oasis of warmth, and Jeff's soon shedding his coat as the heat sinks in. "Oh, uh, you know." He shrugs. "I just mean... nothing's ever really good, right? Not here, anyway." Not back home, either, but that's a totally different story. Or... maybe it's more like a different chapter of the same story--

Which is all beside the point.

"So... everything's just the same level of fucked up as usual, is all."

"I dunno, I've run into some people I like well enough." he says, shrugging off his hoodie and stretching his arms and bending down to touch his toes a few times.

Honestly, it seems like Jeff is having a rough time of things. Ches wonders what's going on with him, what's got him so convinced that life is never really good.

"For example, you. But I get it. Things are kind of rough, and being kidnapped to a world where there's all this creepy shit going on really sucks. I hate not being able to turn into a wolf whenever I want. But it's not all bad."

Thank you for your part in making sure my birthday was something really special. I don't think I've actually had a birthday party since...probably my 21st.

yeah of course :)
you deserved something nice
i mean not just past tense. you still deserve nice things

anyway i didn't do much, it was pretty much everyone else

You got invitations to all the best and coolest people.

[Look, even Winter showed up in person. That's good work!]

And you came, and I appreciate that too.

no way i was gonna miss it

hey i saw you and ches getting along
he's a cool guy :)

Edited 2022-01-21 19:22 (UTC)

Getting along might be an understatement. :) Do you want a proper gossip session? I need to get out of the apartment for a bit, take a walk.

talk about an upgrade ;)

sure i could get out. not really doing anything but hanging out with a naked cat
well i guess it's not really naked. it's wearing a sweater

There's a Thai place about a block down from Bonnies that has a selection of Asian beers. Wanna meet up there?

oh yeah i know the place! just name the time and i'll be there

I'll be there in about half an hour.

Due to bus schedules, it's more like 40 minutes before Mere arrives. She's rocking the new haircut, sides shaved, everything gelled back in something not entirely unlike a mohawk, but her outfit's still her usual sort of thing--sweater, skinny jeans, chuck taylor high tops.

She texts Jeff, when she arrives, to see where he's at.

Jeff's already got a table, and once he sees Meredith, he hops up and waves her over with a grin. He's still not totally used to the new hair, but it's a good look! Totally suits her. And while hers has gotten shorter, his has gotten longer... because he still hasn't had a haircut in way too long.

So he's totally rocking the 90s grunge look, even more than usual.

"Mere! Hey!" Once she's over, he greets her with a hug and flops back down onto his seat. "I can't believe I beat you here. I'm, like, never on time."

"Fucking buses, you know how it goes." She laughs, hugging back warmly and plopping into a seat like a bag of flour. "So, before we get into my shit, you heard Malcolm and Neal are now officially an item, right?"

Jeff blinks, and it's clearly news to him.

"No, but, uh, hey, that's great." He means it, even if it's just a little awkward, what with... him possibly having been an obstacle to them getting together in the first place. "Good for them. Glad they're not dancing around it anymore."

"So am I. Fucking Neal, making a thing of it...but I think they'll be happy, in the long run. I actually told Malcolm if we weren't living together, I'd have probably asked him out at some point."

She glances down at the menu to avoid eye contact there.

"Yeah, well. He was probably going through his own shit or something." Jeff shrugs. The less focus on Neal, the better. Besides, there's something more important here!

"No shit?" Jeff can't help but grin. "I told him he was a catch."

"Oh, he's a mess. But a mess with very pretty eyes." She laughs. "Instead, I fell into bed with Ches after doing some office skills training with him. That happened."

"Shit yeah!" He lifts his water glass so they can toast to that. "I'd hit it, too, if, uh. You know." If the opportunity arose. But he may be too young for Ches. The over-30 set do have a habit of calling him a kid.

"So was it a one-time thing, or are you guys just hooking up casually, or what?"

"It was one time, there might be more. I'm not fussed about it. I'll say this, though, big strong werewolf man was gentle enough not to pull me apart." Tease-tease.

She finally settles on what she'd like and flags down the waitress (teenage girl, likely a kid of the owners) to order.

Jeff groans, though it's all in good humor. Why bring up his shame, Meredith! "I just didn't know my own strength!" he whines, in his defense. It's a very strong, rugged whine, clearly.

Once the waitress gets to them, Jeff gives his order (Drunken Noodles, chosen solely for the name) and maybe engages in a little bit of light, friendly banter, like he's just a totally normal, well-adjusted dude who can talk to people without spacing out or getting super weird.

Then, when the coast is clear, he leans in closer to Meredith.

"Dude, so what was it like to bang a werewolf!"

Mere, meanwhile, goes for the pad thai, with tofu.

"About the same as banging a normal guy--it's not like he wolfed out in bed or anything. I haven't seen him wolf out at all, yet, to be honest." She laughs brightly.

"Yeah, I guess that'd be, like, the worst time to do it," he concedes with a laugh. "He seems pretty chill for a werewolf, anyway."

A beat.

"I dunno why I said that, it's not like I've ever met a werewolf before. Maybe they're all chill..."

"I've never met one before either. I'm not sure if they're a thing in my world. You'd think you'd hear about a werewolf hero or villain, if they were."

Because her fucking world, man.

There's a long pause as Jeff tries to work his brain around all that, then:

"What... kinds of heroes or villains do you normally hear about?"

Edited 2022-01-22 15:12 (UTC)

"Oh, god, have I not told you yet? My world's full of superheroes and supervillains. I actually live just outside Hightower, where the Global Guardians are headquartered."

She laughs. "I thought I'd mentioned it to most people by now."

The truth is, she might've told Jeff at some point, but he's certainly got a brain like a sieve, so it could have slipped right out.

"Huh." Superheroes and shit. That's something to process. "Right on."

"I'm not a hero or anything, though. Hell, not even 'normal'."

She shrugs, looking down at her hands. "But I get by, even in that world. Pretty much the same way I do here."

"Oh. Who cares about normal? I'm not normal, either."

Unless 'normal' carries some other significance in the context of Meredith's world. Kind of like how 'Gifted' is a huge chunk of his identity, back home, but here? Here it's stripped clean of all weight and significance.

Jeff tilts his head and offers a teasing smile.

"Yeah? By working for shady people for the insurance?" There's no judgment in his voice. In his six months here in Gloucester, Jeff seems to at least have matured enough to move past all that big talk of living free and following dreams. Meredith taught him that's a luxury most people can't afford.

She considers Jeff a moment. She's told Tim and Malcolm at this point. Who knows how secret her shit will stay?

So she lowers her voice. Looks him in the eye. "Shady's one word for it. I'm hoping Nia Lehrer doesn't turn out to be a literal supervillain, but we'll see."

"I bet she is." He has absolutely nothing to base that assertion on, other than his own grudge against the ADI for their anti-magic stance. But... then he looks at Meredith, as she looks at him, and even Jeff isn't too spacey to miss the significance there.

"Wait. Were you, like--" He lowers his voice, all hush hush and... actually a little eager and excited. Like a kid. "--did you work for a supervillain guild or something?"

"Nothing so dramatic as that. The tech CEO who I was the personal assistant for might have had a costumed identity, though."

His reaction is so very Jeff. Sooooo Jeff.

"Whoa."

Okay, that's less dramatic, sure. But it's also kind of cooler in a way, because she's like, what, the right hand of some costumed bigwig. A supervillain's Gal Friday!

(Is that sexist? Fuck, maybe Aelwyn was right, and he still has some things to examine...)

"That's so fucking cool."

"You're not supposed to think that's cool, I don't think. You're supposed to Judge me."

She's only mostly joking there.

"Good people don't enable villainry."

"Yeah, but that's all so..." Subjective, that's the word he's looking for. But Jeff struggles for a moment to find it, then opts for: "It's not like it's all black and white. I mean... not even monsters see themselves as monsters, you know?"

"You hang out with enough monsters to know how they think of themselves?" The jab's meant to be light, playful. She doesn't know what she doesn't know.

There's certainly a flicker of something in his expression, a grimace that he tries to smooth over with a shrug and a smile. "Yeah, I mean, I was the lead singer of a band back home. The biggest diva monster there is."

She notices that grimace--it's Meredith, how could she miss that?--but doesn't seem to know what to make of it.

Deflect, right?

"Is that like the secret love child of Miss Piggy and Cookie Monster?"

He laughs, more easily now and points out, "Cookie Monster? C'mon, Animal was right there!"

Then, taking that deflection ball and running with it, "So what's your boss's deal? World domination?"

"The belief that vigilante justice was against the precepts that America was founded on, and so it's the moral right of citizens who can to oppose heroes. It's...not the worst argument I've actually heard."

It's not the worst argument by far. Jeff nods, conceding that point. "Yeah, I mean, if you think about it, the whole vigilante thing is majorly fucked up." See also: why nobody will ever include Jeff in any ADI-sanctioned plans for extra-judicial killing.

A beat. "I mean, I guess you don't have to think about it, since you live it."

"I think everyone's world is fucked up in one way or another. Right? Your world's got some sort of shit in it."

"Well... yeah, I mean it's fucked up in a lot of the same ways this world is. Only without the Entities and apocalypses..."

He's about to just leave it at that, but it's almost on an impulsive whim that he adds, "And there's always a risk of shit going sideways with magic, I guess."

"Yeah? What's it look like in your world, when shit goes sideways?" Her voice is gentle, coaxing.

"Sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes they go nuts, and sometimes they die. It's the same as everything else." By which he means: "Anything worth doing has at least some risk, right?"

Malcolm was a little surprised to be called into the director's office. He had some concerns that they were upset with his job performance. Mainly that he hadn't much been performing his job lately.

That wasn't what they wanted. They had intel that Jeff Calhoun was sliding towards a relationship with the Spiral and they wanted him to talk to him. He'd been vocal in the past about his concerns with this. If he wants to help save someone before it's too late, this is the time. So they sent him to find Jeff and talk to him about it. Frankly. Firmly. Before he's lost for good.

Malcolm texts Jeff as he leaves ADI.

Meet me for coffee? My treat.

Jeff's got a lot more free time lately, since winter isn't the best season for busking, and he can't stand the New England chill, anyway. So when he gets the text from Malcolm, he shoots back a quick response:

can't say no to free coffee 😀

And after hashing out the when and the where, Jeff heads out to meet up with Malcolm. He grins when he spots the other man at the cafe.

"Hey, man."

Malcolm smiles at him.

"Hey!" He pushes a coffee towards him, as well as a plate. "I got you some pie, too."

"Oh, dude, thanks!" Coffee and pie? There's nothing suspicious about that!

Boy, it's a good thing Malcolm isn't here to poison him, because Jeff absolutely takes a bite without an ounce of suspicion over this entire meetup. Though... Jeff does pause after his first bite, looking at the other man.

"So what's up? Is today some kind of, um... special occasion?"

“Not really,” Malcolm replies. “Though I did want to thank you for getting me out of that club the other week. I wasn’t doing well. I could have been hurt.”

Like he couldn’t put down a man twice his size with one well placed punch. The man had had friends, though.

“I appreciate you looking after me.”

"You seemed to have a handle on things." See again: the throat punch. But Jeff offers a wry smile all the same. "But... yeah, no problem, anytime. It's what friends do, I mean, you'd do the same for me, right?"

"I'm trying to," Malcolm says bluntly. He fidgets with his coffee mug. "There's some talk around the office that you're starting to get in deep with the... things that consume magic. The Entities. From using it so much."

"Talk? Who's talking?" Now it's Jeff's turn to get fidgety. He fixes Malcolm with a look for a moment, grimaces, and looks down at his coffee. Suddenly, he's not really in the mood for pie.

"It's bullshit."

Malcolm watches him carefully.

“That’s a relief,” he says, taking that at face value for the moment. “How often are you using it?”

"It doesn't matter." Not exactly a promising answer. But, Jeff adds vehemently, "I'm still me."

“Nobody is disputing that. You’re one of my favourite people, as a matter of fact.”

He really is. Up there in Malcolm’s care with his roommates. With Neal.

“But that’s why I’m concerned. I’m concerned about how long you can hold on to you.”

"I'm fine. I can hold on. This isn't--" He stops himself, seeming to debate if he wants to continue where that sentence was going.

Jeff takes a breath. Tries again.

"This isn't the... first time something's tried to take me. And I managed to hold onto myself back home." Sort of. Barely. Not really. "I can still do it."

If anything, he's got an advantage, right?

“What do you mean?” Malcolm asks, intrigued. He leans forward. “What happened?” he asks quietly.

Jeff doesn't answer at first. He just stares at his coffee, expression going a bit distant. When he does speak up, his voice is soft, and not entirely certain. "Something heard my music. It... it found me, and..."

How can he describe possession to somebody who comes from a world that doesn't have magic? 'Demon' is such a clumsy, inaccurate word, and it only conjures up images of evil and little girls spewing split pea soup all over priests. Ziggy isn't-- wasn't-- evil. It wasn't good, either. It just was. It was so wholly divorced from humanity and the physical world that he can't find any appropriate words for it.

Ziggy was an abstraction, driven insane by getting trapped in a plane of existence where it didn't belong.

Jeff puts two fingers to his temple, less pointing, more mimicking a gun.

"Doesn't matter. It's gone now."

Edited 2022-02-03 17:57 (UTC)

“Something lived inside your head?” Malcolm hazards. “And did it feel the same as this feels when you use your power?” he asks.

Jeff tilts his head to one side and shrugs a shoulder-- which is to say: yeah, that's as much as a confirmation as he's willing to give, at the moment.

But when it comes to how it feels...

"No," he admits. "Nothing about magic feels the same here. I mean, it's all different, on this level that... I dunno how to explain it to you. Or... or anyone."

Maybe Abby. Maybe. But she doesn't seem as gung ho about being Gifted as him, so... Would she even get it?

He tries again. "If something's wrong with magic, then something's wrong with me. I don't get why you can't-- nobody fucking understands that it's me."

“No, I understand intimately how much your entire identity can be formed around something that you can do,” Malcolm tells him. “But this is going to literally consume you, and you can’t possibly want that either.”

"It's not something I can do, it's-- it's--" He slaps a hand on his heart, trying to indicate something deeper. "It's like a fucking light in my soul. And everyone here thinks I can just snuff it out and, what, be fine?"

This is what he wants to say: Do you know what it's like, to be noticed by something so strange and powerful. To be seen and heard and loved by it.

It's on the tip of his tongue: I should've let it consume me the first time.

What he means is: I'd die happy if it meant sharing my music with the world.

And then what he says, eyes going down as he slumps his cheek in his hand, his voice flat, like he's just reciting what a teacher wants to hear:

"No, of course I don't want that either."

Edited 2022-02-03 19:08 (UTC)

Malcolm's gaze in analytical.

"You're not sure you don't."

It's not a question; it's like he's reading words off a page.

"You feel like... you either don't know who you are or you don't like who you are and being subsumed into something else... that doesn't scare you much."

Has he ever been seen like this before? By another person, that is. Ziggy saw him, sure, because he could never escape its gaze. But his family, his friends... He knew how to hide from them, or drive them away, or let any love they felt atrophy from his own neglect.

That was Jeff back home: the rock star, the diva, the narcissistic junkie who couldn't give a shit about anyone but himself. It was a good, dependable mask, really. He'd drive away the ones who cared enough to look past it, and then it was just him and Ziggy.

Malcolm cuts right through all his dishonesty, and it takes the wind out of his sails. Jeff won't outright confirm the truth, but he may as well when he asks, his voice going a bit small: "Would that really be so bad?"

"For us, the people that love you? Yeah. Obviously. We'd lose you. For you? Only you know the answer to that," Malcolm tells him. "You're looking for a permanent escape like the temporary ones you find in the drugs and the music. I don't know if an Entity can give you that. Even if it can, I don't know whether that's worth more to you than we are."

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to think, really, because everything's so confusing. It's always confusing. Malcolm's right, he knows, on some level. But it leaves him in a pretty fucked up position, right? Snuff out the light in his spirit, or... break his friends' hearts.

Of course Jeff doesn't want to hurt them. But he can't live with himself if he turns his back on the Gift, either.

It's not fair. None of this shit is fair.

"You guys shouldn't, you know. You shouldn't love me."

All he does is hurt people. Better to cut their losses now, because even if he tries to course correct, he'll still fuck up. He knows it. There's nothing in him worth loving.

Edited 2022-02-03 19:59 (UTC)

"Well, we do. Can't change that." Malcolm considers him for a moment. "Does music still feel good if you play it without... doing the magic? The Gift isn't your only gift," he points out reasonably.

"I..."

He scrubs at his eyes, sniffs, and doesn't really know what to say.

"I can play without doing any magic, if that's what you're wondering." And it's... fine, as long as he sticks to busking and doesn't even attempt to get a foothold in the local music scene, such as it is. "But it's not... it's not something I can just separate. Music's how I communicate with it. It's always... there, when I perform."

Even if he doesn't cast anything at all, he can feel the Gift-- or whatever's replaced it here (the Cheshire Smile...), humming in tune with every melody. The temptation won't stop, and he knows he'll never be strong enough to resist it, and that's if he wants to resist it at all.

“Do you feel the Entity, even when you’re not performing?” Malcolm asks curiously.

He doesn't know if he felt it when he first arrived. Can't remember, really, if he ever lived a day in Gloucester without the sense of something twisting and tugging at him. He's pretty sure it's always been there.

Doesn't matter, really. He's been feeding it for so long, so steadily, that it's always there, in some capacity. Loudest and hungriest when he performs, but it's not like it goes away in in those moments where he's not singing or strumming away at his guitar. And it's always so hungry. His little pranks hardly seem to satisfy it anymore.

Jeff doesn't speak up, but he nods, not meeting Malcolm's eyes.

Edited 2022-02-04 17:11 (UTC)

"How do you go about... not succumbing to it? You said you knew how," Malcolm points out.

He blinks. "I dunno, there's no strategy, man, I just don't-- I don't... go as far as... it wants me to."

Though it's getting harder, for sure, to hold back from really doing damage to people. But at least for now, Jeff's inherent soft-hearted nature is holding the worst at bay.

"You don't think it can... nickel and dime you to death, as it were?" Malcolm asks.

He rubs the side of his neck and looks up at Malcolm, clearly a little confused. "What do you mean?"

Edited 2022-02-05 01:30 (UTC)

"I mean... are you sure that every time you feed it a little bit you're not just giving yourself to it... more slowly but just as completely?" he clarifies.

"Oh."

He hadn't given that much thought yet. Maybe he's considered it at some point, the whole possibility of death by a thousand cuts, but as with anything that gets too real for comfort, he promptly pushed it aside.

"I guess... maybe. It might. I don't know."

Though it still loops back to the problem at the root of this: Jeff doesn't really know if he'd rather die than give up this part of himself.

"If you feel yourself... slipping away... will you come to someone? It doesn't have to be me, but... will you look for a hand to hold on to?" Malcolm asks softly.

"I can... try," he says, without much certainty. Jeff swallows, then nods, like that'll give him more resolve, when he doesn't feel like he's got much to speak of. "I'll try."

He wants to believe that he will, anyway. But he's used to letting people down.

Jeff taps his fingers on his mug, seeming contemplative, before he lets out a sudden, unhappy laugh.

"It's not fair, you know? It's such a stupid, fucking joke. I live my whole life fucking... cherishing this part of myself. Like, maybe I'm stupid, and I can't pass a fucking test, or work an office job or whatever, but at least I have this." He waves a hand. "Then I come here, and suddenly it's wrong, and evil, and I'm supposed to just give it up like it's nothing. And do what?" He rubs his eyes. "Like, you guys don't have this hanging over your head and-- and I'm glad you don't." His voice gets softer. "But it's not fucking fair..."

"It's not fair," Malcolm agrees. "It's not even a little bit fair. But please don't think that it's all you have to offer. I understand that it's an important part of you, but it's not all that you are. It's not the only value you have."

He doesn't really know how to properly put any of this into words. After everything with Ziggy, he's already had so much stripped away. His confidence, charisma, that natural... it factor that made people want to follow him off a cliff. His friendships were hanging on by a thread back home. He knows he's already some hollow, pathetic shell of who he was, has been, even before he was brought here.

He gives up this last piece of himself, and then what?

"Malcolm," he starts, softly, uncertain, because he doesn't know if what he's about to say is going to sting. He doesn't want it to, but it might. "It's the only thing that makes me happy."

Besides drugs and sex and attention, anyway.

Malcolm considers that, his eyes searching Jeff’s face.

“Which part?”

"Um... feeling it. That connection with something..." Something greater than him? Something vast and undefinable, almost unreal.

Casting spells is about as close as Jeff comes to religious ecstasy.

"I don't know what to tell you."

"I think you're doing pretty well at digging down, honestly. Figuring ourselves out... it's not a day's work, Jeff. It takes time. And change, if we want it, that takes even more time." He takes a sip of his drink. "Do you feel the magic in you even when you're not using it?"

He nods. "Yeah, but it... If I don't cast, it starts to feel... weaker or-- or less... alive." Jeff hugs himself, hunching his shoulders as he seems to want to draw into himself. "Like it's gonna die if I don't take care of it."

And to take care of it, he has to feed. There's no getting around it.

“I wonder why they brought you here,” Malcolm muses, taking a sip of coffee. “Someone who can’t survive without magic, to a place where it mustn’t be used.”

He can survive without magic, in a sense. It's not a life he wants for himself. It's nothing worth living. A spiritual, metaphorical death.

"I dunno, because my life's a fucking joke?"

Except... He does have a theory. It's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say it.

"Do you think," Malcolm muses, tilting his cup towards Jeff, "that in actuality, ADI is interested in knowing more about the Entities and/or getting an in to reach the Entities so it brings people here who won't be able to help but fall and then they have what they want and can blame it on you?"

"Oh." He blinks. Okay, now there's a new theory floating around as a possibility. "I never... I mean... Maybe?"

He's quiet for a moment, before admitting, "Or maybe... maybe it chose me." It. Not the ADI, but something else: that thing twisting the magic inside him.

"You think the Entities can bring people to ADI? Where did you wake up when you arrived here?" he asks curiously.

"Does anyone know what brings us here? All they say is... they don't know why we're here, just that we're probably, um... you know... we've got something to do with an apocalypse?" His voice goes quieter, like he's almost afraid to give voice to the thought. "What if I... I'm the cause? Or-- or a cause, not the... you know."

Malcolm raises an eyebrow.

"How does that explain the rest of us?" he asks.

He shakes his head. "I don't know, maybe everyone's here for different reasons. Some good..." Like Malcolm. If anyone could help stop the end of the world, it's Malcolm. "Some, um... not so good..."

Jeff shrugs and looks down at his hands, as his fingers tap on the table. "It doesn't matter, anyway, I guess. Why any of us are here doesn't change anything."

"It changes our understanding," Malcolm points out. "Our perception. My perception will be entirely less kind if they brought you here expressly to fall. We don't know what that entails. We know it's a danger to you."

Can we talk? I think... We should talk. Please?

[ He sees the text, and guilt rises up like bile, and he has to choke it back.

It's hours before Jeff responds. Like, you know, he was busy, or he just didn't see it, not because he was hiding, wallowing in guilt and self pity... ]

hey
what's up :)
feeling better?

Yeah I'm fine.

[Autopilot response. The real one comes a moment later.]

It was pretty awful. But I'm back to work, so everything's alright.

that's good
i'm glad you're feeling better
it was really scary
everyone was worried

Jeff.

[Yes, she knows everyone was worried, but she's trying to cut through some of the bullshit.]

Mere

[ Like he's just being playful. Like this is a totally normal fucking conversation, and he didn't do what he did to her. ]

[There are about eighteen, maybe twenty messages she types, and then deletes. It's maybe an hour later she works out an actual reply.]

I think you were the last person who got to see me with my head on straight.

i was?
i don't really remember

You weren't looking too good. You were antsy, or nervous or...something. Are you okay?

it's ok
i'm always antsy and nervous :)
never like being stuck in one place too long

[ "Are you okay?"

He feels sick with guilt and self loathing. She shouldn't be asking him that. Nobody should-- ]

same as ever
don't worry about me
you're the one who had it really bad

I don't think it really is the same as ever, this time.

?

Did you d Shit didn't mean to send that. Um. Okay this is probably shitty to ask, but you didn't do anything to me, rihgt?

no

[ He almost capitalizes it, throws in exclamation marks to look more emphatic, but that would ring so phony, wouldn't it? The lady doth protest too much and all that. ]

meredith
you're like family to me

[ Being like "family" to someone like Jeff means nothing. He's pretty sure he would've sold anyone out-- Ally, his brothers, his parents, his friends-- just to quiet the noise in his head, and stop Ziggy from melting his fucking brain. ]

it was just a really fucked up situation
i think everyone was on the verge of losing it after the first couple days

Edited 2022-03-13 17:48 (UTC)

Yeah, things were pretty weird while we were snowed in. Sorry.

Edited 2022-03-13 17:48 (UTC)

i'm sorry too

i know i haven't been around lately

Yeah. Why not? You know you're always welcome at our place.

[ Good question. And since he can't say the main reason for his avoidance-- not without admitting what he'd done and the guilt he feels-- he spins his answer off his secondary reason. ]

it's just better if i stay away from the adi

You can't say that and then tell me not to worry.

i just don't trust them
i don't feel safe

don't you ever wonder if we'd all be a lot better off if we stayed far away from them

I do, but remember my tolerance for working with evil is really fucking low because it has to be.

yeah...
i get it

[ He should say something else. Elaborate. Speculate. Persuade. But he leaves it at that, trying to will any further conversational threads into atrophy. ]

Are you staying in touch with Tim? Or do I need to check in on him for you?

can you check up on him?

[ Don't send anything else. Leave it on that note, end the conversation. The more he responds, the more the guilt spills up into the back of his mouth, and his stupid, weak, sentimental heart is weeping and-- ]

you guys need to stay away from me
just write me off
it's ok

You know that's not going to happen, right?

please

Jeff We're none of us the sort of people who can just do that. I think that used to be at least part of why you liked us.

i love you guys
that's why i'm telling you

[She's going to drop the sweet, kind and polite for a moment, sorry Jeff.]

Listen here you little songbird bitch, you can't control who we care about, and you're already our people. If you need help, let us know. Regardless of if you do, we're going to be here. Okay? Okay, good talk.

[ Whoa.

That actually startles him out of his self pitying navel gazing, and just for a moment, he lets out a surprised laugh. It's a real laugh, and he doesn't think he's managed one in so long.

But he doesn't know what to say, because... because he's pretty sure he's past help, and there's nothing they can do unless they, what, cut out his voice box and break his fingers? Because no matter what, he'll find a way to use his magic to feed that hungry thing inside him, and now he knows that he'll even hurt Meredith and anyone else he cares about.

She's offering a lifeline, just like Malcolm had. And he wants to take it, wants to believe that it'll save him...

But he doesn't. ]

ok
good talk

Jeff, call me when you can.

Call me. Call any of us.

Where are you?

[One missed call.]

Tell someone where you are. It can be anyone. We need

[Two missed calls.

Three missed calls.]

Dude, I don't know what to do with your plants.

Just let me know if you are OK. I can't lose somebody else. Please.

Jeff, call me when you can.

i'm ok
i'm alive

sorry for everything. i ran into that shadow lady and had a major freakout
still need to get out of town for a while

i'll see you in a few days :)

Edited 2022-03-24 14:10 (UTC)

Jeff, running away won't solve anything. You're not saving us. Just come back. Let's talk.

[ NO RESPONSE. But the next morning, he does send Tim confirmation that he's alive and well, so he's definitely not dead and not an avatar! ]

They're in bed. Nothing indecent! Just in bed, a mildly warm and sunny day passing them by outside. Out a window, Tim can peer at one of the now-looming radio towers overseeing the city. There's a fire that needs to be addressed off to Gloucester's east side. If Tim hadn't felt so utterly useless before, the smoke rising now does the trick, drives the nail on the coffin.

If he couldn't find his way through life after Robin, Tim finds it woefully ironic that Robin is now so explicitly off the table.

He wiggles and sits up, (right) foot going to dig a light kick at Jeff's thigh.

There's no good time to dredge this up, which means there's no bad time for it either. "There's some chick looking for you," he informs. Swallows, because he thinks of Stephanie. Except Steph isn't just some chick. "Do you know about that?"

Jeff's not sitting up. He's perfectly content to keep sprawling on the bed, looking up at the underside of the top bunk as if there's a movie playing out above him. He blinks, slow and sedate as Tim gives him a little kick, then turns his head to look up at him.

First: blank confusion.

"Huh?"

Then: the wheels start to turn. Tim can probably see the moment that the lights seem to switch 'on' in Jeff's head, and he gets to thinking....

(What he doesn't betray is the way his pulse picked up, a little spike of adrenaline, as soon as Tim even mentioned some chick. Yeah, he knows who she is. Yeah, he's been on edge ever since she tracked him here. Yeah, maybe he made a mistake in thinking the ADI's presence would act as a deterrent. He should've stayed on the road. He should've chased her. He should've plucked at her mind and twisted and pulled until it was like taffy--)

"Oh! The chick with the hotline?" He hums softly. Sweet, ditzy, spacey, stupid Jeff. "She's looking for you, too, I think. And Aelwyn..."

Edited 2023-05-14 19:25 (UTC)

It's true, y'know. He's never had those abilities like Clark or like Kon. Tim wouldn't know what to do with them, being able to pick up on signals that aren't meant to be known. He turns his body, hikes his not-there left leg over his right and considers running a hand through Jeff's hair.

He's only worried his fingers will snag. Or worried that they'll get sidetracked by the smallest touch because they just kinda do that sometimes and Tim can't keep straight whether or not it's part of the plan to keep getting so lost in the world that only belongs in their intimacy or like.

"Maybe," he admits.

He touches a hand to Jeff's hair because it's ungodly just how much of a mess it is. Even Tim thinks he fares better in that department, and that's saying a lot. It's a good thing to focus on and Tim braves the next prod, even if he does sound... petty. "But I was wondering how you met her."

Does it matter if it's part of the plan? Take a detour, Tim. Get lost with Jeff.

Life's so much better when you stray off the path and step sideways into another world. Wonderland, Oz, and the Lands Beyond. Worlds of metaphor and nonsense.

Jeff leans into the touch, a smile idling at the corner of his mouth. His shirt, too big, unbuttoned, and falling off at one shoulder, exposes his neck, his collarbone, all delicate and elegant, marred by a fresh scar slicing its way towards his throat.

A souvenir from life on the road.

"I dunno." He reaches a hand up to dance his fingers against Tim's. Idle intimacy as he spins his own version of reality. "How do I meet anyone? I just..." He shoots Tim a playful grin. "Dance into their lives, right?"

A beat.

"Don't think I ever met her, though. Maybe she's a groupie."

"If you've got a stalker you should report them," he chides. It's going to take more delusion than Jeff harbors to make the suggestion sound earnest. Tim's eyes had narrowed with a self-directed stormy edge in the blues.

He wants to comment that Jeff looks like a monkey with his hand over his own head, and Tim isn't sure how to deal with the urge to laugh at it. He bites at his bottom lip, Jeff's words so predictably frivolous and here he is, so predictably taken aback by what he already knows.

"You called the hotline, or... how do you know who she is, if you never met her?"

What's that phrase he's seen on dating profiles? Here for a good time, not a long time. Tim had thought it was trashy. And here he is, huddled in a bunk bed, shirtless and silently comparing scars to scars, desperately hoping nobody turns a key to this tiny room and announces themselves as a new roomie.

--he's jealous too, but like, that's not trashy. That's just normal.

Report them. Jeff lets out a laugh, sudden and giddy, at the sheer ridiculousness of the suggestion. "To who? The cops?" The laughter dies down, and he puts on his best wide-eyed pollyanna face as he tilts his head, hand flopping back down to the mattress. "Or should I tell the ADI?"

Cops or the ADI. It's hard to tell which of the two Jeff trusts less.

Tim bites his lip, and Jeff's eyes linger there for a moment, as he thinks about how much he'd like to do the same.

"I called the number." He sits up, eyes bright with mischief. "I figured, you know, who better to give info on Jeff Calhoun than..." He shrugs. "I dunno, man, what do you want me to say? I called, and, like, a stranger picked up. I dunno her."

A beat, before Jeff leans in, lips brushing so close to lips.

"Why? Are you jealous?" he teases.

Edited 2023-05-14 21:57 (UTC)

He can only keep a lid on it for so long, and Jeff's laughter is the beginning of the end. Tim's narrowed eyes pin him down, and the moment he's free to and Jeff is playing dumb, he interrupts. "You wouldn't have to even think about ADI if--"

The heat, instead of dissipating, grows in the pit of his stomach.

There's so many emotions at play, all of them negative. He doesn't know how to jockey the tidal wave threatening to swallow him. Tim resists the bait, the man, the words.

Somewhat.

"I just don't want to share for once."

He can't jockey the emotions, wrangle the twisted things under control, but he can throw his weight and straddle Jeff's hips, bed sheets between them, and barely think of his stump of a leg doing little to nothing to pin Jeff's side.

Somewhat.

"And-- I've been thinking."

There's heat in those words, and Jeff wants to stoke the flames, and draw a fire out of the other boy that'll burn them both up, which is weird, right, because that's, like, Aelwyn's deal, not his.

Or maybe he just wants to keep things tangled and confusing and indefinable, where every touch and declaration can mean ten different things at once, and he knows... He knows that heat is the inevitable byproduct.

"Oh. Well. You don't have to share." Simple. It's that easy, right?

Tim's got him pinned, sort of, under his weight, and Jeff could probably push him off, but he doesn't want to. It's weird, looking down where a leg should be, and seeing its absence, so stark and sudden that it still feels unreal. He likes it. Sometimes, for fun, Jeff likes to make others see wrongness in him, too. Too many fingers on his hands-- blink-- too few fingers-- blink-- an eye where an eye shouldn't be-- blink-- and now he's totally normal again. Little things like that. Pranks and perks of his current state of whatever-the-fuck he is.

Did Tim ever have two legs? Was Dave ever not a weasel? (Wait, who's Dave again?)

"Mm... What've you been thinking?"

Tim thinks, he deserves a goddamn medal. There's no one else he knows that would restrain themselves from throttling this guy if they could see him the way he does.

It's so... sad, Tim thinks. It's so incredibly fucked up.

Ever since the-- their first time, he thought to himself this isn't how it's supposed to go. Yeah, sure, candlelight and rose petals might've been too much, but there's no big... there's no... like at the wedding, where the love was a palpable, living entity weaving between and through the couple.

Him and Jeff just kinda screw around.

Make each other laugh sometimes. Tim aches. He needs-- wants it more than just 'sometimes'. But they're not built like that. Case in point:

"I don't want to share you," he hisses. Tim brings a hand up, long fingers tracing a scar that's familiar to see in the mirror but that's still unwelcome on Jeff's skin. A cut throat. "Who the hell were you messing with? What were you doing to get popular enough for groupies?"

Jeff's face is a picture of innocence. Innocence, paired with pretty, delicate features, like he's something sweet and angelic. Does he even know how deceiving his looks are, how much leeway that's given him, his entire life? It can be hard to look at that face and realize there's something broken inside.

"What I've always done."

He never was a good person, was he. Sweet, sure, but also careless, selfish, vacuous, and doesn't that just leave so much hurt in his wake? Can't even blame that on his, ah, condition.

What he's always done, even when he hadn't meant to. Toyed with feelings, messed with heads, used people, broke hearts, all while singing, singing, singing.

Even before he was an avatar, he was always a monster.

"I guess people are just drawn to me." He can practically feel the frustration threatening to boil over beneath Tim's fingertips. Jeff smiles in the face of all that tension, nothing smug or taunting about it. It... seems genuine. Looks about as genuine as Jeff's capable of being these days. An attempt to reassure, and there's even something of a wince in it. "You're not sharing me. Nobody's--"

He stops himself.

How to put it?

"There's a piece of me... that I... I don't give to anyone else."

His humanity-- or whatever's left of it. No pressure, right?

"Is it even a part of yourself that you like?"

Or is he getting fed scraps from the dinner table.

Now there's a question.

"It's--"

He furrows his brows and thinks, and god, it's probably pathetically obvious that he's thrown, if only because he doesn't know the answer to that question. Can't even lie, because he doesn't know the truth.

Jeff laughs, and it's a totally miserable sound. "I dunno. There's not a lot that I like about me."

Besides his magic, and his music, two things so dearly intertwined with his very being. Two things he'll do anything to safeguard, even sell his soul. He hurt Meredith for this. He caused a citywide blackout for this. He killed for this. He died for this. And always, always, there's that drive to share his magic, and his music, however terrible it's become, with as wide an audience as possible.

"Does it matter? It's important, that's..." He hums thoughtfully. "I... think it's important."

Brace yourself, this is the most vulnerability he's shared with anyone since his grand return. Jeff reaches to stroke his fingers in Tim's hair.

"I like you more than anyone else. Doesn't that count?"

Edited 2023-05-21 21:09 (UTC)

APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX

un: strange

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A Saturday (leading to potential NSFW oh no)

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cw for brief mention of injuries

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idk cw for general... depressive thoughts, brief SI, brief history of sexual assault

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text, un: timjdrake, Dec 18

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S I G H cw suicidal thoughts

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cw disassociation?

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text;

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