TMA!Jacobi and Jon

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Are you sure this is the place?" he asks the driver, who was already speeding off, leaving Jacobi in front of the old building.

"Thanks for your help!" he calls out with false cheer, rolling his eyes before trudging his way up to what he had been told was the Magnus Institute. He doesn't even flinch at the screech of tires that comes from blocks behind him. He doesn't have to see the car erupt into flames as a very confused driver crawls out and phones for help. That's chaos for someone else.

Instead, he takes the steps up, backpack on his shoulder. He had flown all the way out here, so it's not as if he's going to be missing any leads. Besides. He has an appointment.

The closer to the door he gets, the more uncomfortable he feels about this. It's like a whisper of wind against his skin, a suggestion of something dangerous, but Jacobi's never let something like that bother him. He walks through, hands in his pockets.

Comments

[epistemological]

There's a long, steady look before he slips through the door. It'll take him a few minutes before he comes back again, and during that time, Jacobi will feel eyes on him.

"...it's here."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Stop that," he hisses to the eyes he can only feel. The press into him, annoying him greatly.

But then Jon's voice gives him a jolt.

"Good!" he squeaks, then tries again,with less enthusiasm. "Good."

[epistemological]

There's a bit of wry amusement on his face from the 'fight' with his attentions. The squeak gets a bounce of one eyebrow.

"Good" he repeats. "Was there anything else?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

"You're actually going to give it to me?" he laughs. "No fight?"

And he holds his hand out for it.

[epistemological]

He stands in the doorway.

"I hardly said that. I'd like to know what it does. And why you want it. And 'defending' it is no reason to take it out from here. We're already living here after all. You'd protect it better by staying here."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"It - burns when you use it. But not - your hands. Use it enough, hold it enough, carry it enough, it will burn the heart right out of you," he tells him.

"It was once a sacrificial knife, but - uh, changed its demeanor."

[epistemological]

There's a long pause as he looks at Jacobi.

"...and that's... why you're looking for it?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

Jacobi finally holds his gaze. Very serious. Very somber.

"There's a bit of poetry to it, right? But hey. It's worth a shot."

[epistemological]

He will step out of the room, close the door, and turn to face Jacobi as he leans his back against it.

"Then I'm afraid I can't give it to you."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Really? This is where you draw the line?"

He rolls his eyes, annoyed.

[epistemological]

He looks back at Daniel and his eyes go... not hard. But determined.

"At helping someone erase part of their own humanity? Yes, that is in fact where I draw the line."

[mrballisticsdummy]

Jacobi doesn't seem to react outwardly to that, not physically, but the air immediately around him shimmers somewhat, like heat waves on the street.

"Yeah, and what the hell has my humanity done for me? Or anyone?" he snaps, though his anger comes out of desperation more than destruction.

[epistemological]

There's a firmer set of his mouth, a harder press of lips. He has no intention of playing this game.

"Would they, the ones you lost, want you to burn your heart away?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

Goddammit. He knows he can't resist and chooses not to as the words come tumbling out.

"Of course not. Of course they wouldn't. But there isn't anything left for me in this place. Nothing I want. And they aren't here to tell me what they want."

He doesn't notice that, as he speaks, the air cools considerably. But he stares at his feet, not meeting his eyes.

[epistemological]

He doesn't have to meet his eyes. There's enough eyes to go around right now.

"And," and there's no compulsion here, because he doesn't need to hear the answer. Jacobi just needs to know it. "Will anyone else remember them? Will any one else mourn them? Do realize that burning out your heart... will make them hardly matter to you? Can you live with that?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

That gets a dark chuckle. "You know the answer to that. You know I won't care. You know it's what I'm - " He hesitates, tripping on the word because he hates it. "Supposed to do. And I don't - I'm so goddamn tired."

[epistemological]

"I didn't ask that. I asked if you, right now, can live with the idea that no one will mourn them. That no one will remember them. That everything they did for you, everything you meant to each other... will mean nothing. Can you really live with that idea right now?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

He doesn't have to answer that. There's a weight of his silence that speaks volumes.

"Her name was Alana Maxwell. His was Warren Kepler. One was shot in the head. The other - out an airlock. They were, without exaggeration, the only two friends I ever really had."

[epistemological]

Jon steps forward, away from the door, into Jacobi's space and his voice is softer.

"And what would you even be without your memories of them?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Nothing, which you can't tell me isn't ideal."

He finally does look up, not backing out of the way.

[epistemological]

"'Nothing' whose only goal and satisfaction is the destruction of other people's lives, all the while that hollow place in you would only grow bigger and bigger," he says with rising ire, "never sated, never better, aching and sad and lost. And you'd try to feed people to it and fail. Every time, you'd fail."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"What, then, is the better option?"

Because he knows. He knows what this means and he doesn't want it. Not really. Perhaps that's why he came here, to this place, instead of a thousand other avenues.

[epistemological]

He won't lie.

"I don't know. I just know this is the worst one."

He sighs as, after a moment, tentatively reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Perhaps... Perhaps I make you something up on the staff kitchen for now."

[mrballisticsdummy]

Jacobi almost, almost pulls away, but doesn't. It's been a long time since he's been touched, since he's allowed anyone to touch him, and he actually misses the feeling.

"Sure, yeah."

[epistemological]

It's obviously a bit awkward for him as well but there's a pat pat as he'll lead the way to the staff kitchen. He has enough groceries to put something together on the two burners the range has.

"Do you like, um... Indian food?"