openmisc | TMA!Jacobi and Jon

TMA!Jacobi and Jon

"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.

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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."

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

He rolls his eyes, annoyed.

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."

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.

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?"

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.

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?"

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."

"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?"

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."

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?"

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

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

"'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."

"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.

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."

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."

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?"

"You're actually going to cook?" he snorts. "Uh, yeah. I do, actually."

He sets his backpack down with that now-familiar metallic clang and sits at the table. He's hollow, a bit worn out, but there is some comfort he takes in not being dismissed.

"it's cheaper than getting carryout," he explains before he'll put the rice on and start mixing the spices. Thankfully, the garlic and ginger past is in a can.

At least it smells good?

"I live like a college kid," he explains. "Take out and noodles. So I'm not exactly picky."

He leans forward, watching him. "Where did you find time to learn how to cook?"

"I learned very early," he explains as he gives the spices a toast, tossing them in the dry pan.

"As I nearly starved on 'good, plain, English food' due to sheer boredom."

He's not quite sure how this turned into a friendly encounter. But at least Jacobi isn't trying to stab him and get by.

Not yet, anyway.

He leans back, crossing his legs. "My dad didn't think I needed to learn. I was probably gay enough without getting behind an oven."

"My grandmother was just happy she didn't have to cook as much," he says as he starts in with the onions, cutting them up. Tomatoes from a can, cooked to give it a bit of a roasted flavor. Then more seasoning, chickpeas carefully drained, a few more bits and bobs.

"She didn't live to find out I hardly cared about the gender of my partner. She might have known. She probably didn't care. She didn't much care about anything to do with me."

"Yes, well, we wouldn't be here if we had happy lives."

He picks charcoal from his fingers, watching his movements as he cooks. "How did you end up here?"

"I don't know," he says thoughtfully, "some pretty big arseholes can have perfectly lovely lives before something happens to them. And then they're one of us."

He glances over at Jacobi before he shrugs.

"Here here, or touched by one of Them?"

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