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]

"Yes, well, it's not really how my particular... I don't. In general."

A soft sigh to himself before he says something that sounds very much like "I just get them killed".

There's a sign that says they're heading into the Archives.

[mrballisticsdummy]

He hears that and sighs. "Who cares? People die. That's what they do."

[epistemological]

He looks back at him.

"And the ones you cared about. The ones that make you want to mutilate yourself. Are they not also 'people'?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

"They are. And they died. Just like everyone else."

He meets his gaze steadily. "And no one cares but me."

[epistemological]

He shakes his head and he'll lead him down into his office, gesturing to a chair.

"I care," he says quietly, "but I care distantly. Politely. But I do have the means for more than that, and I'd like to offer that."

He sits in his own seat.

"Tell me about them. I want to Know so you don't have to mourn them alone."

[mrballisticsdummy]

He takes the chair and leans back, lounging more than actually sitting.

"I don't know if I can..." he admits.

[epistemological]

Jon looks at Daniel thoughtfully.

"Do you want to? No worry about 'can'."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Are you going to force it if I say yes?"

He runs his hands through his hair. "Does it even count?"

[epistemological]

"No, I won't," he says, "not that I can't. But I- I don't like to. The option is open for you, however."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Nah, it's alright."

He sits forward, finds a paperclip, and leans back again to unwind it between his fingers. "Uh, Colonel Kepler was my - boss. There were three of us, but Alana, uh, yeah."

He's not ready to talk about her.

"We fought. A lot. In the end. But he was the one who saved us all. We had worked together for years and it all went to shit after the mutiny, and I was too angry and grieving to realize that he had always been on my side."

[epistemological]

"Ah."

And there's a quiet consideration before he offers-

"My... my friend Tim- Timothy Stoker. He, uh... I get the feeling that if he was sitting here instead of me, the two of you would have a lot to talk about. And, um... I like to think he'd have something like that to say about me."

[mrballisticsdummy]

He raises a brow. "Yeah. Was he in love with you?" he challenges.

[epistemological]

He wobbles a hand.

"Tim, when he wasn't... very very angry, was a little bit in love with everyone. But especially with another coworker of ours we lost earlier. Her name was Sasha."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Yeah? And what happened to her?"

He continues trying to twist the paperclip into a knot.

[epistemological]

"She was taken by a Not!Them," he explains. "Which is part of why he died hating me."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Was it your fault?" he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

[epistemological]

"I was in charge. Technically. So in his eyes, yes. But I don't know how I could have prevented it. She certainly didn't listen to me when I told her not to do something. So I think, mostly, it just... happened."

[mrballisticsdummy]

Well that sounds strangely familiar. The paperclip turns red hot as he continues playing with it.

"He - made the call that eventually killed Alana. But - I pulled the trigger."

[epistemological]

"Did you hate him enough for both?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

"I don't hate him more than I loved him," he confesses. "Whatever that means now. Exactly shit."

[epistemological]

"I don't know about Tim," he says quietly, "but that's how I feel as well."

[mrballisticsdummy]

"Well, it doesn't matter. They're both dead," he says automatically as the grief and the pain well up in him again. Choking him.

[epistemological]

He knows he's taking his life into his hand. But he thinks it might be worth it.

"Do you really think so?"

[mrballisticsdummy]

He sucks in a stuttering of a breath, hardly recognizing at first what had happened. But no words come at first. First there's a tear that falls, one that seems to evaporate into nothing before he even has a chance to brush it away.

"No. It's the only goddamn thing that matters, but I spent the entire trip home obsessing about it. Obsessing about them. There isn't anything in the world I want more than to have that connection, and the only two people I had it with are gone."

[epistemological]

He just... nods.

"I'm sorry. For... you. For them. I'm sorry for all of it."