originallutece | (no subject)

Alright.

[ To all of it. He's surprised, but knows he shouldn't be - Rosalind's always been even-minded like this. She gets it. ]

Humor. I think. [ A breath. ] He liked to screw around with people. The party I remember is him just having fun, but he tripped some people and slapped the trays out of some of the waiters' hands. Because it was funny. Because he knew they wouldn't do anything about it. They'd just say I'm so sorry sir and look at him with these bug eyes like they were terrified, and stumble all the hell over themselves to clean it up. And he liked that.

'Til now I thought, hey, he's an asshole, but assholes aren't necessarily bad people, right? My bad for hoping life would cut me a goddamn break for once.

[ A long exhale. ]

And anger. I remember being angry.

Well. I don't think I can inspire fear, not like that, but humor and anger . . . that, I can get out of a simple conversation.

So we'll talk, you and I. We'll make sure you can't get free, and then I'll infuriate you enough that he comes out.

. . . and if that fails, I should think I provide more than enough material for humor. You know how to get under my skin, and I should imagine irritating me enough might give him ample opportunity to shine through.

. . . Ardyn and I talked about this, you know. Not you. But what might happen if someone's other self was so different and appalling.

I dunno, Ros - I'll be expecting it. [ She can't see him shrug stupidly, but he does. ] You really think you can get to me when I know you're just doing it for science?

You're gonna have to be good.

[ He sounds entirely too pleased by that. Yeeeees, put in ridiculous amounts of effort just for him.

But serious topic. ]

You talked about the being different thing, though? Yeah, I just... I'm afraid I'll eventually turn into him. Get too many memories or something. Just slowly becoming somebody else.

It's a possibility. But I don't think it'll happen, if you want the truth. You're aware of it, not denying it, and that's the start. You'll be on the lookout for behaviors that aren't your own, and trying to avoid them.

And even if you don't succeed entirely: your friends won't allow you to indulge in such a way.

[ Actually kind of touched over here? Sure, he's got friends, and he knows he can trust them, but deep down there's still some part of him that never stopped thinking they'd ditch him if it got too rough. Like all his older, shittier friends. That's just how human beings work. But he's confessed to some rank shit and they still have his back.

So maybe he sounds a little... who knows? Relieved? ]

Thanks, Ros. That-- [ means a lot to me. Nope. ] That makes me feel better about this shit. Feels pretty good to have somebody watching my back.

Kinda doubt you're gonna start choking people out, but same to you, alright? Just lemme know when you need me and I'm there.

[She's sounding a fair bit relieved herself. She's not good at comforting people; it's just not a talent. But if he feels a bit better, that's all right. That's all she can ask for.]

I will.

[She means that, too. A pause, and then:]

I don't suppose you have any tips for how to get under your skin, hm? I have a, ah, few ideas, but as I also don't want to utterly destroy our friendship . . .

[Actually, she has one idea. One very bad, very mean idea. But that might be going a bit far, and while she wants him furious, she doesn't want him to loathe her.]

You're not gonna destroy anything, Ros. Hell, I'm pretty sure you couldn't if you tried. [ And he sounds confident about that. ] Hhhhhunh. Well, Tony triggered that one thing with my grandma, but my childhood's kind of a weird... thing. Can usually talk about it without feeling anything. Pretty sure it's some kind of coping mechanism, but it works for me.

Ask Ardyn about it. I've told him some of the worst shit. Ask Tony about my wife. Or Angel.

[ A beat. A really, really long one. ]

Rosalind, can I trust you? 'Cuz I do. I really do. Feels like I could tell you anything and you wouldn't flip out and hate me forever, no matter how bad it was.

Am I right?

[ Ruh-roh, Raggy. ]

[UH-OH indeed. To her credit, Rosalind actually stops to think about the question before answering, because false assurances are pointless.]

. . . yes. I believe so, yes.

You believe so?

[ It's... probably not any more comforting how needling he is about this. ]

Not gonna work. I need you to be positive, Rosalind.

[Has he killed someone, then? She wonders. She really does, because this kind of question seems the perfect lead-up. And perhaps that question would spark anxiety in another woman, but all Rosalind really feels is . . . calm. Worried, yes, because that needling tone is frightening, but not at all the kind of horror one might expect to feel when one very seriously contemplates whether or not one of their friends has committed murder.]

. . . short of telling me you've raped someone, yes, Jack, I won't loathe you no matter what you tell me.

Nah, I'd never do some shit like that.

[ A beat. ]

Can you come over? Or we can meet up at your place, whatever - just somewhere private? You need ammo, and I'm about to give it to you.

I'll be over soon.

[Indeed: while she doesn't outright break any laws, she's certainly edging towards it as she speeds towards his home. Thank god for expensive cars with engines just built for getting across town quickly, eh?]

[ He sends over his address and just waits - well, makes drinks first, but spends the time after that waiting. When she knocks: ]

Door's unlocked.

[It's the first time she's entered his home, and despite her fear, she's a little curious. Who wouldn't be? She glances around as she slips off her heels. Her eyes go to the drinks, and oh, lord, it's going to be that kind of talk, is it? The kind that doesn't come easy unless they're both a little tipsy.

Despite herself, she glances him over as well. It was Tony that got choked, but one never knows.]

What's our poison for the evening?

You kiddin'? These are both for me.

[ The apartment is small, but on the more expensive side as far as apartments go - he's got a sprawling kitchen with an island, a living room full of nice, barely-used furniture with a modern bent. Besides a crumpled outfit dumped across the arm of the couch, it's almost uncomfortably clean. Someone lives here, but someone doesn't really live here.

Also, there's a fuckoff big cat tree that takes up half a wall just by itself. It's shaped like a castle. Two cats poke their heads out to stare balefully at the new intruder. ]

Princess. [ Jack points to one cat, then the other. ] Pumpkin. Don't try petting them, it's a trap. Mean little sumbitches.

[ His southern twang doesn't come out often - it's usually faint, if there at all. He's spent a long time away from home. Now he sounds like somebody threw south Texas and a little Mexico into a blender. ]

Liquor cabinet's over there. Grab whatever you want. Expensive stuff's on top.

[ Jack just looks tired at this point. Rather than primped and preened, he's wearing his Hyperion sweater and a loose pair of nightpants, his hair vaguely done up. This whole thing has been fucking with him way harder than he's let show. ]

[The cats are ignored, but Rosalind does head to the liquor cabinet. Rosalind pours herself some rum, sips, shudders, and goes to sit on one end of the couch.]

Come sit.

[An order, but mildly said. It's easier to boss than to give in to her apprehension.]

And tell me what it is that's on your mind.

[ Normally he'd argue just for the sake of being difficult - what if I want to sit somewhere else, stop bullying me, jeez - but now he sits, in fact carrying both of his drinks. And the bottle. ]

Yup. So. [ Plop. He sets his cargo on the glass coffee table. ] Casa de Dawes. Whaddya think?

[ Just... ignoring... that question...... ]

[Both her eyebrows raise, but all right. They can dodge it for a while. She settles in a bit more, one leg crossing beneath her as she glances around.]

I hadn't expected the cats.

[What is it with everyone and cats? Good grief, between him and Ardyn . . .]

And I'm absurdly jealous of your kitchen, though heaven only knows why, given I don't cook. It's lovely, Jack.

[But it's not why she's here. And the look she gives him as she sips at her rum very firmly suggests that.]

Thanks. I like cooking, I just... I dunno. [ Shrug. ] It's usually just me. And I'm pretty sure the cats just crawled out of hell and wanted to stay here for their time in the material world, so I let 'em.

[ S H R U G. He sees that look, though, and drains one of his drinks. ]

I strangled the guy that killed my wife. [ He glances over immediately, face carefully blank as he examines hers. ] Twenty years ago.

Sounds a hell of a lot like the last link to why I went after Tony the way I did, isn't it?

[Her eyes go wide, the color draining from her cheeks. She can't help either reaction, though she'd been half-expecting something like this. It's one thing to idly imagine it; it's quite another to hear it said point-blank.

But she doesn't scream. She doesn't scramble away. She watches him for a long few seconds, her heart pounding hard and her fingers wrapped tight around her glass, and then slowly jerks her head into a nod.]

. . . yes.

[All right. Slowly, slowly, the immediate shock fades. Rosalind drains her glass in one shot, then sets it down on the table and nods again.]

Does Tony know?

[ It's the reaction he expected, even if he didn't want it - Jack turns back and starts on the bottle itself, letting himself thump softly against the back of the couch. Ardyn's reaction had been low-key, but Ardyn wasn't exactly normal people, either.

He keeps his eyes set in front of him, staring a hole into the opposite wall. ]

He knew the night I did it. [ And in what may be the only real kindness he's ever shown Tony, he refrains from adding and he said "Good." ] About ten years ago, I was gonna - I came back to town, and Tony and I got in a bar fight. I tried strangling him then too.

I never liked it like he liked it until this last time.

. . . well. That's something, at least.

[It's a very good sign, actually. She'd much prefer that than the alternative. Rosalind's fingers curl around her knee, her eyes trained on him as she thinks.

Out of all of it, it's her own absence of horror that bothers her the most. She really ought to be reacting in some way: disgust or terror or loathing, surely she ought to have some kind of emotional reaction. But now that the initial shock is fading, she finds herself . . . not quite calm. But steady.]

He's the only one, then? Your wife's murderer, that was the only time--?

[ tmw you confess to murder and all your friends are like "eh". BUT he seems to relax a little, letting out a breath. ]

Yeah. Didn't do it for fun. [ At least he's sipping now? It's better than his earlier chugging, at any rate. ] Didn't make me feel any better, either. When you're a kid, you think, I'll kill him, I'll do it like an action movie. And you think it'll make everything alright. Then you actually do it, and you realize that it doesn't fucking work that way, because she's still dead.

[ A beat. ]

I did try to kill my grandma when I was ten, but that was the night she drowned my cat in the sink, soooo. Yeah. Not really ashamed of that one.

[Get more morally righteous friends, Jack.

Funnily enough, that attempt on his grandmother earns more of a reaction than his confessed murder. Rosalind's eyes widen again, but it's not at what one might think. It's just-- good god, no wonder he and Tony had been drawn to one another, they're birds of a feather, aren't they? She'd been horrified when he'd confessed just what some of his childhood had consisted of, and here's Jack, admitting the same thing.

God.

But no matter. They're both grown and clearly well out of it. Rosalind leans forward, offering her empty glass in unspoken order.]

No, I should imagine not.

[He seems to be settling back, but just in case:]

. . . I'm not running for the hills, you know. For the record.

Forgot to make my bed, by the way. For the cat thing. Good ol' grams. [ He almost sounds kind of... nostalgic? Which is probably extremely unhealthy and indicative of some kind of horrible mental disorder, but he doesn't mind, pouring Rosalind a fresh drink. ] She sends me cookies sometimes. You like oatmeal raisin? Because that's the only kind she makes and she knows I hate them, the sour old bitch. Hope she dies slow.

[ Seriously, there's this bizarre swing from nice to bitter to apathetic to whatever when it comes to her. Save yourself while you can, Rosalind. ]

And I'm glad to hear it - that you're not running and screaming your head off about it. Knew you wouldn't. [ He sets the bottle against the cushions between them, letting his eyes shut. ] I don't give a shit what happens to me, but Angel... I don't want her to know. Think I've ruined her life enough already.