CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic
Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)
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Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?
Fingers snap right in front of his face.
Johnny!
Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.
Just darkness.
Wait, if the electricity's out...
He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.
See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.
"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"
Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?
He's the only person in this room.
Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.
The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.
Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.
His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.
I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?
Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.
"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."
Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?
Jameson turns his head, and there he is.
Hank.
His breath catches in his throat.
Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.
The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...
"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"
Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?
"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.
He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"
He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.
He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.
Just once more.
Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.
The brother who erased him.
"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"
Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.
It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.
"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.
They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.
They lied about that, too.
Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."
Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.
He smells like earth and ice.
"I'm not him," He whispers.
Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.
They never stop breaking through.
He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.
Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.
Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"
Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?
The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"
Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.
Until he didn't.
Until nobody did.
Until the cops found what was left.
Until-
Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.
He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.
The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.
He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.
Forces down the dream.
Wills himself to forget he ever had it.
"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."
Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.
He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.
He won't.
"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."
It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.
He won't remember his brother.
He won't.
"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"
Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.
Call Mom.
His breath hitches.
"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."
All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.
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ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)
i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch
because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve
CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt
Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.
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Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.
God, it looks good.
His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.
He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.
This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.
Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.
Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.
Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.
He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.
He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.
He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.
The burn is perfect.
He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.
He looks up.
Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.
His cost more than five hundred dollars.
He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.
Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.
He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.
Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.
The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.
Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.
Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"
"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."
He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.
"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.
If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.
This must be why Owen liked it so much.
No.
He won't think about Owen right now.
Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.
"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"
Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"
Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"
"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."
Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.
It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?
"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.
"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.
It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.
Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.
Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?
"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"
Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."
There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.
Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?
It's... it's good, almost.
It feels better than he thought it would.
"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.
Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.
They both survived, didn't they?
Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.
"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."
"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."
"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"
There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.
"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.
Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.
Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.
He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.
Oh.
There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.
Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.
Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.
Jameson flinches.
Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"
"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."
"I'm so sorry."
Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.
Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.
But then, it's been months.
Months, he made it without taking even a sip.
He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.
The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."
There's a pause.
"From... me?"
"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"
"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."
"Please."
An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."
"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."
Kauri hangs up.
Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.
He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.
Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.
He should have called his sponsor instead.
Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.
But he deserves it, anyway.
Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.
Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.
"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."
"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"
"I got... I drank."
"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.
"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."
"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"
"I-... I scared him."
"... you scared him?"
"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"
"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"
Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."
"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."
Vince lowers his head into his arms.
"Thank you," He says, muffled.
"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."
CW: chronic pain,.Jameson is kind of a bastard here, he judges himself a lot for this
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Jameson's eyes haven't even opened when he decides he isn't leaving the bed today.
It isn't even the ache, the throbbing deep pain in muscles and bones that were forced into position for so long they can't remember how to come back. The pain he can place to the side, mostly. Swallow some pills, rely on crutches or maybe his chair today, push himself along through sheer determination and momentum.
No, it's not the pain.
It's that the pain is so fucking exhausting.
He's been in this stupid goddamn bed for ten hours but feels like he hasn't slept at all. His eyelids feel like they grind through grit when he blinks them open, and his body just won't move. It would take monumental effort just to get downstairs.
Some days, he can't even use the railing. He has to sit and push himself down on his ass and he feels like a child, cheeks burning in furious embarrassment for something that was never his fault, that he can't control.
Tears burn, and he blinks as rapidly as his tired body allows.
No.
He's exhausted inside and out. Tired of hurting and fighting through hurt. Tired of staircases, tired of standing. Tired of tossing and turning in his sleep and still waking curled up like he's still in the dog crate he left behind years ago.
When there's a knock at his bedroom door, he thinks about answering it.
That feels like too much fucking effort.
"Hey, Jameson?" It's Vince, of course it is. Goddamn fucking Vincent shitty Shield.
"What." He barely manages to spit the word, not even sure he's loud enough to hear through the door. His legs throb harder as if to respond to him and he swallows back a sound.
If this shit makes him whimper like an animal where Vince can hear him, he just... he can't take that.
"Uh, you asked yesterday about getting coffee down-"
"Yeah. No. Not going."
"You sure? I could bring you back a latte-"
"Fuck fucking off, Vince, leave me the fuck alone, I feel like shit. Just fuck off."
There's a long pause.
"Do you want me to get Nat? She's out working on her garden-"
"I said fuck off!"
He grabs the closest thing to him, a book he was reading, and throws it. It bangs against the door and falls to the ground with a flutter of pages that sounds distinctly like it's judging him.
Another pause.
He should apologize. Vince is just being nice, or trying to.
He doesn't say anything.
After a second, he hears Vince creaking on the stairs, and he pulls the covers up over his head to middle himself further. Only then does he let himself hitch the smallest, whispered sob.
Pls, Vince! Bring him some Latte, although he told you to shut it.β€οΈ
Follows directly after this one
(also, @yet-another-heathen asked for heart palpitations for Jameson)
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At some point he dozes back off. He's not sure when - he's sitting there hating himself and his stupid bullshit fucking legs and hating every single moment from the second Nanda had stopped short, looked at him sort of startled and said oh and then slumped sideways and gone down the stairs and... and it had all gone wrong, ever since, every single goddamn day.
Even when he'd thought it would get better, it didn't. He feels worse right now than ever.
Still.
He dozes off. Trash Cat lays down beside him, upside down with her ilttle paws bent in the air and her soft belly showing. Then she gets up and leaves again, padding silently down the hallway to go have violent daydreams about the birds in the trees outside.
He doesn't dream - he's not quite deeply asleep enough for that. But he's trapped somewhere at a distance from the pain, and it feels so good to even have that small slim barrier between him and his legs that he could cry from gratitude.
There's a time when maybe he slips totally under the surface.
The next thing he knows, there's a hand on his shoulder.
Jameson's eyes snap open.
Before he can even take into account what he sees, he's already throwing the punch with one hand. The other is under his pillow, closed around the handle of the knife.
His fist clocks Vincent Shield right over his left eye, sending him stumbling backwards into a small dresser, his arms pinwheeling, but he just slams back-first into it and then hits the ground. "Shit!"
It's his voice that brings Jameson back to reality. Wide-eyed, he sits up in bed with the knife brandished in one hand, the other aching with the aftermath of the hit. "... Vince?"
"Mmmf. Yeah." Vince's face is white, his cheek already turning bright red where Jameson's fist connected. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he looks... terrified... of Jameson.
There's a necklace Allyn likes to wear but forgot on their last visit. It fell off the dresser and it currently lays draped over Vince's head like some kind of weird tiara, the pendant resting over his forehead.
Vince's voice shakes when he speaks. "You don't pull your punches, huh?"
Jameson's whole chest is cold. He swallows, hard, thinking of how Jake had fallen with a knife in him, the look on his face when Jameson had come back to himself and realized what he'd done. His heart stops - maybe beats slightly out of time - and he hitches a trembling inhale that feels like it whistles down his throat but stops somewhere before his lungs. "Oh fuck," He whispers. "Oh fuck. I'm sorry, oh shit-... fuck, Vince, shit-"
Vince's eyes go to the knife, but he doesn't move to run or even to get up. He just stays sitting right where he is. His hands are shaking, just a little. Jameson is reminded that that Owen Grant asshole used to knock Vince around, too.
Still.
The millionaire movie star inexplicably getting sober in Nat's house manages a smile. Slightly appeasing, a little bit scared. "You, uh... you good?"
"... no. No, I'm not. I'm not. Shit. Fuck! I could have stabbed you!"
"Didn't, though. Could you... put the, uh, the knife down, please?" Vince takes a deep breath, and then another. With every moment, he looks calmer - and Jameson feels increasing guilt edged with panic.
"Uh. Fuck. Yes. Yes, yeah, of course-" He slips the knife back under his pillow, and closes his eyes against the tears that threaten there.
"Besides," Vince says, groaning a little, "This one's probably my fault." He rubs at the back of his neck, picking the necklace out of his hair and setting it down on the floor beside him. "I'm the dumbass who woke a sleeping rescue without, like, calling from the doorway or something first. That was dumb. Damn it, Nat talked to me about this!"
Jameson feels... so much worse. Nat had to warn Vince about him? Of course she did. Because he's already stabbed somebody once. He almost hurt Nat, too, when he thought she was Robert. He could do it again, at any time. Any moment now. To anyone. His heart skips again and he coughs, it feels like the weird flip goes right up his throat. "She-... she did? About me?"
"What? No, not you specifically. When I first started coming around, like... a decade ago. She told me not to wake anyone up like this. Jesus, I'm an idiot."
Jameson is still trying to catch up to the waking world, and his legs are trying to drag him back down into the ache. He fights to stay present, here and now. "Why... why did you wake me up?"
"Uh. Well. Seems stupid now but..." Vince gestures over at the side table beside Jameson's bed. "I got you some coffee."
"You... what?"
"You wanted to go out for coffee, but then when I came by earlier it sounded like you were having a rough time, so I thought... you know. I'd bring some back. For you."
Jameson looks over, and sure enough - there's a thermos there, and when he leans down, he can smell the rich coffee aroma wafting up and out. "... I am such an asshole."
Vince considers that. "Sometimes."
"I yelled at you this morning."
"You did, yes."
"I told you to fuck off."
"A couple of times."
"Then I punched you in the fucking face when you brought me coffee-"
"No, you punched me in the face because I put my hand on you when you were in a dead sleep, knowing that people putting hands on you when you didn't ask for it is like half the reason you live here now." Vince smiles, and it's smaller and more tired than his magazine-photoshoot smile, but it's far more sincere. Jameson likes it more. "I'm sorry, Jameson. I didn't mean to scare you. God, I want a drink so bad right now. I was trying to drink coffee instead. Got stuck in kind of a cycle thinking about-... you know, Owen, this morning, and I thought coffee would help, but really what I want is a drink, you know?
"Yeah, I kind of do, except for me it's usually that I want a really good deep dicking-"
"Aaaaaand the sweet moment of bonding is gone." Vince turns a little red and gets to his feet, carefully, using the dresser for balance. He leans over to pick up the necklace and put it back where it was before. "Please never say the words 'deep dicking' in front of me again."
"What, you never want that?"
Vince closes his eyes, but he's still smiling, and so is Jameson. Some of the tension is gone, and some of the guilt and anger twisting inside of him goes with it. "Jameson-... Some days, there is literally nothing else I want in the whole world than to let someone in my bed again. But the idea of anyone touching me like Owen did makes me feel like cutting all my skin off."
"... oh. I've never felt like that. Even after Brute and Robert, I still like fucking. I guess that's the whole... like, natural slut thing-"
"I swear to God, you sound like Kauri used to sometimes, when I'd overhear him when I came by."
"I mean, we were both the same Designation-"
"... you know what, drink your coffee. I'm going to go put ice on my eye."
Jameson is struck every time by how utterly normal Vince looks, until he puts on the Vincent Shield Face, changes his posture, morphs into Celebrity Actor Millionaire Man. But you'd never know that, looking at this tired-looking man in his late forties just wishing life would stop throwing punches.
"Vince, I really am sorry."
Vince shrugs. "Me, too. But hey - I look more rugged and manly this way, right?" He disappears out the door, and Jameson shifts to get himself braced against the headboard and his pillows, one leg twitching with nerve pain, but at least the other has calmed down to the usual dull ache he can handle.
He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. It's still hot like it's freshly made, and he exhales slowly, closing his eyes.
How long will it take to stop being ready to throw a punch when someone wakes him up after he falls asleep alone?
What if it never stops?
What if he throws a punch at Allyn?
He drowns the fear in hot coffee and hopes it stays away long enough for him to drag himself to the bathroom for a shower.
(Anon is referencing an AU where Nanda turns up alive, I wrote a short piece on the concept here)
CW: Whumpee returned to whumper, captor bonding, dubcon (mostly implied? mostly), grief
Nanda's thumb and finger rub along the back of Jameson's neck, and he closes his eyes, tipping his chin forward to bare the skin more fully to the familiar touch. The leather seat beneath him feels impossibly soft. The car is new, but the scent of it isn't.
"What do they call you now?" Nanda asks, carefully casual, steering into a turn without signaling. His car, sleek and silver and looking somehow incredibly futuristic and oddly sexual, glides along the road. "In this house I found you in?"
Jameson doesn't look up. He can feel his skin prickling, the hair on his arms standing up. At the same time, he's shivery, feels a warmth pulsing through him. "Jameson," He says. His voice is hoarse. It's always hoarse now. For so long...
"Jameson?" Nanda's voice sounds curious, only curious. His fingernail scrapes lightly along Jameson's nape, edging the softest baby hairs there. Jameson's breath catches. "Like the whiskey?"
He swallows. Custard and blood, a voice he thought he'd never taste again. Vanilla and copper, somehow swimming together. It's not a good taste, but it's one his life revolved around once. A taste he loved, sometimes hated, sometimes both in equal measure. "Yeah." He drops to a whisper. "I was kept in a... a house for a while. I could see these bottles... he'd empty the bottles, and line them up. Jamison Whiskey, always. I thought it-... it sounded like a good name."
Nanda pauses. "... you read the bottles?"
Oh, right. Nanda never knew.
Jameson hitches in a breath. They're still slipping through the city like an eel through ocean, winding around neighborhoods as if avoiding beds of green plants waving in the water. The lights are purple in some spots and bright in others. Jameson wonders if Nanda's taking him-
... what used to be home.
"I read the bottles," He whispers. "I could-... I could always read."
Another long pause. Nanda glances behind him, then pulls over - still without using his turn signal, and that sure hasn't changed. The car's tires crunch along the gravel beside the road, then settle into a rumbling smoothness as they move into grass. Nanda cuts the lights, and leaves he and Jameson sitting in total darkness, without even a streetlight to see by. Only the dim hint of moonlight and stars.
"You weren't supposed to be able to read."
"I... I know. But I can."
"You never told me you could." Nanda's palm is heavy and hot on his neck, now. Jameson twists his fingers into his sweatpants to keep his hands from shaking as Nanda's voice drops low, too. "You lied to me."
"I was-... scared to tell you."
"You should have told me anything. Everything. There shouldn't have been anything I didn't know."
"No, I know, but... fuck. What if you had them take it away?" He looks, now. He finds the courage to raise his head, to turn and look Nanda right in his eyes. They're just a gleam in the night. "I needed it. I, I'm alive because I can read. If I couldn't, and you died, I wouldn't have... been able to read, to, to know-"
"You lied." No anger. Just calm certainty. "To me."
"... yes. I lied." He jerks away from Nanda's hand finally, raking a hand back through his hair, hating it again. It used to be thick, and kind of pretty actually. Used to look good. Even this long after escaping Robert, it still grows in unevenly, different lengths. And some places never grew back at all, so he has to grow it out to cover the bald spots up, but then the uneven bits are obvious, and... "I fucking lied, okay?! I had to protect myself. I had to, to keep safe."
"From me?" Nanda's voice is empty of emotion. It's worse than anger could ever be. "You had to protect yourself from me?"
"More than anyone, you fucking asshole!"
He's going to cry again. He forces the heat of the tears back, lets them turn into a twist of acid anger in his chest alongside his racing heart. He doesn't lower his gaze. He looks Nanda right in the face.
He thought he'd never see this face again.
"You-" His voice cracks, and he fights to get it back. Not to go silent now, when he has to say this, the thing he's always held inside. There's never been a grave he could cry at, there's never been a body to bare his heart to. Not since-
"You could have killed me yourself, and I'd have let you do it." The words come out too quickly, they run together and he's breathless at the end of the sentence. He grabs at Nanda's hand with both of his, holding so tightly he can feel Nanda's bones move, can hear the slightest hiss of breath as he winces. "And you might have. Even if all you did was send me back, they'd wipe it all away again. I'd lose too much, I'd lose you, you shit, and I didn't want to lose you. When you died, I thought-"
"I wasn't dead-"
"I didn't fucking know that!" He can't scream anymore, not like he used to. His voice only turns to wind, the rasp of an oncoming storm. Nanda is a rumble of thunder, and Jameson the leaves shivering on branches about to blow down and die. "If they found me, they'd blame me, and they'd send me back, for being defective, for being a fucking reject, for-... they'd take you away. They'd take you away from me, from my head."
He pulls Nanda's hand to him, leans forward, his forehead resting against the warmth of Nanda's palm, those fingers curved slightly over the top of his head. Like a god giving benediction, maybe. Like he could be lifted up or shoved off a cliff with just one motion.
"I couldn't lose you, not because I wasn't right. I couldn't fucking lose you. If you knew I could read, if you sent me back-... if they sent me back after you died-... they'd take you. I couldn't, I couldn't lose you. I couldn't. You're mine, god damn it, you were mine!"
"Pet-"
"I had to keep you mine." He drops his grip on Nanda's hand, but it doesn't move away, and neither does he. "I had to keep you in my head, because-... because if you were gone, and I didn't know you, then why was I ever here?"
He's talking about Nanda, and he isn't. There's some other face beneath it, another voice, another taste. A smile he'd known from his first memories, a loss he couldn't recall because it had been a loss too great to bear losing.
He doesn't let that other face surface. Some part of him knows the name but he holds it deep, deep down. "I'm what I am because I thought it was okay to lose, to forget, but when you were gone, I, I couldn't, I couldn't lose again. I couldn't forget you again. Don't you fucking understand that?"
Nanda stares at him, slightly wide-eyed, an expression Jameson has never seen before in his handsome, angular face. There's so much more silver in his beard now than there used to be. But they both look so much older, so much different, now.
The silence draws out, between them, and Jameson twists. Lightning threatens. There's no rumble of thunder, only the weight of something about to break overhead and if it does, he'll drown.
"Well?" His voice shakes, but he covers it up with rage. He always covers up his fear with anger. It's the only way he's lived this long. It's safe and easy. "Lost your fucking voice now, all of a sudden? Huh? You gonna fucking say something to me, you piece of shit, you were dead and how goddamn dare you come back and take me like nothing ever happened, like I didn't-... like I didn't have to live without you, for so long without, like I-"
He never finishes the sentence.
"Shut up," Nanda snaps. It's a growl, a snarl, and Jameson thrills to the sound of his voice. His hands are there, they shove Jameson to the side and then back. Nanda hits something along the side of his seat and the back drops flat. Jameson gasps as his head bounces back against the headrest, and then Nanda is on top of him again, yanking his shirt up with a ferocity that feels like the cloth burns along his scarred skin as it goes. His wrists are tangled in the cotton and Nanda grunts, irritated, and leaves it there as he works at Jameson's sweatpants, yanking them down off his hips until he's nearly naked, on his back in the passenger seat of a car, on the side of the road.
"Nanda-"
"I said shut the fuck up-"
Nanda's hand claps over his mouth, and his protests are muffled at first. Then they aren't protests at all, as Nanda's lips are hot against his neck, and then his teeth dig and his tongue works against the reddening skin he's just bitten.
Nanda's hand closes around him, between his legs, and Jameson cries out, all but levitating off the seat into scorching touch. He's dizzy, with the way all his blood suddenly shifts to meet that hand. He can barely think. Nanda's strokes are rough and fast, and Jameson rolls into them, again and again. All his thoughts are washed away by the lust that floods him.
Somewhere under that, though...
He's still afraid.
It could end any second.
It could all have been a dream.
This might have been the wrong choice.
Or it wasn't a choice at all.
Nanda yanks his hand back and Jameson whimpers at the loss, whines like an animal in heat, only to have Nanda grab him and roughly turn him over, throwing him back down. They're closed in this car, the space too small for it. His elbow bangs on something, his feet are pressing up against the rough carpet under the dashboard. But that hand is off his mouth, then. He can breathe, and he can make a sound that isn't entirely human as Nanda's mouth is back on his neck, the heat of his chest against Jameson's shoulder blades, the hardness of him pressed just where Jameson wants it, always wanted it
Didn't always want it-
"Nanda... please-... just wait-"
"I don't wait for you," Nanda whispers against his ear, nips at the shell. He can't stop himself from moaning at the feeling, as broken as that sound is now from his ruined throat. "You wait for me, when I say. You don't tell me when."
Jameson's eyes open, then. He's staring into an expanse of stars through the back windshield, and the sky is so goddamn empty between them, isn't it? Between the tiniest points of light, dead suns, and maybe their planets still revolve around them in the darkness.
"... I was learning," He whispers.
Nanda pauses. His breath is deafening against Jameson's ear. "What?"
"... I was learning how to say when."
He's a planet orbiting a dead star.
"Pet-"
"... I loved you."
"Loved?"
He's crying again. Goddamnit, he's crying again, and his shoulders shake with the sobs he can't hold back any longer. Nanda exhales and drops, weight against him, reassuring and real, alive. "I still love you, but I love-... I love-... I loved that I learned to be-... to b-be Jameson, fuck, stop it stop it stop crying, you shit, you fucking, just stop fucking crying!"
"Sssshhhhh. It's okay." Nanda's voice is a rumble, and the world shakes a little, gentle as a shower of rain. But he can't taste the rain here, not so far away from Allyn.
He can't taste the rain, only copper and sweet.
The stars blur into nothing, they're lost to the darkness when he tries to look through the tears. Even if his vision clears, it isn't even the stars he'd be seeing.
"Nanda... there's someone else."
He only sees the memory of what's already been lost.
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Jameson's teeth grind together, and he curses under his breath, a running, endless parade of fuckshitdamnfuck as the physical therapist carefully works on getting his left leg to straighten out. The agony screams up through his thigh, throbbing in his hip, making him feel sick not just with the flipping of his stomach - but with how deeply familiar this pain is.
He feels Allyn's cool fingers thread their way through his hair, stroking carefully, their fingernails scratching just so along his scalp. He exhales, a huff of something like bitter laughter. "Fucking excellent-... shit, fucking excellent date idea, huh?"
"I don't mind," Allyn murmurs, reaching with their other hand to hold his. His fingers twitch in their grip, but they don't seem to notice. When he turns his head a little to look up at them, they smile down at him. The sunlight coming in through the window edges their long, wavy red hair with gold, turns even their eyelashes to metallic shine, sets their freckles bright and beautiful against their pale skin. "I like going places with you."
"This isn't the-... the best place-... fuck, shit, can't you go fucking slower?!" Jameson raises his head to glare daggers at the physical therapist. Trissa only looks back at him, placid and serene, as she works her fingers carefully over his knee.
"No," She responds, without offense. "I really can't. But I promise, tomorrow's going to feel better than today."
"It fucking better."
He groans. His left leg is twitching without his say-so, the muscles desperate to curl back up. His body thinks he has to crawl like a dog all over again, and it makes his face burn with furious humiliation to think that the therapist - who works with tons of runaways - might have seen this before, might know what it means.
Trissa pushes down, gently as she can, but the pain rises in a crescendo and Jameson's swearing goes from a mutter to a shout as he squeezes Allyn's hand as tightly as he can.
They keep their hand moving through his hair, tugging just a little, just enough to make things hurt in a much better kind of way. Jameson catches his breath, looking up at them with his eyes wide with pain.
They smile down at him.
"You're doing great," They soothe, and he knows he isn't, but he clings to the praise anyway.
Thinking today about the AU where Nanda never died and Jameson just is with him the whole time. How he would never have thought of freedom as anything but a terrifying separation from Nanda, would have been happy as can be and not even considered that there was something wrong with how he was living.
The sort of odd sick wrongness of someone who cannot even see that it's wrong.
And how even Nanda would gradually realize it, at least a little. He'd give the pet a real name after a while, eventually legally liberate him... And never even once admit to Jameson that there had ever been anything wrong about it at all.
When the juice hits you I would LOVE more Jameson and Vincent at Natβs house content! I love them so much :,)
CW: Chronic pain, discussion of stalking and attempted murder, mentions of dead people, everyone is in a bad mood hooray
-
"Go back to fucking bed." Jameson grunts the words more than speaks them, squinting down into a coffee mug while rubbing one hand over his throbbing left knee. Not that the right one doesn't hurt, too. But he picks one and sticks with it until the pain pills kick in and he can fucking stand up again. "It's five in the fucking morning."
"Yeah, and I've been up since four, so... Don't know what you want from me." Vincent Shield doesn't look like a movie star these days. Just like Kauri's shaggy older brother who needs a haircut and a three-week nap. His bruising is all gone, everywhere but the look in his blue eyes.
All the wounds are there, now.
Jameson watches him pour himself a cup of coffee. In just a hoodie and jeans, you'd never recognize him when compared with the heroes he plays on big screens. Or used to.
"I want you to fuck off," Jameson replies, but there's no real anger in his rasping voice. Vince just smiles at him. Jameson finds himself cataloging the differences between he and Kauri, the biggest being the way Kauri smiles like he could fix everything if he just burned bright enough. Vince smiles, when he isn't posing for photos, like everything will shatter if anyone sees it.
"Landlady seems to like me, so I guess you're out of luck." Vince adds sugar and milk, too much of both. Pauses. Stares down into his mug. "I used to add Irish cream and some whiskey into my coffee every day when I wasn't working. Sometimes when I was. Probably... Probably a lot of the time when I was."
"Huh." Jameson digs his thumb into a spot on his knee. It flares bright with pain, so stark he nearly bites his tongue against a scream. Then something feels like it gives way, and the pain drops from a roar to a more manageable hum. "You're a sad drunk, too."
Vince actually laughs at that. "I really am, aren't I?"
"Based on how much of a sad fuck you are sober, I can only figure it gets worse when you're not."
Vince sits down across from him at the table, watching him. He doesn't even look mad, or hurt. Just... tired. "You think I'm an ungrateful asshole, huh?"
Jameson, still rubbing at his leg, pauses and looks up. "What?"
"Because I'm rich. Millionaire movie star in his giant house sitting around drinking himself to death on two-hundred dollar whiskey. People tell me they love me everywhere I go, if I let them know who I am. People write me letters. I had a stalker, for a while." He runs fingers back through his hair, growing out a little. Looks more like Kauri's now. "I wonder if that was just Owen, too."
"Maybe. To the stalker thing, not the rest of that bullshit." Jameson's fingers ache, trying to stay bent and curled, and he has to fight to straighten them enough to count off as he speaks. "Millionaire movie star whose only friend is a woman he writes fucking checks to, giant house you sit around in alone, two hundred dollar whiskey you don't even share with anybody but your fucked up liver, nobody who says they love you even fucking knows you, those letters are creepy as hell, and having a stalker isn't a fucking good thing, dumbass."
Vince snorts, but a smile plays around his lips. "Owen said he loved me."
"I'm so fucking sick of that asshole. He's dead and still the center of half your conversations. He didn't know you, either."
"We'd been friends since we were kids-"
Jameson is in too much pain to deal with Vincent being a mopey little shit. He hurts in places that don't even have nerve endings. His bones fucking throb. The pills aren't kicking in yet, or maybe he needs to take more. Maybe they don't work anymore. Either way, he groans and leans back in his chair. "Will you just fucking stop? The taste of your voice is making me want to throw up lately you talk so much."
Vince pauses. "The... what of my what now-"
"I don't give a fuck about Owen goddamn Grant and you shouldn't either. You're too old keep that shit up."
Vince takes a long drink of coffee, then makes a face when it scalds his tongue. Jameson tries not to smile. "I-... I just, my whole adult life I've been trying to get away from him-"
"Yeah, and you did. You got. You got about as far away from someone as you can get. Dead men don't come back and they can't hurt you again."
It hurts. Everything hurts. His heart joins the party, twisting hard inside his chest. Grief feels worse than any of the other pains. Ghosts that find him in his sleep, whispering accusations or endearments, shoving him away or holding him close. But gone when he wakes up.
Always gone.
"Jameson-"
"Dead men don't come back," Jameson repeats, more firmly. "You slit his throat-"
Vince flinches.
"-and saved someone from him. Probably a lot of someones. Guys like that don't stop at the first dead body. Bunch of dead hot guys with black hair and blue eyes, after a while, probably. He had the look."
"The... look?"
"In his eyes. Somebody figuring out they liked the idea of being the last thing someone was afraid of. Would've been Kauri, and then you, and then that wouldn't fix it and he'd keep trying. Keep finding men like you. Keep killing them and then realizing he had to try again, because nobody would ever be enough. There aren't ever enough dead bodies for somebody like that. They run out of places to hide them."
Vince has slipped into silence, watching Jameson talk with a look of faint surprise. And concern, which pisses Jameson off.
"Don't look at me like that."
"I kept a knife in my bed," Vince says slowly. "Everywhere I went. Even hotels, even in my trailer on set. I always had a knife. Just in case. And I-... I still have one. Upstairs, between the mattress and box springs. Is that weird?"
Jameson shrugs. "No. Maybe for other people. But not for people like us."
"Us?"
"Yeah, numbnuts. Us. People who fucking killed someone just to not die." Jameson fixes him with a glare, then grabs at his crutches to pull himself to his feet. Once his arms are braced for support, he sighs. It takes the work away from his knees, and they seem to soothe a little.
Or maybe that's just the pills.
Finally.
"Listen, Shield. Save your unburdening of the soul shit for therapy, okay? I got my own problems. And I can't help you with yours. Mine wake me up at night."
Vince looks up at him, head tipped to one side. "Yeah. Mine do, too. I wake up wanting a drink so goddamn badly I can barely breathe. I used to drink until I fell back asleep. Now I just... lay there until I give up and get coffee."
"Yeah. I wake up wanting, too."
Jameson wakes up burning for Nanda to lay a hand on his back and whisper in his ear. He wakes up praying that next time the ghosts will find someone else to haunt. He can't be the only one. He wakes up trying not to cry from the pain. And he hears Vince pacing down the hall every single fucking time.
"It gets better, though, right? The... craving, and just... If I could just have the one thing... That gets better?"
"Fuck if I know." Jameson turns away, jaw set as he works to get to the living room. He can't do the stairs, not yet. His body needs to remember how to cooperate first. Weird how it's gotten worse the longer he hasn't been terrified of being caught again. Therapist says he feels safe, and so his body feels safe to show everything because he doesn't have to fight so hard to survive.
She's probably right.
Jameson pauses, then looks over his shoulder. "Look. Sorry. I feel like shit today."
"Yeah." Vince runs a finger around the edge of the mug sitting in front of him. "Me, too."
"Just. Okay. Listen. Some days, I don't think about him at all, yeah? And that didn't used to happen. So... I guess it gets better."
Until he feels so goddamn guilty for forgetting that it feels even worse. He turns away so Vince won't see the pain on his face.
"Also, I really don't care that you're a millionaire or whatever the fuck. Nanda was a millionaire, too, and it didn't save him. Him being rich didn't save me, either. Just made it worse when I didn't have him anymore."
"... Jameson-"
"Never mind. Just fuck off until I'm too high to be mad at you, okay?"
He collapses onto the couch, closing his eyes and drifting on a sea of pain. There's one more pill in his pocket. He digs it out and swallows it dry.
Please, please, please stop hurting. Inside or out. He doesn't care which. But he can't keep this up if it's both.
