#jesus jack

“I would prefer not to.” Grendel shut his bloodshot eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He pushed his laptop out of the way, but the image on the screen pressed to the corners of the display, bleeding out of the chat window. It was hard to tell, as the creature did not have a face to speak of, but the shimmering swirl in the center of its…head…seemed to turn up like a grinning eye.

Grendel had faced this ordeal, every night, for the last two weeks. This dissertation of his still hung over his head like a cat toy, and he couldn’t bring himself to get any decent work done while a spectre took over his computer.

The first night, the creature seemed almost like a shadow, a figment of a dream of a vision. The nights that followed, not so much. The creature (though even Grendel could painfully realise it resembled a man in many alarming aspects of form and mannerisms) seemed to be watching, and even, yes, it was doing so now, this very night, preening itself. The spectre seemed to be wearing a suit made of the same dreamlike stuff like that of its body, and yet, it took on such a hard likeness to cloth (aside from the garish, near blinding colour that made Grendel’s teeth ache to stare so much) that it felt all the more real.

By the eighth night it was casting a shadow.

“It’s harder to do this than old CRTs, you know,” the ghost remarked chirpily. It never seemed especially cross with Grendel for refusing its help or even its existence, but with the patience of a seasoned parent, well-meaning and hopeful that its child would make the correct choice.

So, why then, did it insist on taking on such a...ahem.

Grendel was losing sleep over the tough of its...HIS...curves.

Ghosts weren't supposed to be corporeal, but whatever this thing was certainly had a body, and if it wasn’t suited exactly to Grendel’s liking. What a smart coincidence. He tossed his sheets about in the night, trying to recall when actual, mortal, HUMAN warmth was by his side. Not this. He wouldn’t be cajoled into letting the beast have its way.

“My name is Werster, you don’t have to keep monologuing about me in your head as an ‘it’, you know.” It snarked one night, laying seductively on Grendel’s research bookshelf. Was it doing this on purpose?

The next night he didn’t bother trying to banish it.

The night after it watch him rest.

Within two weeks of the ghost’s first appearance they were sharing a bed.

“How does it feel?”

“It’s not a cloud, that’s for certain.”

“Do most beds feel like Haven to you?” Grendel was slightly scandalized, so he had kept the light off. It was even worse than being able to see; his breath was so very acutely audible in the darkness, without sight to dull the noise.

“Oh, poor lad, I’ve gone and confused you of my origin.”

Grendel prayed his beating heart would stay quiet, by some degree. “T-then you are a demon?”

“I never said what I was. Why approach the subject with your prejudice?”

“I...” Grendel quavered as he steadied his breath. “I’m what I like to call a recovering superstitious paranoid.”

Werster laughed. HEAT seemed to rise from his side of the bed. “It’s one of your finest qualities. It’s why I was drawn to you.”

Grendel said nothing.

“Oh, please, don’t look at me like that. I want to help you. And you want me. AND my help.” Werster added coyly. Black, shadowy fingers slipped down Grendel’s chest.

And suddenly, they were at another crossroad. This wasn’t as simple as barging in as Werster had done before. This was another threshold he could not impose upon. He wanted consent, in all its forms, before offering anything to the young man. His knowledge, his power, his makeshift body, Grendel would have to request. And he knew.

And yet, lying atop of the ruddy-faced scholar, propped up on his knees, holding breath he didn’t need to hold, he was dying for acceptance. He wanted Grendel to say yes. To all of him.

And in the darkness, yet perfectly clear to the creature’s eyes, Grendel smiled, very small.

“What must I do?”

Werster lowered himself enough to murmur into Grendel’s ear, and it was like the page of the first Book ever written. He told him all of his Knowledge, just because he liked Grendel. The young man nodded. Their bodies united.

Legs tied into knots.

Grendel could see in the darkness now.

what’s it like to look down  on mortals and watch them squirm, knowing you can do everything to fix their pains and ease their worries?

what’s it like to use their lives as entertainment?

what’s it like to be absolutely powerful?

I love this scene. Jack wants Gwen to tell him what he saw. When she gives her excuses, You revived him. You resuscitated him. He ignores it. He asked her again and again, what did you see? And his voice just grows firmer and firmer. He wants her to tell him what she saw, the truth.