#wizardphyyk

mousepad, mousetrap Mark is not a robot. Dustin knows this. Eduardo knows this. Most obviously, Mark knows this, but he lets people believe he is one. Mark can feel, just like anyone else. He just doesn’t know what to do with that, most of the time. So he feels. He’s laughed, he’s cried. He’s burned another, and burned himself. Best of all, he’s wanted. He has wanted things, and he’s a little wanted, maybe. - Eduardo has wanted. He has ached, he has hurt, and he has known the loss that comes with wanting something so desperately. Eduardo knows what wanting feels like. It’s only working for what he wants that is so unfamiliar he could die. So he wants, and waits, silent. He knows things won't just come, if he waits for movement, but he hopes. He feels like anything he’s worked for, he never wanted, maybe. - They learn a little, in their time apart. Mark gives names to his thoughts, and thoughts to his voice, again. Eduardo chooses to want, and to work, and to fight for himself, again. And they hope with all they have that they’re changed - Not too much, not too little, but enough - enough to fight.

Sleep.

I’ll never think of our moments together without nausea. ~ [ Context Notes: Flashback pondering, Jack meets Hank and Cole on the way to OCS. Hank is a friend, Cole is a rival. Cole was nicknamed ‘the Shadow’ for his rumored stealth and precise actions, along with his determination to do things “by the number.” ] - Jack often wondered how different things would have been, had he not gotten on that bus for Camp Elliott. He would not have met many, and seen so many go. His mind goes through a checklist of possible outcomes, categorized by the catalytic element, and by the time it reaches “Hank Merrill” or “Cole Phelps” it stops. It pulls the plug and says no more, because it’s pointless, useless subjunctive, and nothing would have changed because it can’t; it’s already happened. At times Jack wonders if his mind is a separate entity. If Jack said he wished he never got on that bus, he was lying. Imagining what could have happened only made him focus on the lit path, anyway. But if he had known what he knows now? Cole Phelps would not have been more than a shadow. They’re floaters. Not much more than a suitcase full of nothing between them and the gutters. ~ [ Context Notes: 34-year old bachelor. Put his uniform away without trouble. Ensuing solitude. ] - It’s when Jack is lying on his sofa and naming constellations in the popcorn stucco of his living room ceiling that he understands raw quiet. The open area reeks of tobacco, stagnant at the source but wafting through the kitchen. It’s been maybe an hour, maybe fifteen minutes since they cleared the room, an unfinished poker game scattered across the unpolished mahogany tabletop. Everyone has a home to get back to. Maybe Jack forgets that, among his pals, beside his buddies, amidst their camaraderie. Maybe he forgets that his gear is in his footlocker, and all of his collective pedestrian thoughts can be found on the edges of a crinkled grocery list. And suppose he’s forgotten he’s too old to be single and too young to be lonely. Somewhere along the winding line, he’s gone and made a mistake. What I like about you is you’re rock bottom. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack rushes away from Monroe’s goons, headed for Elsa’s apartment to confirm her suspicions and get her to safety. Elsa screams, alarmed to see a battered and bloody Jack at her door; Cole hurries out with his pistol, only to find Jack on the other end. Jack limps into the foyer, quips a tired “So you’re still carrying that army .45, Cole,” then collapses. ] - The orchestrated din and clamor tightening his chest kept warmth in Jack’s hands, telling him to fight. His pursuers were far behind him now but he continued to run - the abandoned sacrificial Fleetline was just as distant. Sprinting to Elsa in his brown oxfords, Jack counted four years between the last time a dangerously right man or woman got his heart running its own marathon, and him taking the stairs to Elsa’s floor two at a time. And when he stumbles past the threshold (Elsa’s white dress fits her wonderfully, but it’s still unfitting, he notes through a loaded heartbeat) Jack has to smile, or give his drained attempt at one. It’s short and smart and he can only name what he sees: Cole, his toy soldier, clinging to that fucking .45, and when Jack closes his eyes he sees the Emperor on his knees. What a child, he thinks, and even the darkness blurs. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack wakes in a clinic bed, upright; the room is brightly lit and white. Elsa is sitting on the window sill in her casual outfit - striped blue pants and a yellow blouse. When she notices Jack is awake, he says, “You look lovely, princess,” and she smiles. ] - Scratchy flannel, muted sunlight, anxious honking, and the faintest wisps of iodine, isopropyl, and an iris perfume. These are some of the things that register in Jack’s hurting head when he comes to. He’s still groggy and pliant when he exhales the fresh truth in his mind and Elsa accepts it with her caged bird grace. Jack knows what she is, and he has to ask himself, how many have looked at her that way, and never saw past the stage? And she’s humbled herself to come here, a far cry from debutante gloves, shimmering dresses, and morphine-addled sighs. Jack wants to love her, but Cole’s still comparing scars. He privately concludes that Elsa is always singing for someone else. And Cole; he’s always trying to hum along. It’s a bitter little world. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack’s returned to his office to review Buchwalter’s case file after Benson hinted to some key clues he was missing. Moments later, a secretary brings Cole to his office. They begin abrasively, but Cole sits down and edges an apology; Jack dilutes it with a heated speech. The two settle what they can of their differences, and plan their moves with professionalism. ] - Cole is in Jack’s office, and Jack can feel the crumbling remains of Phrygia, dusting the case file in his hands. There’s something about the conversation that feels pre-determined; pored over repeatedly before it solidifies, and even then it’s cracking, and they’re retracing steps like they’ve done this before. It’s all too natural, and greater men would feel ashamed. Distance, time, and proximity seem more and more relative, and Jack is losing their meanings; fewer words are lost on Jack, and Cole won’t stop goddamn thinking. The downhill battle moves far too slowly. Neither one is surprised. And Jack slouches, slurring strategy; he sees the pages turning in Cole’s head and Jack numbers the reasons Cole Phelps is here, still here. L.A. will never be big enough.