ｊｅｆｆｅｒｓｏｎ．．．is a giant troll (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
royalpassport) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pineslog2017-05-22 10:09 pm
royalpassport) wrote in pineslog2017-05-22 10:09 pm
Entry tags:
they're coming to get you, barbara!
Who: Jefferson & Eliot (and later Kenzi??)
Where: Go Ask Alice
When: May 23
What: Jefferson caught a bit of Laura's transmission, but not a pretty important detail. Cue: attempted liberation from his tracker.
Warnings: Blood? Will update as necessary.
[Closed]
'There are trackers in our legs. They come--'
He doesn't even get to finish listening to the message before it cuts out. And, considering he can't go back and listen to it again, Jefferson spends the rest of the day trying to push the transmission out of his mind. It was only one and a half sentences, there one moment, gone the next. He must have imagined it. (Hard to say, when he can't ask anybody if they heard it, too. Not without violating the notices or sounding mad.)
But the thought won't leave him. Two days, three, his mind always finds its way back to the tracker that may or may not be in his leg. Whenever he's alone and undressed, he'd press his fingertips along his calves, then his thighs, feeling for anything unusual. The first few times, it turns up nothing. But then he notices it, a little bump an inch above the back of his knee. Small, easy to miss, but it's there.
If he manages to find his way to the edges of the woods, if he somehow escapes, would they hunt him down and haul him back? What if he needs to hide from the sheriff? He's already been visited twice. And as long as this thing's in him... The thought that he'd be so easy to find by... by whoever, makes him sick to the very pit of his stomach. He'd cut it out right then and there if he could, but every time he presses the tip of a knife to his leg, he stops short of breaking the skin.
Weak. He doesn't have what it takes to take the damn thing out himself. But if he has help...
The next day, he goes through the motions at the tea shop for a couple of hours, before he leaves it to Cassian and Rhiannon, retreating into the back office when the company of others becomes too much to stomach. But even there, he can't feel any peace. They're watching. There are eyes everywhere. He huddles by himself on the beaten up office couch, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling like he knows somebody's staring at him. A couple more hours pass, and he calls Eliot, voice strained but reaching for casual.
Come on over at 7. I'll close the shop. We'll have tea and sandwiches before you go to work. Just us.
He closes up shop at 5. And when the last straggler leaves and he's all alone (but not alone) again, he starts to turn over his office, upending everything to try to root out the cameras. He manages to find one, but nothing more. (Was there only one eye watching all along, or did he miss the others?)
Hair and clothes disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from days of unrest, he sits on the desk and waits for Eliot, a paring knife dangling between his fingers. Hopefully it'll do the trick.
Where: Go Ask Alice
When: May 23
What: Jefferson caught a bit of Laura's transmission, but not a pretty important detail. Cue: attempted liberation from his tracker.
Warnings: Blood? Will update as necessary.
[Closed]
'There are trackers in our legs. They come--'
He doesn't even get to finish listening to the message before it cuts out. And, considering he can't go back and listen to it again, Jefferson spends the rest of the day trying to push the transmission out of his mind. It was only one and a half sentences, there one moment, gone the next. He must have imagined it. (Hard to say, when he can't ask anybody if they heard it, too. Not without violating the notices or sounding mad.)
But the thought won't leave him. Two days, three, his mind always finds its way back to the tracker that may or may not be in his leg. Whenever he's alone and undressed, he'd press his fingertips along his calves, then his thighs, feeling for anything unusual. The first few times, it turns up nothing. But then he notices it, a little bump an inch above the back of his knee. Small, easy to miss, but it's there.
If he manages to find his way to the edges of the woods, if he somehow escapes, would they hunt him down and haul him back? What if he needs to hide from the sheriff? He's already been visited twice. And as long as this thing's in him... The thought that he'd be so easy to find by... by whoever, makes him sick to the very pit of his stomach. He'd cut it out right then and there if he could, but every time he presses the tip of a knife to his leg, he stops short of breaking the skin.
Weak. He doesn't have what it takes to take the damn thing out himself. But if he has help...
The next day, he goes through the motions at the tea shop for a couple of hours, before he leaves it to Cassian and Rhiannon, retreating into the back office when the company of others becomes too much to stomach. But even there, he can't feel any peace. They're watching. There are eyes everywhere. He huddles by himself on the beaten up office couch, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling like he knows somebody's staring at him. A couple more hours pass, and he calls Eliot, voice strained but reaching for casual.
Come on over at 7. I'll close the shop. We'll have tea and sandwiches before you go to work. Just us.
He closes up shop at 5. And when the last straggler leaves and he's all alone (but not alone) again, he starts to turn over his office, upending everything to try to root out the cameras. He manages to find one, but nothing more. (Was there only one eye watching all along, or did he miss the others?)
Hair and clothes disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from days of unrest, he sits on the desk and waits for Eliot, a paring knife dangling between his fingers. Hopefully it'll do the trick.
no subject
He takes the paring knife automatically (although not before he's satisfied with his hair fussing, because he has priorities!!) and turns it over between his hands to test the edge with one thumb; possibly that would be an incredibly ghoulish thing to do, except at Brakebills it would just be practical. "O...kay, if I'd known we were performing impromptu surgery, I would have brought something stronger than wine."
Still with the levity, although there's an undercurrent of consideration as he shifts on the desk, bumps their hips together. He can't really be said to be unconcerned, either, if not precisely the way Jefferson is flinching in anticipation of, he just--can't help remembering, how badly he screwed everything up in that direction last time, if only by doing nothing. On one hand he's determined not to let this happen again, but then on the other, and several other people's hands for good measure, he's also pretty sure that's just what he does. Lets something become important to him just before he fucks it up.
Never mind. This isn't about him, and if that's not uncharacteristic enough to be remarkable Eliot doesn't know what is. "What's 'something,' where is it, and why are we somethingendectomying it?"
no subject
He's just relieved, at least, that the request doesn't send Eliot running. But then... he wouldn't have called upon him if he truly believed Eliot would respond that way. There's a reason his 'ex' was at the top of his list. Jefferson reaches a hand out to clasp over Eliot's, fingers overlapping around the knife handle, a thumb brushing over the other man's.
"Something in my leg. Just... above the back of my knee." Swallowing, he adds, "It's how they track you. And I can't rest knowing it's in me." He offers a quick, wavering smile, in an attempt at reassurance. "It'll be quick. Easy."
Perhaps he's trying to convince himself of that even more than he's trying to convince Eliot.
no subject
This is clearly not the case for Jefferson, which is--well, what that says about either of them doesn't really bear contemplation, in the moment. The moment in which Eliot is not particularly convinced this will be quick or easy, though that's not a deterrent; he hadn't really stopped to consider that either might be an option. Because his canon is sometimes gross and terrifying, and things like this are always bloody. Those are just the terms of the narrative.
(By the same token it doesn't occur to wonder if he should ask this same favor in return--what would be the point?)
"For the record," Eliot sighs, because he can't not, "this isn't how I saw myself getting into your pants." A beat, during which there is just--a blink of hesitation, the flicker of dark lashes before he ducks forward and kisses the corner of Jefferson's mouth; it's no more passionately than he'd kiss, say, Margo, but then again it's for about the same purpose: it's going to be okay.
He slides off the desk and rocks his head back and forth on his shoulders, like he has to limber up for this procedure, but drops the paring knife back to the desk. Flowing forward like their usual borderline inappropriate affection (for 'exes') is just that, usual. Except they're not exes, and it isn't, and--there his feelings go, merrily taking over his whole face.
This is covered by rolling his fingers in a short, elegant wave, sparks dancing on his knuckles like a coin. "We can do at least a little better than this pokey thing," he dismisses the poor innocent implement of paring, snobbily. Snobbery aside he's not wrong in that magic will be faster, cleaner and much less painful.
no subject
As he opens his eyes again, Eliot's already standing, practically stretching for the 'procedure' Jefferson's dragged him into. A little smile-- fond, genuine, free of torment for the briefest moment-- teases at his lips. "There's something to be said for defying expectations, isn't there?"
And then it's back to seriousness. The little show of magic isn't outrageous to him-- indeed, with the worlds he's been to and the jobs he's done for the Dark One and the Evil Queen (among others) over the years, magic is something that's warm and familiar. It's just one more thing that's making him associate Eliot, more and more, with the concept of home.
Though it's hardly so elegant in his experience. Magic's often achieved with casual flourishes and flicks, but this is more precise. Beautiful. He could watch Eliot's fingers for hours.
"We could," he murmurs. Getting to his feet, feeling steadier now, Jefferson moves in closer. "Does it come at a cost? All magic has a price where I'm from."
no subject
Which is, somehow, not a euphemism?? And might in fact end up having nothing to do with sex at all, it's just--being able to feel the palpable change in the air. So much of what Jefferson associates with, well, anything, seems to fuck him up in a way Eliot can't reach, and he knows so, so well what that's like. The bone-deep wounds that push him toward such extreme depth he's lucky to have ever found his way back out, which it would be one thing if Jefferson actually did, but as far as Eliot can tell, as far back as he fake remembers, Jefferson doesn't have coping mechanisms. He just gets more and more lost.
Eliot's never been anyone's tether before. It should be terrifying. He can't say that it isn't--but he also wants it so badly his whole body aches like a bruise. Associating Jefferson with home should be absurd, considering Eliot isn't sure he's ever had one, not even Brakebills, but there's a word he knows about missing something that never existed, and that is what this feels like. Like maybe that fades a little.
Not that he's woolgathering like this in the middle of their fun date activity, just looks--caught, for a second, caught and not minding it. He brings his hands together in what looks like prayer position before it becomes apparent that's actually for cracking his knuckles; this could also be just showing off, but isn't, inasmuch as it's taking far more time than he would like to remember the full catalog of spells he's amassed, and it's making his fingers feel rusty.
"Aaanyway, we're just borrowing a little of my energy. It's self-replenishing, unless you really burn yourself out."
So obviously, none of this is any skin off Eliot's anything. He wants to help! Thus: "Shall we? Drop trou, I mean. I could do the same if it makes you more comfortable."
;D
no subject
Maybe after he's removed his pants and the tracker. Speaking of...
"It would, actually," he laughs, because gloomy and nervous as Jefferson may be, he's still got his sense of humor. Like he's going to pass up an opportunity to keep them on the same playing field, as it were. "Everything off. I don't want to get anything on my clothes." It's what he says, but there's more to it than that, and Eliot's certainly perceptive enough to pick up on it. It's just... a rather intimate affair, asking your ex to extract something under your skin. To trust like that... He'd rather not do it with his trousers down and bent over a desk, like it's all impersonal or somewhat clinical.
His fingers move to work at the buttons on his vest, then his shirt, removing each layer one-by-one, until he's down to his underwear and scarf. His resolve, however tenuous, starts to crumble as his fingers hesitate at his scarf. He has to close his eyes and exhale, slowly, before unknotting the fabric and drawing it away, exposing the harsh red scar around his throat. Like ripping off a bandaid, the scarf is yanked off fully, soon joining the neatly folded clothes on the desk.
"Your turn."
no subject
"I thought you'd never ask." A deep sigh, of total ridiculousness. Like 'this isn't how I imagined getting into your pants' it is a really cheap line, but Eliot figures all a person needs to pull those off is the right amount of panache. And not giving a fuck.
Even if, look, he also can't help a little eye traveling: apparently fake memories are not quite able to stack up against the real thing, since Jefferson is ...kind of beautiful, actually, a perception only magnified in the warm glow cast by all those things that didn't happen. He only catches the end of the brief internal tussle with the scarf, but Jefferson's bearing is certainly arresting enough to stick. The appearance of the scar does make his eyes widen, automatically, but it's sort of on the order of 'oh wow, that birthmark really does look just like Mickey Mouse', something he wasn't expecting there and then slowly fading.
He talks while he does his own disrobing, may as well; vulnerability comes in a wide assortment of shapes. It could be said he's back to normal Eliot resting face, but his eyes are unusually soft; he wears empathy (or sympathy) a little like a suit bought secondhand--not ill-fitting, just ...broken in for someone else, not yet conforming to shape.
"I--" Well, faltering immediately is. An auspicious start. "I'm monumentally fucking bad at this," he manages, a little self-lacerating as he fiddles with the clips on his shirt, "At trying to relate to people on any level less profoundly shallow than 'ooh, that's a nice belt, it would look great on my floor ....or on me--'"
Focus. Focus, Eliot! He does this by actually making himself make eye contact as he divests himself of uh, his vest, and shirt. "Fuck. I'm trying to say I get it? The things that make you who you are aren't...they aren't always things you wanted. Or even things you thought you'd survive."
It sounds for a second like he hasn't quite processed what that scar actually is, or at least might be, however: "Ask me about the truly astronomical number of times I remember dying. Maybe on that date we're going to have."
So apparently that is the way he is taking that phrase, by the way, and somehow it's not grotesquely inappropriate because if Jefferson is obviously damaged Eliot is too, and while that doesn't feel exactly great, it feels so much less alone he doesn't care. Meanwhile he's stripped down himself, now, which again feels just idiotically symbolic; it's so on the nose it belongs in 7th grade lit.
Which makes Eliot feel no less like reaching out, but they have a purpose here. "Ready? I need to get off the subject of everything I just said as soon as possible, I really...like I said, monumentally fucking bad. Abysmal, abhorrent, etc."
no subject
(Or is Grace better off as Paige, living with a mother and father capable of looking after her in a way that he clearly isn't?)
He pulls himself out of his poisonous thoughts by focusing on the man before him. Tall, aristocratic, beautiful, with kind eyes that are difficult to glance away from, because he doesn't want to break contact. But then there's a twinge of sadness in Jefferson's faint smile, because he can't help but think: But what if you can't stand who you are? What if you don't want to be what these things made you?
But, the fact that Eliot's been through as much as him-- more, it seems, if he can remember many varied deaths, while Jefferson merely lost his head-- it's enough to start to push that wall of self loathing down again. So, here they are: two damaged people, face-to-face and practically naked, in a way that's somehow quite intimate, despite the fact that they've only disrobed, haven't even touched.
Another steadying breath, and then Jefferson nods. "I'm ready." Even if he doesn't know quite what to expect with this magic. It has to be better than the knife, at least. He trusts Eliot on that. Jefferson moves to sit on the desk, reaching out to take Eliot's hand and guide it to the back of his knee, then up an inch or so, brushing those long, clever fingers over the tracker embedded in his skin.
"Do you feel it?"
no subject
The rest of the time he thinks: you don't want to be what life made you? Tough shit.
But it's only when he's in his blackest places he wants to make anyone else believe that (and maybe it's just him, maybe it's just that he's such a fuck-up no amount of care can can cover all those cracks), so. For Jefferson there's a chance. And if there isn't Eliot will just ...make one. What else is magic for? Surely it should, in his mind, be able to burn out the things you don't want.
Meanwhile: even kneeling he's still more than chest level with the lip of the desk, managing, somehow, to half-close his eyes and brush light fingertips up until he feels--well, certainly a little bump of some kind. "Iiiii don't think there's a safe answer to that question," he murmurs; it's light, as per the trend of this whole conversation save that last detour. "Just an entire joke book's worth of vulgarity."
He moves his hand out from under Jefferson's leg, rubs his hands together like he's warming them and puffs out a little huff of air. The spell he's doing, Popper number whatever, is a variant on one of the first he learned (fan the spark, gather the flame), except much, much hotter, and more precise: a surgical laser held steady as Eliot can keep his hands.
Sooo it's probably good he's done fewer drugs lately. "You might want to look away for this part," he murmurs, although this time it's without looking at Jefferson, concentrating on what he's doing. The magic moves too quickly and at too high a temperature for much blood, but feeling around under someone else's skin still makes like, disgusting noises. "And the next time we try bloodplay? My safeword is pineapple."
................that's a joke.
no subject
And then, there it is: more magic, beautiful and comforting and also a bit terrifying, because he knows just what it's capable of. Jefferson looks, until he's suggested to do otherwise. Though he likes to think of his stomach as strong, from all he's seen and experienced in all the different worlds, he figures he ought to take Eliot at his word. Those few seconds of anticipation seem to stretch out for ages, and then that white-hot heat is applied to the skin and Jefferson winces, trying not to make a sound.
But it's not the magic that hurts nearly as much as the fingers digging for the tracker. He cries out from the sheer discomfort, fingers gripping the edge of the desk. At least with the noise he's making, he can't hear any... squelching or anything.
At least it's over with quickly. By the time that tracker's out of him, Jefferson's panting shallowly, eyes intense as he stares at Eliot. His leg, where the tracker once was, is throbbing with a pain that goes beyond skin-deep for-- well, for obvious reasons. But it's over with, and he feels light and airy and he's laughing breathlessly, with a grin bordering on manic.
"We might need to work our way back up to that," he manages. Also a joke, because there's no way he's getting involved in recreational bloodplay.
But he can't deny that he feels, strangely, more alive than ever now. Practically electrified. He reaches out, fingers drifting through Eliot's curls, and then leans down because... Well, perhaps this isn't the most appropriate time for it, but who cares? He wants to kiss him, as if that'll say-- more than words-- just what he's feeling in this moment. Gratitude and affection and-- obviously-- a hell of a lot of attraction.
He remembers doing this so many times, but he's never really done it before. It's a first kiss, and it isn't, and he has no idea if what he remembers reflects what Eliot even likes in a kiss. But as he presses his lips to the other man's, he finds his thoughts and uncertainties pushed to the background of his mind like so much noise.
no longer a horror of sudden death? great.
Which apparently extends to blithely ignoring the appropriateness of first kiss-hundredth kiss times and places; Eliot makes a startled, plaintive little sound he will never, ever admit to, a deluge of memory crashing headfirst into entirely new experience, kisses falling everywhere from the exhilaration of novelty to worn-soft, familiar and intimate, jostling elbows with a swimmer treading uncharted water.
So it takes him a second to find his feet, but he wants this badly enough not to remember how doing anything imperfectly makes him feel stupid and clumsy and lost. Partially because, in a slightly less loftily emotional vein, most fumbling here is engendered by being like, totally poleaxed with lust. It's awesome.
(But there is, at the same time, the afterimage burned behind his eyes of how few times he remembers, on days that either happened or didn't, how infrequently Jefferson looks like this. Eliot wants to make that happen as often as possible, as selflessly as such a desire can remotely hope to be.)
Even if this is technically a first kiss it's as easy as if he's done it dozens of times before to let his lips part, just slightly, reach up to cradle the curve of Jefferson's skull and twine curls around his fingers. After uh, some time of that, he has ...no real idea how long, oxygen becomes an annoying, pressing concern, and he pulls back exactly no inches away to breathe, eyes still closed.
"This is--the actual weirdest foreplay I've ever taken part in, and if you think that means you're hearing 'stop,' I will staple you to this very desk."
............. romance. If he sounds like he's smiling, that's because. Well. That's exactly what's happening.
no subject
What he's sure of, now, is that there must be some grain of truth in the way he feels with Eliot, and that it may be reciprocated with sincerity. It has to be real, because today, the real Jefferson asked the real Eliot to help him, and he followed through. The false Jefferson would've buried his anxieties to the point of bitterly lashing out, and the false Eliot would've given him his space, and everything would have festered.
As they kiss, Jefferson finds himself sliding closer to the edge of the desk, framing Eliot with a leg on either side of him. His fingers drift down, cradling Eliot's cheek, touching his jaw, then his neck, then tracing along his collarbone.
Jefferson smiles, letting out a breath of a laugh, before taking a moment to lightly nip at Eliot's lower lip. "Well, if you staple me down, that might limit what we can get up to."
no subject
If he's honest (and for once he wants to be) there's this. There's prying open his ribcage the slimmest sliver, exposing knife marks on bone from the last time he tried that, hoping when he holds out here I am, it's for something real, or even something that could be. Jefferson looks at him (a Jefferson who never lived in his memories, speaking of that) like he makes things better. Like he's capable of leaving anything other than wreckage in his wake, and he wants to keep that. He doesn't care if he has to wear blinders the size of his own head to do it, because he never gets to keep anything.
Honestly, with most people someone would be bent over this desk by now, but despite the magnificently suggestive position of Jefferson's legs, what he turns into without a thought is the hand curved around his cheek, following all those simple little brushes like fluttering ribbons irrevocably bond to a kite. Before he can really examine that too deeply (thank Christ, al...though there's nothing saying Jefferson can't have noticed), teeth are guaranteed to get a response that is. ...well, mostly about the aforementioned poleaxed with lust thing, light or not.
Usefully, that means he catches all of the witty one-liner that prooobably makes his pupils visibly larger, because look, while he may not be working with any 30 year dry span here, it's been a while. He drapes absurdly long arms over the tops of Jefferson's thighs, and looks (just barely) up at him, interestedly.
"Are we getting up to things? In the sanctity of your office?" Shut up, Eliot, you must have a dozen fake memories of banging in here. "Sir. I am scandalized."
(Give it half a second and that mock-appalled face is going to fall riiiiight apart.)
no subject
Not that he hasn't had his share of quick lays without much preamble. And those were fun, too. Especially when pressed for time, which, incidentally, they're not right now, so he feels no need to rush.
"Look around. Anyone who walks in will think we already did," he points out, playing along as if he's taking Eliot's remarks at face-value. He scrapes his teeth along his lower lip, deliberate in calling attention to his mouth, to the color his bite brings out in his lips, before grinning. "So we might as well. It's only practical." Right. It's a matter of practicality! Of justifying why the office is a wreck.
Anyway. Jefferson's just going to hook his ankles around Eliot's middle and use his legs to pull him closer which-- he immediately regrets a little, because it just reminds him of that throbbing pain above the back of his knee. But despite his brief wince of discomfort, he doesn't seem interested in stopping now.
PROBABLY THIS SHOULD.....TO AN INBOX
You know what's a great distraction from that, though? Jefferson's mouth, for one thing, and for two (...or about six, really) being lassoed with legs. This is a newsletter he would like to receive everyday, thank you. "Listen, Jefferson. I love the banter and everything? I really do, just say the word go and my ability to chatter from now 'til one of us passes out will put blue jays to shame, but--"
Ah, this is his only even facsimile of regret regarding a lack of clothing right now; it would be a spectacular opportunity to pull Jefferson's head down by the scarf. Oh well, Eliot will use his curls instead, meaning by necessity (because his hands are the size of catcher's mitts) the heel of his palm lines up with where the prominent scar rings the back of his neck. It couldn't be said Eliot doesn't notice; there's a sudden new shade of light in his eyes that says he's watching whether or not that's all right (in a second he'll just ask, but he has a point to make):
"That is - and I don't say this lightly - the least practical thing I've ever seen a person do with his mouth." A beat. "Well. That's a lie, but it's high on the scale! Fortunately for you, I hate practicality. It's so ...practical."
This isn't all about trying to see if he needs to make sure he avoids touching the scar without embarrassing Jefferson, but that's. A lot of it. He can, and will be, direct, that tends to save time, but it's--it's complicated. At least it would be for Eliot. "Not that I'm saying we shouldn't profane the shit out of your office."
Which is the note on which he's going to push off with his hands to either side of Jefferson's hips and stand up just, in the leg lasso, because this is the optimum angle to maybe encourage general.....draping backwards over the desk.