Ch. 16 - Abandonment is part of life with Jack of Fables.

[originaljackass]

[And so, today, Jack goes to check in on Clementine because what the hell she didn't come to get breakfast or anything. But when he stepped into her room, it was empty. All except for Mr. Revise, who looked at a bed that was far too neatly made for a seven year old to have fixed up.

Well well, it seems your morality pet has finally vanished. I wonder, how ever shall you become better man now?

"You shut your goddamn mouth, old man." Jack was upset. Mildly. He decided he was already over it. He shrugged and paid no mind to the ox that trotted in after him, hopped up on the bed, and proceeded to fall asleep. Whatever! "Clem's gone? Then fine. That means I'm free. No responsibilities. Back to parties all night and fucking any woman I please! And the best part is, I don't have to listen to whatshisname go on and on about how great he is."

Yes. You'll be a regular pillar of society. I wonder what horrible fate will befall you, then? Perhaps your promiscuity will turn you into a goat. Or your tongue shall make you a snake. Ahh, or perhaps you'll spend another decade in solitude as a pitiful, greedy dragon. I recall you enjoyed that enough to do it twice.

Jack glared at the old man, who he knew good and well as imaginary. And yet he responded anyway. After all, the ox was oblivious and Clem wasn't here to give him strange looks. "I know what you're trying to do. Just drive me crazy by whining all the time. Well it won't work! I'm perfectly sane. I'm just talking to a little bug the Malnosso put in my head. That's completely normal. They're evil scientists. I bet they do that to a lot of people."

Oh, you poor stupid little man. Is that what you think this is? I'm real, Mr. Horner. All of this, isn't. This is the Memory Hole. It was not a little girl that tempted you to reform. It was because I have censored you. You have been neutered and stripped clean of less than desirable traits, but you have created this world to pretend you have some element of control. I assure you that you do not. I will continue to pick you clean, bit by bit, and you will never escape.

And then, at some point in the day, an entire bed went flying out of wall of Jack's apartment. But he ignored it, because the building would fix itself and he had decided that he was officially out of fucks to give. He would go to the bar, do his normal shift, and that night before he put himself to bed with a tall bottle of whiskey, he offered the journal a brief statement.]

[Voice]

Clementine is back to her zombie paradise. She knows how to use a gun, so she might last a few more years. Maybe even ten or twenty. That's a normal lifespan, right? Anyway, she's gone. Just in case anybody gives a damn.

[He considers answering any responses, but eh. What's the point? She's gone, thus she's irrelevant. Only an idiot would get sappy at this point.]

Comments

[herotypical]

Someone, somewhere, was fond the saying that history repeated itself. And deep down, Buffy knew she could never not try and bluster in and be there for even monsters. For even jackasses. Especially jackasses, perhaps, when her own confidence was rattled and she needed a project to distract her. And then, of course, there was the poignant part where she would also miss Clem. But she tried to ignore that pain, focusing instead on the very real ache gained by kicking the toe of her shoes against the fractured bed. Why was it outside? She didn't want to know.

Upon entering the building and making it to Horner's door, she didn't bother to knock. She strode right in. To his two bottles of whiskey she added one of flavoured vodka. And a deck of cards. And a bag of peanut M&Ms.

Her head turned to the wall. Then back to Jack. Then to the wall again. "...Wow."

[originaljackass]

Jack only seemed to be numbly aware of the addition of more booze on his table. He made no effort to acknowledge her or any other pleasantries. At this point, he'd drank almost nearly enough that the DVD on the wall was becoming enjoyable. Almost.

"This is the good part," he explained.

He was pretending not to notice Mr. Revise sitting next to him and condemning him for each mouthful he washed down his throat.

[herotypical]

"...You're so drunk."

Frankly, she didn't see him drunk-drunk all that often. Not like this. It both worried her and warmed her -- the first because she had a conscience and the second because she half-believed so did he. Buffy's arms crossed, formidable in a bulky woollen autumnal jacket with big artisan-like wooden buttons down the front. All, of course, of irregular shapes. Very hip; very cool. But most of all? Very protective.

"And, yet, not nearly drunk enough. Probably."

[originaljackass]

"I'm working on it."

Unlike other rapid healers, Jack possessed no innate ability that slowed his ability to get drunk. Sure, he'd had a thousand years to develop an impressive tolerance. But even he would have a hell of a hangover after this.

A fact which Mr. Revise reminded him of. So Jack pressed the bottle back to his lips just to spite him.

[herotypical]

"Far be it from me to judge," she started wryly -- fully engaging in the hypocrisy of decrying judgement while full knowing just how often she did it -- and dragged a hand over her tightly-braided hair. "But it's not really the sorta thing you should be working on alone, don't you think?"

Maybe she was daring him to tell her otherwise. To demand she leave. To prove her wrong, one last time, and let her walk away and leave her paltry sweet offerings behind. Hell, it looked as though the card deck had never even been unsealed.

[originaljackass]

He peeled his eyes away from the DVD to lazily stare at her.

"I'm Jack of the Tales. All of my stories are all about me. Not me and... some other person. I'm a solo gig."

[herotypical]

"Solo gig. Right. That's why you're reacting to your feelings of abandonment by freaking out and trying to turn your wallpaper into a flatscreen through sheer force of booze."

[originaljackass]

Ha. Abandonment. What would a half grown woman know about abandonment? He'd had a thousand years and he did all the abandoning.

"I may also be going insane," he suggested helpfully.

[herotypical]

"...Still with the peanut gallery in your head?"

A cool dispassionate interest sliced its way across her impatience. Her body, which had been turned towards the door and readied to walk out on him, angled back to face Horner. She'd assumed that little probably had cleared up along with the lack of vision. But, then again, her most significant conversation with Horner since she's shaved him had mostly involved a lot of vegetable talk and some very regrettable teenaged flirting.

[originaljackass]

"Nothing but good times."

Jack made a whirling finger around his head, swallowed some more booze, and turned his attention back to the gripping DVD taped to his wall.

[herotypical]

"You should really see someone about that, you know--" But she stopped short of giving the suggestion any kind of final punctuation. Because what else could she offer? There were no professionals here, and she doubted the efficacy of the newly crazy talking to the once crazy. She doubted the efficacy of a lot of things.

Fine. Forget reason; forget helpfulness. In the wake of a tragedy, the best medicine might well be indulgence. So: "You definitely have whipped cream in the fridge down the hall, right?"

[originaljackass]

He shrugged. "I don't know what the lizard lady eats." His tone indicated he didn't care. He did not crave or want her company. Jack was perfectly content to fall over drunk and be done with it.

[herotypical]

Buffy snapped the birthday cake vodka back under one arm, lingering long enough to ask: "...You're hallucinating up a lizard lady, too?"

Yikes.

[originaljackass]

He stared at her. "... what? No. She's real." He considered that for a moment. "... I think."

[herotypical]

"...Encouraging."

Buffy left his apartment door swinging open while she adventured down to the communal kitchen. The flavoured vodka had come with a funny little brochure, full of promises for what could actually be achieved with such a niche product. For niche it was -- few of her regulars ever wanted to drink artificially flavoured second-shelf vodka. Good for them; they were missing out. Because Buffy had it on good authority (AKA her gut instinct) that a Birthday Suit would be a delicious shot. One part vodka, smothered in whipped cream and multi-coloured sprinkles.

Ludicrous? Yes. Absolutely. But ludicrousness was sort of the point. She intended to break up the monotony of however-many whiskey bottles with something else. It wasn't about saccharine attempts to coax smiles. It wasn't even about making Jack Horner feel better. It was about being there, being different, and trying to find some kind of down-payment for what she saw as a debt owed.

Upon her return, she was balancing a tray of six cream-topped shots. Apologetically: "There were no shot glasses. I had to settle for ramekins. Look at this way...now they're all doubles. Now stop staring at the wall, deal us poker hands, and at least try to sit up straight."

We'll get through this.

[originaljackass]

He was doing his best to ignore her and the six cream-topped shots. He looked at Revise and then the DVD and then the whiskey and then at Babe, who was uselessly sitting in the corner and having a grand daydream about being Leonidas. But Jack was unaware of that dream. He was, instead, stuck with Buffy. And this time, he wasn't happy about that.

"I didn't ask for your company. I don't want shots, I don't want poker. I want to put those two bottles inside me so that in a few hours, I can vomit them back into the toilet. See? The whole evening is booked."

[herotypical]

"This isn't a favour; of course you didn't ask for it. It's a freaking intervention."

[originaljackass]

"I don't do interventions." At that, he stood up and walked to the door and opened it. He stood to the side, making room for her to walk out of it. "And I don't do pick-me-ups or friendly card games."

[herotypical]

Her cheeks flushed with indignation -- unhappy at being brave enough to walk this path, but deficient enough to be refused. Had she the cogent critical skills, she would have known enough to warn him that she was the one honest ally it looked as though he possessed in this place. But as she couldn't see herself for what she was, she merely remained miffed.

"You'd actually really rather be alone, wouldn't you?"

[originaljackass]

"Do you want to have sex?"

1/?

[herotypical]

"Do I what?"

Oh, she'd heard. She'd heard and the indignation sank deeper. Rooted in with a primal disgust for any and all threats to her pride. Her authority. Her sense of self. Buffy felt control over her own philanthropy slip and escape her grasp. Although it had never really been about Jack to begin with, the moment now tipped wholly into selfish territory.

2/2

[herotypical]

...She closed the gap in a moment. Drinks, treats, and cards all forgotten on the table. Buffy was still bundled up in her wool jacket when she raised an arm and tried -- mostly without thinking -- to strike Jack Horner full across his jaw. The fact that it was an open-palmed slap and not a slugging punch was only the barest indication that some distant sensibility of hers actually didn't want to hurt him.

Not much, at least.

[originaljackass]

Lucky him he was made of sturdier stuff than most. This was the typical reaction he got from women when it came to that question and he took it in stride. He rubbed slightly at his jaw and noted that he hadn't had enough booze to completely deaden the pain. He'd work on that.

"So that's a no, then." He tilted his head, still sore, towards the hallway. "Then alone it is."

[herotypical]

In the end, no matter what the circumstance, she only ever managed to hurt herself. She paused where she stood, palm still stinging. In a moment of childish panic, she wondered if palms bruised. Would hers? Was that the sort of smack that would leave a mark on her own skin? Jeez, it'd been years since she'd had to live to completely without her ability to heal -- it was as if she expected every little gust and bump to leave her black and blue. It made her feel weak.

And he made her feel...what? Angry. Rejected -- but not in a way at all common to her past experience. He made her feel clumsy. Most of all, he made her feel unfulfilled. No matter the selfish roots of the action, she did want to help. Still did, in a twisted and masochistic sort of way.

"You want alone? We can do alone. Take the week off work," she commanded through gritted teeth. "Stupor yourself. Find some buxom bandaid to ride off into the sunset if that's what heals what ails you. I don't care. Just don't you dare step into my bar for a damn good and full seven days. Got that, Horner?"

She didn't move. Not yet. Not while the conditions rang in the air -- a desperate bid not to see him until her hurt feelings had healed, all under the guise of trying to offer some paltry form of vacation.

[originaljackass]

Well, that worked as well as he hoped it would. She was still standing there. All indignant and angry. Maybe he ought to feel bad. But he didn't. He never felt bad. Not for Buffy. Not for Effie. Not for Clementine.

"Seven days, got it. Don't call me Horner. My name is Jack. Anything else you need to get off your chest or are you done? I'm missing my favorite scene."