entrancelogs | merry christmas; i could care less [ open ]

It doesn't strike him as abnormal, no. Jay's always fiddling and fumbling with the camera he has on hand, no matter how many times Tim's told him there's not much point in continuing to maintain a recording. Figures, though, that he'd add a tiny handheld mirror to his repertoire after the last time.

After he had to prove to himself, to Tim, that neither of them crossed over.

"You sure it's not turned into candy?"

It probably has. It probably has, and if Tim takes one look at it, he'll know it's useless.

He flips it open, taking care not to look at the glass. Jay would be afraid, wouldn't he? He'd take the chance to show Tim the mirror before anything else, on the slim chance he'd catch a Mirror off guard. He holds it up a little higher, so Tim can see, and he waits for his reaction.

Tim squints at it. Is it candy? The glass looks intact, and in it, he can see - his reflection. Worn down as ever, frayed at every edge, the half moons beneath his eyes dark and heavy. After last year, he hasn't slept very much at all. But then, he's never slept easy.

"All right," he says, and opens his arms. "There. Now you."

He really should take to carrying his own little pocket mirror, huh?

He held it out to Tim to get confirmation it was candy, but what he got was just...nothing. Is Tim toying with him? If Jay refuses to look, his cover is as good as blown, but if he looks and is sent back, same thing.

Slowly, carefully, he turns the mirror on himself. Slowly, carefully, he looks down at his reflection.

Nothing.

Is it...it is candy, he thinks, but it's too small to easily tell.

"So..." He draws out the uncertainty. He wants to be done with this, but if he gives up too easily, he'll arouse suspicion. "Either we're good, or...y'know. Mirror's not working."

His breath catches in his throat, and he stifles a cough, a real one this time. His voice can't be wearing out already, can it? It's all the little pauses, the filler words, adding syllables where they don't need to be.

It sure as hell sounds like Jay. Every inflection, every poise, every word. Tim breathes out a sigh, caught on a line between two options. Both risks. Both undesirable.

"Great," he says, the word low with disgust. "Good to know that our one way of figuring out who's Real and who isn't might be fucking busted. Makes me feel great."

Still, at least he's got his wits to him, right? Not smiling and spreading that artificial cheer like some of the poor bastards around here. There's that much. Not much, but something.

"Look. There's some...stuff we need to talk about. Or - stuff that I guess the Real Tim and the Real Jay need to talk about."

"How d'you think I feel?" Jay mutters, a little hoarser this time. (Elated. Elated is the word he's looking for.)

And then Tim drops the line, the we need to talk line, the one that gives every self-respecting anxious wreck a near heart attack.

But only, of course, when the we in question actually includes the listener.

Still, he'd better feign concern, even as he has to suppress the urge to grin at Tim's little remark about the Real Tim and the Real Jay. This Tim's really growing on him. He's clever.

He tightens his jaw, looks down at Tim with the wariest look he can manage. "What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff like...doing something about what went down during the last event." Mincing words is a little talent of his, he knows. He's still a little too good at it. A little too good at dropping a fraction of truth in a drape of evasive language, rolling it up tight and easy to it slips out nice and prepackaged and sounding normal.

He is a liar. Always has been. Always will be.

"Wasn't right to just leave it where we did. But aside from...I dunno, acknowleding it? I didn't know what else to do."

He's not feeding Jay much information, is he? Good thing both Reals like to speak in abstractions.

Whatever Tim means, it's something Jay won't want to hear. He dials up the wariness, tries to reach out his mind to all the worst possible things Tim could be talking about. Lends a little sense of realism.

"So, what's next?"

Jay has a few ideas.

"Well, I kinda wanted to ask you, to start with."

It makes sense that he should, right? It makes sense that he'd wanna make sure Jay himself was set on the motion before Tim made any more unilateral decisions on his behalf. They both know that's not historically gone over well, so they might as well try and take that first step together.

Unless this isn't the Real Jay at all.

"No idea if you've looked into what kinda options you preferred or...what, really."

Oh, look at him. The liar from Jay's memories, the one who stashed away the answers to control him, he wouldn't do this. He wouldn't ask. He'd just keep his mouth shut and do whatever it takes to yank on Jay's puppet strings.

But this is a new beast.

Jay spots an opportunity, however.

He swipes one hand across his face, using the other to keep the camera steady, and he has to tamp down the swelling urge to check the feeds. Not now. Not now.

He speaks with a careful reluctance, shot through with sarcasm. Tim's being nice. Jay can't trust that, Real or Mirror. "Well, what kind of options are there, exactly?"

Fuck. This is getting them nowhere. He's gonna have to venture something if he wants confirmation or denial as to who he might really be talking to. He's gonna have to surrender some scrap of information and hope that it's not enough to give a potential Mirror control.

"Well...we have more options than you'd think, I guess." He taps his fingertips at the edge of the giftwrapped box, drumming them quietly. "Someone pulled a favor for us. Or...for me. No confirmation on who, but I'm pretty sure I know who."

...but he's not surrendering George's name. That's for damn sure.

Jay peers down at the box. Small, but a lot of valuable things ~~back home~~ are small.

He wants to rip the wrapping open this second, take apart what's inside and see what it contains, but he knows his Real's got a bit more...restraint in that area. 'Fear' is probably a better word for it. 'Cowardice' is even better.

Tim's playing his cards close to his chest, and Jay knows he'll have to do something if he doesn't want to keep talking in circles for the next hour.

"I'm assuming that's not--"

--more tapes catches at the tip of his tongue. They could be tapes, and if they are, and if it would be obvious to his Real that they are, the line could make him even more suspicious.

"--another box of cookies." There. Topical, even. All he needs is for Tim to lift the lid of that box, and he'll see whether it's worth anything.

If not, well...he's got other options.

"Yes, Jay. It's a box of cookies," he says flatly, utterly deadpan. "I thought you could use some holiday cheer. Or maybe I just wanted to shrink you down to four inches for shits and giggles."

He's seen plenty of the effects of those things by now, thanks. Doesn't want any real big part of it, but it's a bit too late for that, now, is it?

"Look, after our last little...discussion?" He lifts his eyebrows meaningfully. "I said I'd help. And I meant that."

"Thanks." It comes out bitter, and it's only half-acting.

Fine. Fine. He'll have to give this up and see what happens. If it goes south, then he'll come up with something else.

"Look, Tim, exactly what kind of favor did our Secret Santa pu--?" Something catches in his throat, and his efforts to suppress a cough fail miserably. He doubles over, dry coughs scraping across his disused throat.

Shit.

"Woah. You okay?" He starts forward with one hand outstretched, palm out, in a clear gesture of concern. Look, it - it doesn't really matter, in the end, does it? Mirror or not, George was right. They're victims. And if it's the Real Jay, that just means things aren't nearly as fine as he wants everyone else to think.

Coughing is always one of the primary warning signs.

(Here? Now? Really?)

Tim's stepping forward, asking after him, like he thinks he can help.

The concern's not for him.

"I'm fine," he spits out, because he knows the script by rote, but it comes out in a low, hoarse whisper. Wrong voice.

He can breathe underwater, can drown without dying, but he can't just talk. He shouldn't need to talk. He observes. He archives. That's his purpose.

"Sorry, it's--it's something in the air, I think."

Seriously? Feeding him that line after everything?

“You’re not fine,” snaps Tim. “I thought we established that. You really expect me to believe that’s all there is to it?”

It’s never just, with them. It’s never just a cough, just a chill, just a gap in your memory. It’s never that fucking simple. Not for them.

I thought we established that.

So he knows. He knows, and if he's not mistaken, his Real must have actually managed to admit it. He'd be almost proud, if he wasn't sure admitting was different from embracing.

"Okay, fine. I'm not 'fine.'" Jay manages to maintain his Real's cadence, but the tone's all wrong, still locked in a more familiar whisper. "But it's not...It's not here. That's not what this is."

He would know if It were here.

“Yeah? Then what? Since when is stuff like that a coincidence with us? Don’t tell me it is, because we both know that it never is.”

He’s whispering, like he’s afraid someone might be listening. Like he’s afraid someone would overhear. And he expects Tim to accept that everything is -

Well, Tim’s always been a hypocrite.

Jay hides his face in his hands for a moment, thinking. Processing.

If Tim wants so badly to help, then maybe Jay can give him what he wants.

He manages to coax his voice a little louder, though it still cracks. "Look, I don't--I don't know what this is, alright? And I don't..."

He wraps his arms across his chest, winds into his voice that thread of hoplessness he remembers from Tim in the hospital, really sells it.

"I don't know what to do."

...does it matter?

Does it matter, if this is Real or not? Does it matter which he is? Aren't they both subject to the same problems, the same flaws? Or maybe this is just the paranoia screaming its way into his ears and out of his mind, as always.

"I dunno which one you are," he admits, at last. "I still can't really be sure. But it - I don't care, okay? I still wanna help."

Jay's eyes widen. Tim just handed this opportunity to him on a golden platter.

Finally, finally, Jay allows himself to drop character.

...Somewhat.

His shoulders slump, and his voice shifts back into its natural range. "Fine. I'm not your Jay."

He keeps his arms wrapped tight around himself, avoids eye contact. He's someone who needs help, Tim. He's harmless. He's sick, by your limited definition.

He's pretty sure this would have to be the Mirror, then. The Real wouldn't just admit that straight-up. There'd be no reasoning, no rationality for that. And immediately, all the little pieces fall away. Jay's body language transforms, his stance shifts, and suddenly Tim's no longer looking at Jay at all.

He's looking at someone who can imitate the Real Jay to an eerily accurate degree.

That's more than a little sad.

"...thanks," he says at last. "For, uh. For telling me. I know you didn't have to."

No, he didn't have to. He wanted to. Wanted to build that little strand of trust, so he can knot it around Tim's neck later.

Or, better, so he can help Tim in return. Poor creature doesn't understand the opportunities laid out in front of him, the ones he pushes away with that little bottle of pills. If Jay can just get him to understand, then--then, well, he and his own Tim and a force more powerful than either of them might have a hand on the Real side of the glass.

"You said you can help." He tips his head up just slightly, draws a little closer like he's afraid someone's listening. (Someone probably is, if that holiday cheer has finally worn off.) "How?"

"You too, huh?"

He does have...bottles. Plural. He has medication to spare. Thanks to someone's gift - and he knows who that someone must be, seeing as it came not long after that little discussion - he has more than one bottle at his disposal. He can afford to give him this one lifeline. He deserves that much, doesn't he?

The corners of Tim's eyes crease, pinching with something altogether too much like sympathy.

He slips one of the bottles out from the box, precious contents and all, and offers it out.

"Here."

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