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

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."

Carrot and stick.

Now he knows what's in the box, and what's in the box is troubling to say the least. (Not to mention the look in Tim's eye, deluded into thinking this is a kindness.) He resists the urge to recoil, to knock the pill bottle out of his hands.

Carefully, he takes it.

"You can't afford this," he murmurs, gently turning the bottle in his hand, watching the pills slide behind orange plastic. "What happens if you run out?"

How many did Tim's little friend get?

"I can now," he says, slightly wry. Maybe it's an attempt to probe for information. Even if it is, he can't rightly say for himself. He's still hunting that confirmation down. Regardless, the foresight involved is...

It'll be enough. It'll have to be. And with the prescription in hand as a basis, that means the closets will yield the exact result needed.

"'Sides. You're a Jay. Means I gotta look out for you, yeah?" Or he might go running headlong into danger, camera in hand.

He can now.

Either he has a truly staggering number of pills, or he's got some means of producing more. Magically repopulating bottle? Regular deal with the vendors? Prescription, maybe, but nobody's running a pharmacy, and he doubts the closets take such detailed requests. Maybe Tim--his Tim, the right one--has a better idea.

Jay snorts outright at Tim's next statement. "Then is it my job to drag you back into trouble?"

"It's your job to stay alive." He can do that much for him, can he? The Real Jay isn't much for self-preservation, but he's been doing impressively better than Tim would've expected. He hasn't done the math, but it seems a whole hell of a lot like Alex kicked it at least once by now.

He's better off not thinking about Alex. For a multitude of reasons.

He believes it, too. Jay can see that, from every twitch, every inflection. He wants Jay to be safe. He wants him to get better. He thinks he can fix him, this imperfect creature, this filthy apostate--

"How much do you know?" He presses down on the cap, twists it until it slide-clicks open and the pills rattle against each other. He winces.

Listen.

Listen.

LISwTElotN.

He clicks the bottle shut.

"Do you know what happens when people like us die?"

"I know that she doesn't own you. The Queen." His tone is steady, his stare unblinking. The Mirror flinches with every noise, like existence is painful. Maybe, for him, it is. He has no idea what this guy's like. He just knows that he defaults to a whisper, like the rustle of paper over dead leaves.

"I know that she acts like she does, but she's just someone who put herself in that position. She only has control as long as she can keep you moving against each other."

Is this news to him?

It was news to Tim.

It's not new information, not entirely, but it's the first time he's heard anything like it spoken aloud, and his attention latches onto it. They can speak of death later.

Is this the safety being Real affords him? To mention these things so casually?

He observes. He archives. That is his Purpose. But this information is too sensitive to risk theft. He'll have to commit it to memory. ~~And if he forgets, let ̷i̴t̵ b͟e d̕oņe according to Its will.~~

He switches off the camera. Slowly, he reaches up to the folds of his borrowed hood, switches off the microphone hidden there. He looks Tim over carefully for any sign of a recording device. Nothing.

(Can he trust an apostate, a liar? In these things, yes. In these things they are br̼̙̻̥̞ot͚͉̟̤̠̟͘h̴͙e̛r̲̤̞̞̞̰s̥͎̺̖͖.)

He draws close, closer, closer, and when he speaks, his voice is nearly inaudible.

"They say she wove us, and she can unwind us. She made us, and she can Unmake us."

He pulls closer, his voice somehow even softer. He pulls a hand up to cover his mouth. No cameras. No eyes. He has to listen.

"She is not my Queen."

"She didn't make you." And he can say that freely now. Is he signing the Mirror's death warrant, speaking this aloud? Or is he initiating a revolution, if he can? "You would've existed with or without her. She just put herself in a position where you'd be too busy fighting each other to realize that."

There's a plea, an offer unspoken wound in around there. The promise that he, and none of the others on that side of the glass, would have to be alone if they chose to oppose her.

They don't deserve to have to be slaves to someone as capricious and cruel as that. No one does.

He’s saying too much, too loudly, too close to the mirrors. The Mirrorside cameras trained on the glass might be useless when it comes to audio, but he doesn’t want to hinge his safety on the chance nobody Mirrorside can read lips. The missing footage from his camcorder he can explain, but it would be a lot harder to account for missing security footage if someone comes asking.

Jay brings a hand up to cover his mouth again, feigning a cough, and whispers: “I’m going to attack you, and you’re going to get away, and you’re going to lead us both outside. Now.”

He doesn’t give Tim a chance to respond.

Instead, his face twists into a snarl as he lunges, aiming to shove Tim against the wall. “That’s treason!”

He barely gets time to react.

A whispered warning before Jay surges forward, slamming into Tim with the impact of a taller but much more wiry body against his own. He stumbles more than he should, maybe overselling it, but they both know that Tim's more than capable of overpowering Jay in a fair fight.

"It's true!" Are people really watching them, right now? Are people really...?

Doesn't matter. They're still selling it like pros, huh? Better actors than Alex figured them for.

"It's not treason, Jay!" He's squirming up against the wall, working his way up to try and telegraph his intent to make a break for the door.

Jay shoves a hand against his collarbone. From the right angle, it may look like it's around his throat. "You're a liar!"

(Isn't this fun? Getting to play back memories the old-fashioned way, actors on a stage?)

Jay sees the way Tim's attention twitches toward the door, and he catches his eye. He nods once, a tiny jerk of the chin.

Then, he allows the hand near Tim's throat to slip, like he tried to adjust his grip and miscalculated.

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