[Jay can't remember the last time somebody asked if he wanted them around. It's never been something Jay's had a choice in; it was always "I'm done helping you," or "Stay out of my life," or empty silence on the other side of a hotel door.]
[They'd run, or he'd run, or one or both of them would die. That's how it goes.]
[Well, clearly that's not how it goes with this guy.]
[He's uncanny; Jay will admit that. He's Tim, and he's not-Tim, and not in the way the Shadow and the Mirror could be. He's not Tim, but worse. He's not scrawling messages on the mirror, he's not taunting Jay--he's not doing much of anything but sitting there and talking. As he said, they're just shooting the shit, two dimensionally displaced assholes missing somebody else.]
[It's off the record, all of this. Not a scrap of it would've made it to the YouTube reel, because there's no footage. Tim made him turn the camera off, which is a cruel move if Jay's ever seen one.]
[But he's not turning it back on. He's not switching Wonderland's communicator to record in his pocket. He's just keeping a deal with himself--the second he gets his hand on a pad of paper, he's writing down every detail he can remember. Wonderland goes word by word; it can't take this away before Jay can get some record of it.]
[Unless it sends him home, and any footage he gets here will be worthless anyway.]
[Maybe that's it.]
[Maybe that's why just the weight of the dead camera in his hand is enough to keep him from sweating, from shaking, from checking over his shoulder. Maybe that's why he hasn't jumped across the table, tried to split this Tim open like the last one.]
[He remembers hearing it repeated, a scrap of his childhood he hasn't lost yet. You can't take it with you, they said, while Jay scratched at the seams of his stiff collared shirt.]
[He doesn't get a choice in this. He never really did.]
[But Tim's giving him a choice here. This guy, also named Tim, the one with the tan and the weary posture, the one who absent-mindedly reaches for a shape beneath his tie-dye shirt. The one who redirects Jay's terror as easily as Shepard does. The one who needs to get back home.]
[Jay doesn't trust him, but Jay doesn't trust most people.]
[He seems like a decent guy, this Tim.]
[He seems like the kind of guy worth knowing. He seems like the kind of guy where it's okay to just stay quiet, sip a coffee, quit shooting the shit and just exist in proximity.]
[Jay shakes his head.]
No.
[There's an ache in his chest. Feels a little too much like giving a shit.]
[If he really gives a shit, he'd better give Tim the choice as well.]
no subject
[Jay can't remember the last time somebody asked if he wanted them around. It's never been something Jay's had a choice in; it was always "I'm done helping you," or "Stay out of my life," or empty silence on the other side of a hotel door.]
[They'd run, or he'd run, or one or both of them would die. That's how it goes.]
[Well, clearly that's not how it goes with this guy.]
[He's uncanny; Jay will admit that. He's Tim, and he's not-Tim, and not in the way the Shadow and the Mirror could be. He's not Tim, but worse. He's not scrawling messages on the mirror, he's not taunting Jay--he's not doing much of anything but sitting there and talking. As he said, they're just shooting the shit, two dimensionally displaced assholes missing somebody else.]
[It's off the record, all of this. Not a scrap of it would've made it to the YouTube reel, because there's no footage. Tim made him turn the camera off, which is a cruel move if Jay's ever seen one.]
[But he's not turning it back on. He's not switching Wonderland's communicator to record in his pocket. He's just keeping a deal with himself--the second he gets his hand on a pad of paper, he's writing down every detail he can remember. Wonderland goes word by word; it can't take this away before Jay can get some record of it.]
[Unless it sends him home, and any footage he gets here will be worthless anyway.]
[Maybe that's it.]
[Maybe that's why just the weight of the dead camera in his hand is enough to keep him from sweating, from shaking, from checking over his shoulder. Maybe that's why he hasn't jumped across the table, tried to split this Tim open like the last one.]
[He remembers hearing it repeated, a scrap of his childhood he hasn't lost yet. You can't take it with you, they said, while Jay scratched at the seams of his stiff collared shirt.]
[He doesn't get a choice in this. He never really did.]
[But Tim's giving him a choice here. This guy, also named Tim, the one with the tan and the weary posture, the one who absent-mindedly reaches for a shape beneath his tie-dye shirt. The one who redirects Jay's terror as easily as Shepard does. The one who needs to get back home.]
[Jay doesn't trust him, but Jay doesn't trust most people.]
[He seems like a decent guy, this Tim.]
[He seems like the kind of guy worth knowing. He seems like the kind of guy where it's okay to just stay quiet, sip a coffee, quit shooting the shit and just exist in proximity.]
[Jay shakes his head.]
No.
[There's an ache in his chest. Feels a little too much like giving a shit.]
[If he really gives a shit, he'd better give Tim the choice as well.]
You want me to go?