Take me home tonight

[Alejandro Riviera]

"That's a terrible lie."

He slid under the covers because it was what Jack seemed to want of him, and Alejo was tired of fighting. The evening was ruined, but really, Alejo's life was ruined long before this. Maybe if he had never been assigned to Jack's case... Maybe if he had gone on to do something else, he could have kept up pretences. He might still be with Judah, pretending that he didn't know Judah loved another man.

Was that better than this? Was being fake-happy better than being real-broken? Alejo laid his head down onto the pillow, facing away from Jack. He had been wrong. Jack wasn't nothing anymore. When they first met, yes—there was nothingness in him. A week later, somehow, something changed for him. There was something in him now that Alejo knew he would never have.

Slowly he closed his eyes, letting his thoughts slide away into half-drunk musings. Alejo curled up under the covers and let his head drop towards his chest, hugging a corner of the blankets. "Night, Jack." He wished he could say good night, but it was a horrible night.

[Jack Ripley]

"Mm." That sound again. What else could he say? He felt like he was dealing with a young, petulant child again. Not unlike some of his students, actually. Allie looked like he could have been one of them--once. But now... Jack no longer saw the bright eyed, smiling, happy, and naive man he had once met. Inch by inch, he started to see the mask fall. From confessing their nothingness to one another to this.

The night had been a rocky one, at best. Jack lay there on his back, under the covers, his hands over the covers. It started out nice. He met a new friend, how now had all his important things--wallet, card, coat, keys. Sigh. He supposed he could go back tomorrow and get them back.

He tapped on his own leg through the blanket. The wait was excruciating. He didn't know how long it took but eventually, when he looked over at Allie's back, he thought he was probably asleep. Slipping quietly out of bed, he put on a soft silken robe and headed out to the living room. And realized as he poked through his things that amongst everything he'd left behind, his cell phone was another item gone.

Going to the window and looking out in the courtyard, his gaze went to the bench where he and Brayden goofed off once. There were memories. Blurry ones. But he could have sworn he kissed Brayden. Letting the curtain fall back, he turned away and went to the kitchen to pick up his emergency whiskey bottle, bringing it to the couch, and turning on the TV. Anything--anything to shut his mind down.

[Marguerite De Silva]

After her shift, Marge hefted her bag over one shoulder and swept up a coat and wallet and keys that weren't hers. She'd been told to 'hold on' to these items while Jack went off to find someone to bang and then when he did, he just. Left. He left with that brown-haired young man and had the audacity to look over at her but not come pick up his shit.

Which was why Marge took the liberty of buying herself a drink on his card. What? It was a holding fee.

It wasn't hard to find out who he was, mostly because his damn name was on the damn card. A quick search revealed his wallet, which had ID, which let her know where he lived. If he had lived further away, Marge would have left his things at the club's lost and found, but the apartment he lived in was along the way to her place and she didn't mind dropping Jack's things off.

Call her a softy.

And okay she wanted to check up on that brown-haired boy. There was something strangely off about him. He'd been dancing with all the wrong sorts of people so she thought what the hell—maybe Jack could both save him from a bad time and have himself a good time. Not knowing how disastrously her match-making had ended up, Marge arrived at the Sunrise and let herself in through the gate. She marched up to door 1F and knocked curtly, seeing that a light was on inside. Were they still going at it? Marge quirked a smile. Didn't matter, somebody better open the goddamn door and soon because it was cold outside.

"Jack! I have your shit!"

[Jack Ripley]

Jack was a couple of episodes into The Golden Girls (the choices weren't exactly the best at that hour), when he heard a knock at the door. At first, he looked up hopefully, thinking it might be Brayden--but it didn't sound like his knock. And a few seconds later, the knock was followed by the familiar voice of Marge. Huh. Jack swiftly reached down to at least pull on his underwear before he went to the door, clasping his robe closed at the front. He opened the door to Marge and oh!

He recognized that coat! His things!

"Oh!" Jack immediately beamed and bounced forward to embrace her. "You're such a lifesaver!" He pulled back from her to get a look at her. Unlike him, she looked fierce, like her absolute best, even when she was apparently just getting off her shift at the club.

"I was planning to stop by tomorrow and pick everything up." But he had no idea if she even worked Sunday night and then what? Ah, all's well that ends well, he supposed.

[Marguerite De Silva]

"Open the goddamn door, Jack," Marge muttered in a vaguely death-threat-like way as nobody teleported to the door to yank it open. But she heard voices coming from inside, and what appeared to be tinny, canned laughter. A TV show? Soon there were footsteps and then Jack was there, pulling the front of his robes closed. Marge patted him on the back as he leapt on her to embrace her, amused by his effusive greeting. Sheesh, somebody was glad to see her.

"Your place was along the way, so I thought I'd bring your things back. Didn't think you'd still be up." She wasn't even trying to be coy as she peered inside to get a glimpse of the young man Jack took home with him. "So the blue balls?" Her grin was meaningful as she stepped inside to get out of the cold, patting Jack's bare chest along the way.

"Everything went well, I assume?"

[Jack Ripley]

"They're less blue."

Suddenly, he was glad he'd covered up, although he somehow didn't much care if Marge got a look at him or not. Either way, she seemed amused enough by how he presented himself, probably with hair that looked as though hands had raked through it (true) and a slight sway in his step (also true).

Jack closed the door behind Marge, glad to shut out the cold. It was freezing out there right now! Inside his apartment, it was cozy and warm, with the comforting sound of stupid television playing in the background. Clothes were still scattered across the floor by the couch and the bottle of whiskey sat on the coffee table.

"And... ah..." Jack glanced towards the bedroom. "I think he's asleep right now."

Jack took hold of Marge's hand in both of his. "There's a lot going on with him." He didn't know how much to keep to himself or how much to reveal but he supposed this was safe enough to say: "There was a boyfriend and I think they broke up... He wasn't totally clear on that but... He talked about him in past tense so I think it's pretty over. I want to help but I... don't... think I can."

[Marguerite De Silva]

"So I see." She picked her way around a pool of leather and sheer material and—oh look, there was the shirt Jack had been wearing earlier in the evening. The couch seemed to be the scene of the crime. No condom wrappers. Ooh, naughty boys. Somebody was going to be sore in the morning, and it didn't look like Jack.

Marge turned to Jack with a smirk. "You did good for yourself tonight, you bad boy," she began, but then Jack took her hand in both of his and—"Oh god, no. No don't—Ugh."

She tried, nobody could say she didn't try. She tried to stop him from blabbing out what she knew he was going to say about the sleeping cure for a bad case of blue balls, that he was probably freaking broken inside. Well the broken ones were the best in the sack so he was welcome and—fuck. Marge's expression went from annoyed to judgmental to disgruntled.

"God, why is it always the cute ones?" She groaned as she whipped her hand out from Jack's. It looked like he was going to ask her a favor. That was the posture, the two hands clinging to hers. "Why are the cute ones always batshit crazy, Jack? God!" Flinging herself dramatically onto the couch, she stared up at him flatly. "So he broke up with his boyfriend, boo hoo hoo. That can't be everything, can it? What else happened?"

[Jack Ripley]

Oh, he wished he'd done good for himself tonight. At first, he really thought he did, too. Allie was jesting with him, being a cute little shit and the next thing he knew, he was making marked comments about who he was and who he thought Jack was. Jack still wanted to know where he made all those assumptions. Was it the last time they were together? Did he give him some kind of hope that... he didn't know! That they'd be together forever, some kind of Bonnie and Clyde killing team?

Somewhat horrified at the thought, he wondered if it was true. If Allie had been telling him he wanted to drop the cop act and become a villain with him. That he wanted to help him kill more people. God. He held his elbows elegantly as he watched Marge take a seat on the couch. By now, the covers had been switched out, lucky for her.

"Honestly, I wish somebody could share that information with me..." Crazy was good in bed but... for the rest of it. Jack sighed and closed his eyes as he rested his forehead against two of his fingers.

"He thinks I'm somebody--he thought I was somebody that understood him." Jack skirted around the coffee table to come sit on the couch beside Marge. "But he misread me." He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee, letting out another long suffering sigh. "And I definitely misread him. But if I turn him out, he's going to do something drastic."

[Marguerite De Silva]

The more she heard, the more Marge didn't like what she heard. So cutie was great in bed but he was proportionally crazy as well. Wasn't that just—completely normal. Her eyes didn't once leave him as he traversed around the coffee table and came to sit beside her. Lightly Marge nudged his knee with hers, feeling it coming. The Request.

"Honey... Is that the whole story?" If she was going to take on a charity case, she had to know all of it. She didn't want to take him in—that sounded like The Request Jack was working up to—only to wake up with some psycho standing over her with a knife, screaming about his ex-boyfriend and about not knowing who Jack was as a person.

"Because." Marge leaned in. "There are two people you don't fucking withhold the whole truth from, baby. Your priest and your bartender." She tapped his cute little nose with the tip of a perfectly manicured index. "So. Spill. How drastic is drastic?"

[Jack Ripley]

No. It wasn't the whole story. Honestly, he didn't know how much of the story Allie might divulge to Marge or to anybody who would listen. What if he was angry at Jack for being... somebody else? What if he decided to give him hell, to hurt him? It sounded like he had some ammo... but still. Was it enough to actually and reasonably get Jack into trouble? Allie said he'd been protecting him, but what did that mean? What did he know?

"Drastic as in I think he might hurt himself," Jack said finally. "It looked like he was going to OD in front of me... but then he said he had a condition that made his tolerance for medication ridiculously high."

He didn't really believe that. There were a couple of times he'd gotten up to check that Allie was still breathing. Putting his hand on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of it. But he'd moved the pills off the nightstand, just in case.

"Look," he said slowly, holding out his hand for his coat. He needed the smokes in one of the pockets. Like now. Pronto. "I don't really know him. I met him last week at another club. We shared a little about our... sad sack feelings. And now he thinks I'm... some disappointment because I'm less... sad sack right now."

[Marguerite De Silva]

"Well shit, why didn't you say so sooner?"

Marge didn't think it was that bad but apparently the crazy train not only derailed, it took out a nearby town and exploded all to pieces. How the hell did Jack manage to get from a good time at the club to hosting a suicidal, broken, disillusioned little charity case? And no, it wasn't her fault. She refused to take the blame for this.

Handing over his coat, she leaned back with another groan. "Isn't there someone who can take care of him? Someone that's not you or me? What about that ex? Or his family?"

But if he and Jack only met for the second time tonight... Marge passed a hand over her eyes and then extended the same hand to ask for a drag of his cigarette. "Kids," she said bitterly. "Where do they get all of these fucked up notions?" The fact that he went all to pieces over Jack not being as 'sad sack' as he thought seemed dramatic. And that was saying something because Marge was drama personified.

There had to still be more behind it, she thought as she eyed Jack sharply. She ought to get up and leave this sordid mess behind... but he was so cute. Not crazy back in the bedroom, Jack. And cute was Marge's weakness, even if they were gay.

[Jack Ripley]

"Did you want me to welcome you with that? 'Hello, cutie, thanks for the coat, by the way, the guy I took home? Tried to off himself right in front of me?'"

He shook his head. Not the way he would welcome anybody. Besides, while he really didn't believe in any condition that made the guy so highly tolerant of painkillers, there was still the smallest chance that he really did have one. Jack was an asshole sometimes, this was true. (Who wasn't?) But he didn't know what was a secret with Allie and what wasn't. What to share with Marge... what not to.

Slipping his hand into the pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and the lighter, not hesitating to light up. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be smoking in this apartment but he needed it right now. And it looked like Marge was on the same wavelength. When she reached for the cigarette, he passed it to her without hesitation.

"I don't know," Jack sighed. "But I almost can't blame him. He seemed to... hero worship me for some reason." That part he just couldn't fathom. "Not that I'm not fabulous enough to be hero worshiped but..." He made a movement with his hand. "All the wrong reasons."

He took the cigarette back to take in a long, stress relieving drag, then slowly blew the smoke out as he handed it back to Marge.

"He had all the wrong reasons but he might have been right about me... if he met me two months ago."

[Marguerite De Silva]

Marge rolled her eyes heavenward but admittedly, being told that someone attempted suicide was a downer. More of a downer than finding out they weren't what she thought they were. She really thought it wasn't that bad. Some part of that boy seemed dark but there was darkness in Jack, too, and maybe their darkness would connect, she thought.

That was the shitty thing about reading hearts and not minds; sometimes the heart lied.

"You are very obsessable," she ceded with a crooked grin as she took a drag of the calming cigarette and then passed it back to Jack. Marge held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, then gently let it out. This was all very... gay. But she was half-way invested in all of this now, and she had a feeling that Jack needed a friend. Otherwise, why blab it all out to her? And her job as a bartender meant that she was naturally curious—if not always sympathetic—about a good old-fashioned fucked up sob story.

"So what changed between two months ago and now?" She took another drag, passed it back. "That little friend you were playing cards with instead of fucking like rabbits?"

[Jack Ripley]

"Why, thank you for noticing." He looked Marge over with appraising eyes. "You're gorgeous but I have a feeling you already know that."

The way she wore her hair, her makeup, her clothes. She wasn't just any bartender. She could have been a model. A star on Instagram. Social media. Honestly, he'd be surprised if she wasn't. It wasn't just the looks, it was the whole attitude. Marge had confidence and she wore it like any Hollywood star. How she ended up in this little hole, he had no idea.

Before he responded to her question, he had to take a drag. He needed the time to think and he had been nursing his bottle of whiskey for the past hour. Slow. Steady. He passed it back before letting his head fall back.

"Partially," he admitted. "But two months ago is when I moved here. Away from the shit that made me..." He let out a soft snort of dark amusement. "...a sad sack. But yes. Yes, if you must know, that little friend is... somehow... he's become important to me."

[Marguerite De Silva]

"Aww, you're sweet." She reached over and stroked along his thigh, almost petting him for the compliment. Marge's smile was genuine that time, even if her drawled out words could be misconstrued as patronizing. But she meant it. That was her way of showing sincerity. Jack really was sweet. She had a good feeling about him as soon as he approached the bar, that they would get along just fine. Like vodka and martinis, or blue curacao and Forget-me-nots. It was just too bad that he only came along now, and not sooner.

They could still tear up the town together, though. It was never too late to be a fabulous bitch and to paint the town red with other, like-minded fabulous bitches.

"Well that was very clever of you," she said of moving away from Sad Sack country. In Marge's general experience, that meant some shit went down that Jack didn't want to bring up with her at the moment. When someone moved out of their city, lock, stock and barrel, that fucked up sob story wasn't far behind. She could wait, though, to hear all that. Something told her Jack would eventually confide in her.

Marge studied the dwindling cigarette before taking another puff. "Hmm... so then the real question, honey, is... What the hell are you doing fucking Crazy back there," she said as she jerked the cigarette in the direction of the bedroom, "and not being with someone who presumably you see yourself having a future with?" Sure as hell, Jack had no future with crazy. Crazy was a good lay but he wasn't important, clearly.

"Who is he, by the way? The little friend? I'm sure I'd know him by name."