Take me home tonight

[Jack Ripley]

"He's not interested."

He scratched idly at his chin, though he smiled at Marge's hand on his thigh. His naked thigh. But it was a good question. Why was he sleeping with some crazy guy that misread his current self... and not with the one that had become important to him. Not that so-called Crazy back there wasn't important. But Jack had mixed feelings on him now. He couldn't tell whether or not he was a threat. But... he felt... responsible.

As for Brayden's interest.... He wasn't. He wasn't interested. But he was fun to be around. Jack felt like he was the most of himself than he was anywhere else. Just... relaxed and chill and able to jest and joke with him. But interested. He'd shown his interest more than once. He showed it all the time! Maybe he misread Brayden the way Allie misread him. But he thought--sometimes, at least--that Brayden wanted him too.

"Oh, right. You'd know him in this two horse town, wouldn't you?" Jack propped a leg up on the coffee table. "His name is Brayden Smith. Lives across from me, works at the community college?"

[Marguerite De Silva]

So what if she was pawing a man's naked thigh? Jack was gay, it was all harmless good fun. (And if he wasn't completely gay, Marge wasn't ruling out the possibility of Jack being... promising.) But she did snort out of her nose at his pessimistic insistence that his important friend wasn't interested. And when he spoke that name—Brayden Smith—she dropped the cigarette right onto the couch.

"Shit!" Marge scrambled to pick it up before it burnt a hole in the expensive cushion. "Bullshit," she followed up with as she leaned across to snuff the cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table. When she straightened, her expression was severe. "Brayden Smith. Is not interested. In you. Bull. Shit. Jack."

So he was telling her that he spent a whoooole Friday night with Brayden Smith and nothing happened? That was on him, because she did know Brayden Smith and she didn't think he would ever not be interested in a man like Jack. Hell, half the gays in town would be interested in Jack. He was suave, obviously cultured, dressed like a King—oh, he was so very much her style.

Jack was the definition of Eligible Bachelor. And Brayden Smith? He was about the closest Marge had seen to being the Invisible Man.

"Are you scared? Of a relationship? Because there's no good reason you shouldn't be over there right now with your dick up his ass. Or..." She waved a vague hand. "Whatever it is you do."

[Jack Ripley]

Oh, okay. What was all this now? Marge about burned down his pretty couch and all because of what? Brayden Smith? (And it was bullshit, she said.) Jack watched her the whole time, her body language, her expression. Even the tone of her voice said a whole lot more than Jack expected when he dished the name. Did Brayden Smith have some secret life that Jack never knew about? (Well, who was he to judge another man for having skeletons in the closet, right?)

Wait, what? Scared? Jack put up a hand.

"Excuse me?"

Her crass language didn't bother him in the least. He could be just as crass, honestly. Actually, it was a breath of fresh air to meet somebody so openly genuine, even if she was abrasive and seemed to know it. But what did fear have to do with any of this? Jack? Afraid to stick a dick in an ass? Never.

But he was realizing that wasn't what she was driving at. She even said as much. Was it the idea of a relationship that scared him? Did it? He hadn't really given himself permission to think about it. But when he did... He had to admit, something seized up in his chest. Made him still his tongue when he wanted to say certain things. Kept him from doing something stupid. Or so he told himself.

"All right."

He didn't want to admit it but the fact that Brayden might not be showing interest could be his own fault. Jack had a way of flirting that could possibly confuse a poor nervous wreck like Brayden. Not solely on purpose. Although he was... attracted to that about him. Why was he so attracted to that? Nervousness, the overthinking, sometimes even oversharing. But if Brayden ever thought about it maybe being a thing, Jack shut it down pre-tty quickly at the beginning.

"...I may have told him I'm on a relationship detox." He sat up and pointed at Marge to hush her before she spoke, hurrying to talk over anything she might say. "But that's because I am. And it's not out of fear. Relationships with me have been notoriously--let's say... bad for the other person involved."

[Marguerite De Silva]

Aha! Marge uttered a triumphant sound when Jack admitted that, yes, Marge was absolutely correct. As usual. But she didn't get to say anything since he held up a hand to forestall her gloating. Like he already knew her inside and out, instead of being a stranger at the start of the night. She settled for raising her brows just so and crossing her arms over her chest.

When he finally stopped making excuses, she shook her head. "All I'm hearing are excuses." Her shoulder shrugged expressively. "And honey, that's still called being afraid. Don't you think you owe it to him—and yourself—to at least give it a chance? Brayden Smith is the last person I would've thought you'd be interested in but... if that's the one your little heart says is special, I mean..."

She reached across to poke him on the chest, over the heart, to make her point. "The heart wants what it wants, Jack. And the longer you wait, the worse it's going to get."

[Jack Ripley]

Uh, excuses? Where were the excuses?! They were reasons, hello. He had good reasons, too! He just couldn't get into them. Still... As he looked down at his own hands, he realized that he hadn't done anything when he could have--to the conflicted man in his bedroom. Mostly, Jack chalked that up to the fact that he wasn't feeling fiercely protective of him or trying to save him.

And oddly, part of him felt guilty for that. For not feeling that strongly about him. Normally, it was a fast connection. Loneliness, nothingness, that touched and made a little void that was just the two of them. And he felt it that night, on their first night. It was just... when he heard him use the word monster, something inside of Jack shifted. Nobody had ever called him that in all of his life. Not even his... not even his victims.

Jack closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and lowered his head. He could still feel the place where Marge poked him on the chest. Yes, the heart did want what it wanted but what difference did it make? How had things become so scrambled and was it a good thing? When he opened his eyes, Marge was still there, fierce as ever. God, she had eyes that could see straight through a man.

"The worse what's going to get?"

[Marguerite De Silva]

Marge's index lifted—like she was going to poke Jack in the forehead for being dense—and then it swung down. Down, down, past his chest, past his abdomen, down, down, to his crotch. "This." She said pointedly. And it was true. The heart wanted what it wanted and the body followed suit. It was like an itch that couldn't be scratched, no matter how many broken Crazies Jack took home to bang. They wouldn't be Brayden.

"How many crazies are you going to waste your time with? And what if Brayden finds someone else?" Not that that seemed likely... given that it was Brayden Smith. He wasn't the talk of the town but Marge knew he was notoriously boring. Pathetically boring, actually. The only reason Marge even knew of him was through Ali, a mutual friend.

She eased away to lean against the back of the couch, shaking her head. "I'm not here to force you into a relationship, honey. I just call it like I see it. And I see you running away. Right into the arms of..." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom. "How much worse can it get than this, really?"

[Jack Ripley]

Oof. He waited for it and it didn't come. When he opened his eyes, he found that Marge wasn't poking him but pointing downward, in the direction of his (thankfully) covered crotch. Yes? It wasn't any happier with Jack's choices than his heart was but who knew that he was going to run into Allie at the club? Even now, he felt a little sad, actually, that he'd been so happy to run into him and Allie was so happy to see him--and it had to end like this. The whole thing after they moved on into the bed stuck in his throat like a bitter pill.

He gave a shit about Allie. It was just in him. Jack cared about a whole trail of boys that ended in despair for all of them, including Jack himself. That was reason enough to stay away and take the idea of a relationship detox seriously, wasn't it? But he couldn't discuss that with Marge. Or anybody. Ever. It was something he would never be able to divulge to anybody. The closest anybody got to it was Allie and he was a mess.

Jack slid his leg off the table, sitting forward and half thinking about going for another cigarette to calm his nerves.

"Allie's not that bad," he said. "He's just in a bad head space right now." And who knew better than Jack what it felt like to be in a bad head space? As for the idea of seeing Brayden with somebody else... Jealousy wasn't his strong suit. Regret was, though.

[Marguerite De Silva]

Oh, men. This man in particular. Marge shrugged again, having said her piece. Whatever happened next wasn't on her—she gave her two cents, like any good bartender wouldn't. Actually most bartenders listened, they didn't really talk, but Marge was Marge and she loved meddling. Who didn't, though? Who didn't?

But she thought she could see where this was going. Nowhere good. Jack was going to say one thing but his actions were going to say another. Maybe he might not even realize or notice that he was doing it. Hopefully he didn't hurt himself in the process, because Marge saw a lot of pain heading Brayden's way. The story was age-old and played out but that didn't mean it wouldn't be painful to watch.

Which was why Marge didn't plan on watching. Hey, she tried, didn't she?

Standing up, she walked over to the kitchen where she had seen bottles. Ah, well-stocked. Wordlessly she grabbed some empty glasses and mixed them up a little... balm for the soul. "Here." She handed one glass to Jack when she returned and nursed her own glass as she sat back down. "Well now. What do we do about... Allie? Is that his name? Do I take the day shift and you take the night shift? Because you're not pawning him all off on me, brother."

[Jack Ripley]

Fuck, he should say no but he didn't. He took the glass and held it without drinking just yet. Was that what he wanted? To get even more alcohol in his system right now? Yes. Absolutely. He let the drink swirl around, like a wine connoisseur at a fancy tasting. At least Marge dropped the topic of Brayden. For now. He side-eyed her. Why did he have the feeling it would just keep coming up with her? He lifted the glass to his lips.

"Hmno." He shook his head as he swallowed. "No, it's... Alejandro." He said the name with great affection and a sultry look in his eyes. "A beautiful name for a beautiful man."

Too bad he was riding the crazy train. Jack thought he might have made a passable distraction. But that was the problem. Allie needed somebody who wouldn't use him as a distraction. Somebody who looked only at him. He was that kind of person. Greedy and needy. Jack understood that. He was the same, deep down.

Jack sighed. "And fine, I'll take the night shift. You're just lucky our jobs align the way they do." He paused. "Say, though... You know this place so well, and the people in it, yes?" He tucked his hand beneath his chin, the other setting his glass down on the table. "You have to know somebody perfect for a guy like Allie, right? He needs somebody in it with both feet, you know? Somebody that could fall head over heels for him and dote on him. Oh! But he needs to like it rough."

[Marguerite De Silva]

"What?" Marge wanted to punch him in the head—but she'd let the drink do that for her. "I'm going to need you to take that back. Lucky is not the word I would use in this situation." She drew out the word situation as her laser eyes shot through Jack. Jack who in one breath mourned Alejandro being batshit crazy and in the next breath praised his beauty. Sure, he was a cutie, but the crazy sort of took away from all of that boyish charm.

Men.

Marge sipped her drink as she gave serious thought to his suggestion, only to make a wry face. Did that mean Jack also liked it rough, since he'd gotten it on with Alejandro—twice? She eyed him up and down and sideways. "I mean. I might. But it sounds like that little crazy boy is pretty attached to you."

Oh and what would happen if Brayden saw him repeatedly going in and out of Jack's place—especially at night? Marge wondered if that thought occurred to Jack, or if he was now over and past that, on to the next distraction, thank you. She knew a little something about glossing over the unpleasant parts of life—her own was pretty sordid, too—but that was a one-way ticket to disaster. And Jack thought THIS was really better than just manning up, going over and shoving his tongue down Brayden's throat?

Men.

[Jack Ripley]

All right... so lucky wasn't the term for it. What did she expect him to call it? She worked at night, he worked in the day... It worked out, didn't it? Luck! But she wasn't wrong about the whole... attachment thing. Allie was attached but he seemed pretty over it when he almost walked out. And he probably would have walked out too, if his ass didn't stop him. His literal ass.

Jack tutted as he slid his hand into one of his pockets, picking out his phone. It was rude, probably, to have a conversation with a fabulous woman like Marge and pull out his phone but... He was drunk and tired and he didn't even know what else to say to her. The plan was to just... look somebody up. Somebody to try and pair him off with. Maybe with a dating app.

"I'll find him someone then."

But when he opened up the browser on his phone, what he saw was the last thing he'd been checking in on... and that was some silly little card game. He remembered now. Last night, he went to bed in his own bed, alone. But while he laid there, propped up against his pillows with that last cigarette of the night, he thought--why not find a new game to play. It was a passing thought but he found one that sounded like it was just up Brayden's alley.

And now, there it was, staring at him from the phone screen. Jack stared at it for a moment before screen-shotting the image and sending it to Brayden. Never mind what time it was--he didn't even know--or that for all he knew, Brayden had plans for next weekend. He still shot off the text before he thought about it. And then... he looked up at Marge. Oh shit. She was still here.

"So, here's the deal..." He trailed off, his mind wandering in so many different places. "What were we talking about again?"

[Marguerite De Silva]

"Good luck with that," Marge muttered as an aside as she watched Jack flicking through his phone. "Better find somebody just as crazy, or you'll be stuck with this one forever." She tipped her head back and downed the drink, then got up to make herself another one. On the way, she peered into the bedroom to check in on little Crazy.

He was sleeping peacefully on his side, his face relaxed. Cute. Looked almost like a little cherub--but behind that innocent face? A whole lotta trouble.

"What the hell did I get myself into?" Marge muttered as she wandered back into the kitchen. After she got another drink she meandered about Jack's apartment just looking at things. "What? We were talking about finding another crazy to match the crazy in there," she sighed as she came back. But instead of sitting down, she leaned against the back of the couch and lightly squeezed Jack's neck. Tense.

"What. Is that?" She pointed a finger--using the hand holding a very full glass of alcohol--at the phone. "Are you trying to set yourself up over here?" The name said B. B for... Brayden? Marge tried to grab his phone so she could scroll through the messages.

[Jack Ripley]

How was he supposed to know crazy when he saw it? It wasn't a look. Usually. Maybe he could find him one of the crazier students. Jack had students. Why didn't he think of that earlier? Introduce one of them to Allie... Hope that they were both the same brand of crazy...

But what if they weren't, though? That would just make Allie... crazier. Like he needed another failed relationship. Or love interest. Whatever. Like he needed to fall for somebody that didn't fall back. And like... 150% in love, none of that one foot out, one foot in business--like Jack. Jack was all bad for him. But he didn't used to be, that was the thing. Two feet in, that was his deal. Until it broke him and it broke the other person. Maybe Allie saw it because it was there but now it wasn't. Or it was?

Just... not with Allie.

Oh god. His head hurt. Thinking hurt. How did he get here, in the center of an existential crisis? Things here were supposed to be simple. No love, no lovers. Just... himself and a job and the occasional night out to keep things sorted. You know, for the body. He didn't have to be celibate just because he eschewed the idea of love.

"What. Is what." Jack tried to dodge her grab but Marge already had his phone before he knew it. And she sloshed a little alcohol down his shoulder while she was at it. "Excuse me, that was a private conversation."

[Marguerite De Silva]

The drink sloshed a little--just like Marge, a little--as she made a bid for the phone and won. Marge scrolled through sickening texts, her expression growing increasingly horrified. "Oh my GOD," she exclaimed loudly, dropping the phone back onto the couch as if what she saw had physically burned her retinas. She gave Jack a horror stare too, then chugged the drink down as fast as she could.

"Oh I needed that. I haven't seen anything like this since..." Her eyes rolled upward as she tried to recall. "I was in junior high. Oh you... you've got the hots for him pre-tty bad, honey."

That was disgusting. Disgustingly pure and horrifyingly adorable. Card games. Popcorn and butts. Sexting? That was nowhere near sexting and the fact that Brayden so innocently skipped over everything. Jesus H Christ. Marge didn't know if that was an act or what but it was quite something. In this day and age, a man who couldn't even adequately flirt back over text was... a rare breed, indeed. Small wonder Jack had blue balls!

She gave Jack a little prod between the shoulderblades. "What the fuck are you still doing sitting here? Go. Get over there, he's practically begging you to come over." Jesus. The two of them were ridiculous. "I'll watch over crazy, don't worry. Go."

[Jack Ripley]

Yeah.

...Yeah.

Jack hated himself, too. He didn't even look at the phone now that it was lying on the couch like a burning brick. Marge was right. It was all pretty junior high. He didn't have to look back through the messages to know that. But when he was doing it, he couldn't stop smiling like an idiot. And now he was sitting on the couch with a solid feeling of horror dawning on him.

There was still time to put the brakes on.

But it was hard to think with Marge prodding him and urging him to get his ass over there. Everything between Allie and card games and students were all flying around like scattered pages and he wasn't sober enough to bother trying to pick one to look at for too long.

"Thank you~" He kissed Marge soundly on the lips before sweeping himself up off the couch. He nearly stumbled over the coffee table that he forgot was there but then he was gone, no more thoughts. Well, nobody ever accused him of being the overthinking type. He thought enough. And then he shut off what he didn't care for. Typical.

But it was fucking cold outside, with bare feet and nothing but a light robe. Silk was fine to the touch, but it wasn't made to keep out the cold. He stood outside Brayden's apartment with his arms around his body after knocking urgently. Why didn't he get dressed before he stepped outside?