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When he first sees the young man through the peep hole of the motel room door, Longbaugh assumes he's an albino or some such shit. But on the second blink notices, because he notices a lot of things, that his eyes are black, and that doesn't fit. They don't look like contacts, either.
His eyes are black, and maybe tearstained. His hands are visible. Over his mouth, actually, as though he's breathing through them to keep calm, actions quick and darting and full of the sort of anxiety it's not really possible to feign convincingly. It doesn't add up, so he decides to wait until the man's turned his back and is walking away.
He doesn't. He spends eight minutes, standing and hyperventilating in front of their dingy hotel room door, and then nine more sitting on the step to the room with his face in his knees, like some sort of fucking lost puppy. It's pitiful.
Longbaugh, not because he pities him, but because it's attention and that's not good right around now, opens the door, with the chain still locked, just enough to say;
"What?"
The stranger's head jerks up, and he doesn't have to think before asking,
"Is Parker dead?"
Parker isn't dead. Longbaugh is invisible on the other side of the door so he flips his lighter over in his fingers as he thinks, instead of forcing himself to keep it still. Parker isn't dead at all, even though Longbaugh almost was. Parker's been with him, keeping both of them alive, as the only one who can fucking move properly, who can head out to the nearest cheapest grocery store and get the fakest, cheapest bread, beer, cigarettes, and whatever the hell else Parker notices that he thinks a convalescent (Longbaugh sneers the word in his head) needs to heal properly. Precautions they both know he doesn't take for himself.
Apparently, Parker, while he's been with Longbaugh, hasn't been with someone else. Funny, he thought he saw the last of that sort after the Brit fucked him over something special. From the look in the dark eyes, Parker might have decided to pay it forwards.
"Please," the sort who can't let a silence sit, which is another weakness. The man on the doorstep is nothing but weaknesses.
"Tell me, and either way, we both know I must leave."
Flipping the lighter over again, then once more, while looking the dusty creature on the steps up and down, he passes his quiet judgement.
"I..."
The door closes on Jack abruptly, and he cries out, but it cuts off quickly as the door opens and Longbaugh steps out of it.
"Tell me what's going on with him."
It's not a request. It's an exchange, demand for information in return. For where Parker's been going the last half-year, of where the new faces keep coming from. The not entirely normal faces, like this one, that looks still far too pale under the dingy light of the Motel sign and from the room behind him. He knows he must be a silhouette right now. That's fine with him.
"That would be betraying his confidence. And Longbaugh, if you asked him, he would tell you."
Thin, fluttering, delicate fingers brush dirt off his knees, before pushing stray hair out of his face. His face: full of badly hidden hope, fear, hastily gathered courage and a despairing sort of last shot look. Longbaugh wonders if he'd be relieved if he said he was dead.
"Parker's alive."
Jack's hands drop to his sides like someone's cut a string in him somewhere, as shudders crawl through him. Thank God, he whispers, more than once, and oh, oh, oh, too, mournfully and dejected, because of what it means. Longbaugh stares down at him, watching with no little fascination as shattered composure is gathered up like a tattered cloak, or a coat with the buttons and sleeves and pockets gone, and bullet holes straight through in some places.
"How well in are you?"
It isn't often someone gets in close, he knows. Too often, of course, because he's still a kid sometimes and still gets ideas in his head of what things should be liked, and then finds himself with it and never quite satisfied, and dealing with all the carnage he's caused. But not that often, any longer, and for this man (boy, he wants to think of him as, but doesn't let himself, because Parker looks like he could be a boy when he pulls on the innocent act and leans in close when they're dealing with a certain kind of business) to have found exactly where they are, there must have been something.
"I am not Isabella."
The answer is carefully chosen and perfectly worded, and Longbaugh's eyebrows can't help but lift at the elegance with which it's managed. Oh mother fuck, Parker, what have you gone and got yourself into?
"Got a name?"
"Jack, and do not tell him I came, do not! I am not asking him back or clinging or caging, I am not, I only worried and could not help but do so, of course, because it weeks passed and he is ah."
Drawing away from the door, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, 'Jack' covers his face with his not-human hands and bumps into the rickety wood railing separating the doors from the parking lot.
"Please?"
Longbaugh reflects that he hasn't been asked that this much in one meeting since the last girl in the last bar (and the back seat of the car that had followed) before things went sideways. A long time ago, anyways.
"I won't tell him."
Jack nods, once, and ducks under the railing instead of taking the long way around, setting off at an unsteady pace for the direction of the little city's main street. The closest thing to 'something' he could probably get to, on foot and in a place like this.
Longbaugh shuts the door and doesn't watch him go.
When Parker gets back, with sweat, beer, and a few too red, waxy looking apples that he's looking at like he can't remember why he picked them up, Longbaugh glances up at him from the bed. Watching him, measuring and quiet, as he puts away the apples, he makes the decision he knew he would, for the reasons he knew he would. Standing, he moves to the bathroom, and pausing at the door, just before stepping through onto the grimy tile floor;
"Jack stopped by."
The bathroom door shuts as the apples tumble across the floor.
His eyes are black, and maybe tearstained. His hands are visible. Over his mouth, actually, as though he's breathing through them to keep calm, actions quick and darting and full of the sort of anxiety it's not really possible to feign convincingly. It doesn't add up, so he decides to wait until the man's turned his back and is walking away.
He doesn't. He spends eight minutes, standing and hyperventilating in front of their dingy hotel room door, and then nine more sitting on the step to the room with his face in his knees, like some sort of fucking lost puppy. It's pitiful.
Longbaugh, not because he pities him, but because it's attention and that's not good right around now, opens the door, with the chain still locked, just enough to say;
"What?"
The stranger's head jerks up, and he doesn't have to think before asking,
"Is Parker dead?"
Parker isn't dead. Longbaugh is invisible on the other side of the door so he flips his lighter over in his fingers as he thinks, instead of forcing himself to keep it still. Parker isn't dead at all, even though Longbaugh almost was. Parker's been with him, keeping both of them alive, as the only one who can fucking move properly, who can head out to the nearest cheapest grocery store and get the fakest, cheapest bread, beer, cigarettes, and whatever the hell else Parker notices that he thinks a convalescent (Longbaugh sneers the word in his head) needs to heal properly. Precautions they both know he doesn't take for himself.
Apparently, Parker, while he's been with Longbaugh, hasn't been with someone else. Funny, he thought he saw the last of that sort after the Brit fucked him over something special. From the look in the dark eyes, Parker might have decided to pay it forwards.
"Please," the sort who can't let a silence sit, which is another weakness. The man on the doorstep is nothing but weaknesses.
"Tell me, and either way, we both know I must leave."
Flipping the lighter over again, then once more, while looking the dusty creature on the steps up and down, he passes his quiet judgement.
"I..."
The door closes on Jack abruptly, and he cries out, but it cuts off quickly as the door opens and Longbaugh steps out of it.
"Tell me what's going on with him."
It's not a request. It's an exchange, demand for information in return. For where Parker's been going the last half-year, of where the new faces keep coming from. The not entirely normal faces, like this one, that looks still far too pale under the dingy light of the Motel sign and from the room behind him. He knows he must be a silhouette right now. That's fine with him.
"That would be betraying his confidence. And Longbaugh, if you asked him, he would tell you."
Thin, fluttering, delicate fingers brush dirt off his knees, before pushing stray hair out of his face. His face: full of badly hidden hope, fear, hastily gathered courage and a despairing sort of last shot look. Longbaugh wonders if he'd be relieved if he said he was dead.
"Parker's alive."
Jack's hands drop to his sides like someone's cut a string in him somewhere, as shudders crawl through him. Thank God, he whispers, more than once, and oh, oh, oh, too, mournfully and dejected, because of what it means. Longbaugh stares down at him, watching with no little fascination as shattered composure is gathered up like a tattered cloak, or a coat with the buttons and sleeves and pockets gone, and bullet holes straight through in some places.
"How well in are you?"
It isn't often someone gets in close, he knows. Too often, of course, because he's still a kid sometimes and still gets ideas in his head of what things should be liked, and then finds himself with it and never quite satisfied, and dealing with all the carnage he's caused. But not that often, any longer, and for this man (boy, he wants to think of him as, but doesn't let himself, because Parker looks like he could be a boy when he pulls on the innocent act and leans in close when they're dealing with a certain kind of business) to have found exactly where they are, there must have been something.
"I am not Isabella."
The answer is carefully chosen and perfectly worded, and Longbaugh's eyebrows can't help but lift at the elegance with which it's managed. Oh mother fuck, Parker, what have you gone and got yourself into?
"Got a name?"
"Jack, and do not tell him I came, do not! I am not asking him back or clinging or caging, I am not, I only worried and could not help but do so, of course, because it weeks passed and he is ah."
Drawing away from the door, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, 'Jack' covers his face with his not-human hands and bumps into the rickety wood railing separating the doors from the parking lot.
"Please?"
Longbaugh reflects that he hasn't been asked that this much in one meeting since the last girl in the last bar (and the back seat of the car that had followed) before things went sideways. A long time ago, anyways.
"I won't tell him."
Jack nods, once, and ducks under the railing instead of taking the long way around, setting off at an unsteady pace for the direction of the little city's main street. The closest thing to 'something' he could probably get to, on foot and in a place like this.
Longbaugh shuts the door and doesn't watch him go.
When Parker gets back, with sweat, beer, and a few too red, waxy looking apples that he's looking at like he can't remember why he picked them up, Longbaugh glances up at him from the bed. Watching him, measuring and quiet, as he puts away the apples, he makes the decision he knew he would, for the reasons he knew he would. Standing, he moves to the bathroom, and pausing at the door, just before stepping through onto the grimy tile floor;
"Jack stopped by."
The bathroom door shuts as the apples tumble across the floor.
