Chapter 13 #2
And he does. Or he’s trying to. It throws Jackson, how easily everything in him just….reorients toward Ben. It’s not just a story, it’s someone in need. Someone trying to do the right thing at great personal cost.
Jackson remembers what it’s like to watch the shape of your future come apart. All he can do is try to be the person he would have liked sitting beside him in his own worst moments.
It takes a long, agonizing minute before Ben starts to synchronize with Jackson’s gentle rhythm. Inhale, fractured and tight. Exhale, shuddering and short. Jackson doesn’t move. He lets Ben hold on, lets the silence do its work. The force gripping Ben retreats, goes back somewhere inside him.
Ben sags backward, shoulders hitting the couch, eyes glassy with leftover fear and fresh humiliation. Jackson stays on the floor a moment longer, not wanting to upset whatever fragile equilibrium Ben’s managed to find.
Then, cautiously, he eases up beside him on the couch. He leaves a cushion’s worth of space, close enough to be there, not so close Ben feels cornered.
Jackson resists the instinct to ask ‘Are you okay?’ Not Okay’s radiating off Ben like heat from a burner. “Can I get you a glass of water? Or…I don’t know. A blanket? Something else?”
Ben shakes his head, barely a motion. “I’m sorry.” He won’t look at Jackson. “I don’t usually…”
“You don’t need to explain,” Jackson says, cutting in before Ben can spiral again. “You are upset. That’s allowed. I’d find it strange if you weren’t.”
Jackson forces a shrug, light enough to pass for nonchalance. He doesn’t really know what he should say but he does know Ben’s already doing demolition work on himself; Jackson doesn’t need to step in to swing a hammer.
Ben just keeps staring at his lap, the color returning to his cheeks in uneven patches. “You’re not exactly the ideal person to fall apart in front of.”
“Why not?”
“You’re…” Ben’s voice trails off helplessly, like it’s somehow obvious. “You’re you.”
Jackson’s mouth quirks up in spite of himself. “I think you just made that less clear, actually.”
“Forget it.” Ben lets out a watery laugh, already trying to pull himself back together. “I should go.”
“What? Why?” Jackson frowns, caught off guard by how quickly Ben’s walls snap back up.
Ben goes for his coat. “I’ve taken up enough of your night.”
“You’ve had half a bottle of wine and a pretty serious panic attack in my living room. I’m not letting you drive home like this.” Jackson reaches out, touching Ben’s arm lightly to try and centre him.
Ben flinches immediately away from the contact. “Fine. I’ll get a cab.”
“Ben.” Jackson exhales patiently. “I’m not going to force you to stay. If you really want to leave, I’ll walk you to the door and call you a cab myself right now. But I don’t want you to go just because you think you have to.” He lets that sit for a moment.
“You came here because you needed help,” he continues, softer, because it feels like Ben’s still trying to vanish in front of him. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”
Ben makes a faint noise of protest, miserable apology written all over his face. “I should be fine.”
“And you will be,” Jackson says, gentle but firm. “Just… not right this second. That’s okay.”
He stands, crossing to the stereo, offering a wry smile he doesn’t fully feel. “Come on. The wine’s open. The cat’s adopted you. Just stay a while. Let your system catch up.”
Motown Collected is still on the platter from last night, and Jackson drops the needle. Smooth vocals and soft, warm crackle suffuse the room. He tosses Ben a blanket from the basket in the corner.
“It gets cold in here,” Jackson explains, deliberately casual, like the decision’s already been made. “Bad insulation. Cranky radiators. Consider yourself warned.”
Ben doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t argue either. Reluctantly, gratefully, he draws the blanket over his lap. Smokey reappears, purring as she tucks herself against his thigh.
Jackson can’t help but stare a little at the way Ben’s fingers settle on her back, so gently, like he’s afraid to ask too much of anyone, even an aloof, asshole cat. That’s the part that’s going to be a problem.
But he doesn’t push the moment, or try to fill the quiet. He keeps their wine glasses topped off. Flips the record when it ends. Starts the next without a word.
Halfway through the fourth side of the album, Ben shifts, curling toward the back cushions, eyes half-lidded, fingers still tangled in Smokey’s fur. His breathing deepens, the furrow in his brow smoothing, the tight line of his jaw finally easing.
Asleep, Ben looks far too young and far too breakable for the weight he’s been carrying.
Jackson crosses the room and adjusts the blanket over him, fingers brushing the back of Ben’s hand.
It’s still curled uncomfortably. He doesn’t pry it open, he just lets it be.
Some things need time. It’s the kind of intimate detail he’d usually jot down for color. Tonight he lets it be just a moment.
Jackson eases back into the armchair. He leaves the binder untouched on the coffee table.
This isn’t just a story anymore.
It’s a chance to do something right. To protect someone who needs it. To prove to himself he’s not a guy who just scorches the earth indiscriminately.
The headline, the scoop, Jackson’ll figure that all out tomorrow. He keeps up his watch a little while longer until his own exhaustion hits like a brink. And when Smokey hops up beside him, Jackson scratches behind her ears. “Don’t get attached,” he warns in a whisper.
To the cat.
Mostly.