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The sound of the waves breaking against the Cliffside is deafening, cerulean eyes glazed over as the end of his cigarette burns away, untouched. He’d lost track of how long he had been out here, legs dangling over the side of the cliff as Jack watched the ships out in the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. It was his own little spot, away from the duties, away from everyone, his comms off as he sat with himself.
Exhaustion had seeped through his bones now, nights on end spent either restless or sleepless altogether as the weeks crept on; what sleep he did get was plagued with nightmares, his body jolted violently from sleep as sweat coated his body and his limbs shook. Memories of the battlefield, of Indiana, of recent events, all of it was taking its toll on Jack’s psyche. It hadn’t been the first time, it likely wouldn’t be the last, but he found himself, now, drunk and dazed and barely aware of his surroundings. At one side sat the remainder of his cigarettes, and the other, his holstered pistol that often sat at his hip. More than once, his eye flicked down to it, the metal gleaming against the sun.
“Jesus Christ, flick your ash!” Jack’s head swiveled, thoughts broken as he met the whiskey gaze that watched him – watched his hand. For a moment longer, he didn’t feel the creeping burn of the cigarette against his bare fingers, his cigarette eaten to the last bit as it blazed on steadily, uncaring of who it hurt in the process. Jack’s arm, somewhat involuntarily, twitched, a shout of pain leaving him as he flung the remainder of the cigarette over the Cliffside, and through gritted teeth, sat inspecting the charred ends of his trigger and middle fingers. He’d suffered worse, a few layers gone as he looked over the raw, pink remainder of the burn, unbothered by Jesse’s sudden presence at his side.
“Christ, Jack…” He breathed, grabbing the Strike Commander’s hand away to inspect it himself, brow furrowed as he glanced back at the older from the corner of his eye. “What the hell is up with you? Did you not even feel the sum’bitch or something?” Jack pulled his hand back with a snap, rubbing across the wound slowly as he sighed.
“It’s fine, Jes, leave it.” A moment passed, an eyebrow pulled up in curiosity as Jesse watched the other’s face. He’d known him long enough now to know the signs (it had helped that Gabriel, at one point, had pointed much of it out to him); the dark circles that were etched with permanency under his eyes, the sullen, loose skin against his cheek bones – has he even been eating? – and the overall fog that clouded his eyes. Jesse wasn’t stupid.
“Hey. What’s going on, why are your comms off?” Jack didn’t reply, not at first; his hand crept instinctively down to the pack of cigarettes as he plucked one of the few remainders free and stuck it between his lips. He could feel the pressing gaze of Jesse bore into his cheek even as he lit it and took a slow drag, holding it for a bit to feel the way it smoldered in his lungs, stealing his breath and leaving him dizzy before he finally exhaled it smooth and slow.
“I wanted to be alone.” And that was the truth; so much of his life since the war was spent under the watchful gaze of another – the UN, Gabriel, Ana, Angela, and now he was getting it from the kid, he couldn’t find his own peace on his own without someone turning the watchpoint over to find him. He kept this to himself, he knew it was his own fault for taking the position in the first place. And Jesse was different. Jesse had the right to ask, the rest didn’t, but Jesse did. “I wanted some time to decompress away from everyone.”
Jesse was silent, watching every twitch in Jack’s face, ever flick of his eyes, inhale and exhale of cigarette smoke, before he finally turned away, casting his gaze now out to the horizon, an okay muttered as they took up sitting in silence together for a few minutes. Neither of them were fond of it, the quiet shared between them in this moment felt too much like ants crawling beneath their skin, an uncomfortable sensation just below where they could quell it; it was overbearing and suffocating, and Jesse broke it first.
“Why do you carry that pistol with you wherever you go? I ain’t once seen you use it, not even on the battlefield. Besides, you’re more of a rifle type anyway, so what’s the deal, why keep it?”
Another long, uncomfortable silence followed, Jack’s hand dropping to his lap as he flicked the cigarette ash into the grass beside him; he swallowed hard against the rising wash of nausea across him at the question. Instinctively, his free hand went to it now, resting loose against the chilled metal as he let his eyes close, a soft breeze kicking up the scent of the sea around them and bathing them in the soft mist. Jesse has the right to know.
“It’s… for if I ever decided, or needed, to… end it.” The words came with difficulty, a truth he’d never spoken to anyone, now spoken in confidence to the most ill equipped to handle it. The color drained from Jesse’s face as his head whipped, staring now, lips parted, as he tried desperately to think of something to say. Jack could feel the gaze on him, could feel the look of abhorrence, and felt himself squeeze the holster.
“You’re—you’re not serious, are you?” Jesse’s voice came out more shaken than he’d intended, scanning Jack’s face now for any sign that he was lying, joking around in whatever sick, twisted humor he’d found, but found nothing. “Jesus fuck, Jack. What the fuck is the matter with you?!”
Jack turned, then, brow raised almost in surprise at the reaction. “Excuse me?”
Something, not quite fury or anger, but something like betrayal, flashed deep in the gunslinger’s eyes. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that information, why would you tell me that?!” For a moment, his voice cracked, and they both swallowed hard before Jesse’s hand flew out to grab at Jack’s collar.
“Because I trust you.” It was, perhaps, the most honest answer he could muster at the time, soft blues watching, exhausted and lonesome, as Jesse’s hard expression softened. “Because you deserve to know the truth. It has practical reasoning behind it – if I’m captured and they plan on torturing me for information, I need a way out. That’s part of it.”
Jesse stared. “And the other part?”
Jack chuckled, something sad, something exhausting, as he closed his eyes and leaned himself forward, pressing his forehead onto Jesse’s. “The other part is, I’m tired, Jesse. I’ve been a militant personnel for some thirty years; the nightmares are exhausting, this whole operation is exhausting. It’s exhausting being alive, and maybe it’s a piss poor method of coping with it, but having the pistol is comforting. Knowing that, if it happened, I could go out on my terms, is comforting. And I’m sorry that you have to be the one person, of everyone, who has to hear this.”
Jesse’s eyes closed, now, as his fingers curled into a fist and he punched Jack in the arm as hard as he could muster in the moment. “Fucking asshole,” His teeth were grit against the wave of emotion against the far too honest response of the strike commander. A moment passed, and his eyes opened again, hard and sad and confused all in one. “I swear to god if you ever try anything I’ll come fucking kill you myself, do you understand me? That’s not how things get better, Jack, you can’t just hold onto that thing and think that it’s coping, because It’s not… believing you’re going to end up killing yourself, it’s dangerous, and the longer you sit on it, the worse it’s going to fucking get.”
Jack stared now, too, the two finding themselves quiet again as their gazes stayed locked. Jack broke first, pulling back and moving to stare back out at the ocean, the sun cresting just below the horizon as it set. Jesse sighed, leaning into Jack’s shoulder as he plucked the cigarette from the strike commander’s fingers and took a long drag as the silence dragged on between them.
By the time either spoke again, it had been dark for some minutes, the chill of the night air sending goosebumps up Jack’s arms as Jesse flicked the cigarette off the cliff side.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere, Jesse.” Jack’s voice was quiet, contemplative, as he broke the silence; his gaze remained stationary on the horizon where the sea and sky met, the boats docking in the harbors below.
“I don’t plan to just leave you and everyone else behind like that. When I was younger, having first joined the army, a lot of me did so with the intention that I’d never make it back home. The war was on the horizon, I knew the risks at the time. I kept the pistol on me, even as we formed the watch, even as I became closer to the original strike team. I’ve got a lot that I live for, and it’s something I didn’t have when I was young and first started carrying it on me for just in case’s. I suppose it’s more of a security blanket thing now than an actual, tangible threat. And I didn’t tell you any of this to make you feel guilty, and if I did that, I really am sorry. I told you this because you asked, and because you deserved to know the real reason I carry it. But you also deserve to know this: I’ve got a hell of a lot to live for, and I know that. And you’re a big part of that, like it or not. I ain’t going anywhere, kid. I promise.”