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He wanted to tell Ian to shut up as am oh so snappy retort, but he supposed that would defeat the purpose of inviting him over. "F'you haven't noticed, I'm not very good at letting go," Jack muttered instead. "Nor m'I looking for anything." If he was, he would have had purpose and determination, not this drunk ball of bitter defenses.

Jack wrestled for a long time--not because the answer was hard (he knew what it was immediately), but because again each and every piece he said was literally like handing something over to Ian. Things he didn't like to think about, much less talk about, were rising to the surface, and he was helpless to stop it.

"'Fore all that? In a heartbeat," he answered, his throat tight.

"Yes, mother," he monotoned without bite, "I do have a heart." It was The Unreveal, both his worst and best kept secret. But Jack wasn't so sure it was a good thing either way.

Making a soft derisive noise, Jack rolled his head back up and pulled his feet off the headboard; his ankles were starting to protest. "Why would I want closure?" he asked as he folded his arms behind his head. "Why would I wanna get rid've the anger when it's what m'mostly made've? ******** her. ******** everyone on that goddamn mission, but ******** her most." Those last words were the only ones to have any edge to them.

"Yer right about one thing, though. Hanna is somethin' new." Not a starting point to find a lover, or something better, or any nonsense like that. No, Jack kept her around because he had fun pretending, and apparently so did she, and that was all that was necessary for it (and maybe he just didn't know the real reason any more). "But I've got my head on straight," he insisted stubbornly. "Don't need someone else t'hold it. Anyone else hold it, they'll get it wrong. ******** it up somehow."

"Why not?" he challenged, sounding petulant. "'Ve been angry about somethin' or 'nother all my life. Worked just fine for me. Y'know what not bein' angry makes you? Complacent." He almost slurred the word and put the effort to sound out each syllable, clearly for Ian's sake of course.

"Love." Jack scoffed derisively. "Makes you complacent too. Makes you biased. Stupid. Can't have that on th'job. Not for me. We'll hang n' ******** n' that's all y'need. Love," he repeated incredulously, making it sound like a joke's punchline.

Silence came back again, an unusually uncomfortable weight on his shoulders. He could have shrugged Ian's sentiment off, but the man was so damn sincere it was annoyingly difficult to. After all, hadn't he said as much in the letter left behind? Deep down you're a good guy. Everyone seemed so convinced of that, and thus it automatically made him question the validity of their belief. Maybe he really was rebel hipster trash, always going against the grain for the sake of it.

He fixed Ian with a studious look for a moment, then closed his eyes and began to speak in hushed tones.

"There s'an eighth guy, I mentioned, back b'fore the clone nest. Fred Ashton, Sun hunter. We were n'vestivatin' an abandoned base on the way over. When we got ambushed, he n' I got captured. Days n' days've 'speriments, torture, usual horseman bullshit. Every day we shared th'same cage, th'same food n' water, 'cause we were their ********' pets. ******** don't eat though, so we never had 'nuff for us both.

"So Ashton starts thinkin' he's a ********' hero n' lets me take more n' more, n' I didn't ********' argue. I was real ********' hungry n' thirsty, n' if wanted t'take pity on the one damn trainee then whatever. N' we talked, y'know. Guess that's how he stayed sane, talkin'. Told me about his faggy Moon partner, swapped stupid mission stories, kept goin' on n' on about how we'd make it. Someone's gonna come. We're th'good guys, we're a team.

"N' then we got caught. Punished. Wasn't s'posed t'be cheating like that, tryin' t'get one killed or whatever it thought was goin' on. Said it wanted us both alive. So we started gettin' force fed s**t equally.

"N' that's where I saw it. I saw that ********' look in Ashton's eyes." Jack opened his and gestured towards them with more energy than he had displayed all conversation long, eyeballing Ian with a hard stare. "I saw it. We still weren't gettin' enough fer two. No-one was comin'. Couldn't keep goin' like this. I knew, I knew he knew. Between a hunter n' a trainee, who's gotta survive? He was gonna do somethin', I know it. Kept preachin' about hope n' findin' a way out, but there wasn' any. Just tryin t'feed me lies so I wouldn't fight him. We're friends, right? We're a team. We'll figure somethin' out.

His voice grew even more quiet, an undertone of manic energy accompanying it. "So I got 'im, Ian. One night when he was sleepin', I bashed his ********' skull against th'wall, over n' over, 'cause rank doesn' matter if y'got a concussion. I got 'im b'fore he could eat enough t'overpowed me. I was smarter, see? That's better than more powerful. I killed the ********' sonuva b***h b'fore he could kill me. N' then—" He faltered, licked his dry lips, and didn't break eye contact, stared Ian down with a piercing look in spite of the beer. "N' then, Ian, meat. Fresh, warm ********' meat just right there in front've me. It wazza good night.

"So you wanna think someone'll have your back 'til the end? Fine. There's some ********' idiots around who'll do the job gladly; Parish fer sure. But y'gotta know where I stand, n' it's where I've always been: on my own. Don't want or need someone at m'back."

He could have summed his tale up in two sentences: I got captured before the raid on that nest. I killed and ate my fellow captive to survive. But he wanted Ian to hear the details, the things that fleshed out (god awful sweet flesh) his story, he wanted Ian to believe he wasn't someone to keep treating like a friend but rather a wolf in human clothing. (He wanted to see fear.) It was a more sinister reprise of his earlier stunts when he had sought out fights to feel alive. And yet paradoxically, at the same time Jack had brought him there because he also wanted to begin getting things off his chest. Not quite trust, but a tacit hope that even then he could be accepted against against the man's better instinct better instinct, that friendship really was as open-minded as Ian claimed it to be. This is the kind of person I am. Judge me for what that's worth.

The sharpness of his gaze faded as visibly as if someone had shown a light in his face and then turned it away. Something wary and weary replaced it, a slow tumble towards resignation to the fact that Ian was hellbent on staying his friend anyway. "N' what if I can't reciprocate?" he asked, his voice low and strained like he had been yelling rather than whispering. "What if somethin' happens n' I don't have yer back? Or...Future's not in stone, but one day I'll ******** it up. Always do, Ian, 'cause I can't stay happy." And for the first time, Jack allowed himself to sound a small fraction as sad as he felt.

"God...You're such an idiot," he said in the same hollow tone, shaking his head a little. Ian's easy loyalty was a little too much like Ashton's had been: the same stupid, blind, martyr-like allegiance that had almost (almost) made him reconsider murder. It was relieving to have it, but it was a lot more painful at the same time. As little as Ian liked her, he and Chel were strikingly similar.

Expression scrunching from the dull throb starting in his head, Jack rubbed his face with a small sigh. "Must be painful bein' that damn optimistic," he observed with a little more energy, though it was clear that the conversation had drained him. "S'what I liked about Lina too, y'know. Always so ********' cheery. I swear when the apocalypse happens, she'd still find some ********' silver lining for it." He peeked through his fingers. "Pass me another beer?"

Up close it was easier to see the drunken flush creeping on Jack's cheeks. "Shaddup." He plucked the beer from Ian's hand and snapped it open. "Don't get cocky, y'not that attractive."

God damn it, word choices.

Jack drank more than he wanted in one go and coughed, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. Maybe there'd be no end to making an idiot of himself either.

"Shut up," he repeated more emphatically.

"I didn't just anythin'. M'drunk, not ********' blushin' like some b***h in middle school," he corrected Ian angrily, glowering between coughs. "N' ********' white s'a cracker."

Jack jabbed a finger at him imperiously. "Shut ******** up, Nazari. Beer's gettin' t'you."