Writerverse - Table of Doom, Prompt: Fallen Angel
If you're sticking with me on this partial Gray Morning rewrite, I fucking applaud you. This is going to be the last section I post of the new GM, as this feels like a natural stopping point. I know the next few parts of it would involve context from books 1 and 2
Takes place after Flowers, Excuses, Everybody Lies, A Doorway to Hell, and Idle Hands.
Jazz panted as he came to a stop, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. Breathe. He needed to breathe. And to calm down, and to think, and --
He collapsed against the nearest wall, grateful that none of the Palace Guards had stopped him as he (somehow, calmly) walked through the gates. Just a moment. Just a moment to clear his head, then he’d figure out where he was going -- what he was going to do.
Shivering, he pushed himself away from the wall and tried to forget the feel of Savin’s hands on his body. Tried to forget how close Savin had actually gotten him unwillingly. His feet moved blindly, leading him to god knows where.
The air surrounding him grew colder, denser as he walked, his breathing slowly evening out. His mouth felt like cotton, dry and sticky all at once. Especially when he found himself in front of Mitchel’s house.
His hand still ached, the pain growing worse whenever he flexed his fingers. Swallowing as best as he could, Jazz took the steps towards Mitchel’s door two at a time, lifting his left hand to knock instead of his right. Maybe Mitchel wasn’t even home, yet.
As much as he had come to dislike the asshole, he was better than the downright bastard waiting for him back at the Palace. That thought only spurred Jazz to knock on the door quickly and as loudly as possible before hugging himself tightly.
What if Savin came looking for him? What if -- what if Savin followed him? Or worse yet, what if he were still back in their living quarters, waiting for Jazz to come back so he could “finish” what he started? The thought chilled him straight through to his very core.
Jazz shook his head and shuddered, leaning against the railing for a moment as he waited for Mitchel’s door to open. If it’d open at all, he reminded himself. If Mitchel wasn’t home, he’d have to go somewhere else. Not Mari’s -- Mari and Savin were too close. She’d tell Savin where he was in a heartbeat.
Just as his heart began to settle in his shoes, the door swung open slowly, causing Jazz to stand up straight and relax his arms.
“Callahan?” Mitchel asked, arching an eyebrow towards his hair. “Excuse my language, but what the hell are you doing here?”
Any other time, Jazz would have laughed. As it was, his face burned as tears filled his eyes. “Can I -- can I please come in?” he murmured, his voice thick and grainy.
Mitchel frowned, but otherwise moved aside and gestured for Jazz to step inside his home. Jazz mumbled a quiet thank you, being careful to keep his distance as he walked past Mitchel. It had been years since he saw the inside of Mitchel’s home, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see it hadn’t changed much at all, in that time.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mitchel offered as Jazz collapsed onto his couch.
“Strongest fucking thing you have,” Jazz croaked, putting his head in his hands. “Please.”
Mitchel didn’t say anything, but Jazz did hear his footsteps retreat back towards the kitchen. Sighing, Jazz ran his fingers through his hair and bit his lip, trying to stifle the next wave of tears. He leaned back against Mitchel’s couch, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them loosely.
He hardly moved when Mitchel approached him again, settling onto the couch beside him. Years. It had been years since they sat on this couch together, just like they were now. Jazz shivered at the thought, remembering how easily he had fallen into Mitchel’s arms back then.
“What happened, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, snapping him from his thoughts. He had a stout glass in his hand, proffering it to Jazz.
Jazz took it without a word, downing the amber liquid in one solid gulp and handing the glass back to Mitchel. It burned the whole way down, causing him to wince. But that pain, at least, provided a distraction. Something to focus on while he tried to find the words.
“Of course, if you don’t wish to speak with me about it, that’s perfectly okay as well,” Mitchel said after a while, keeping his tone quiet. Comforting. He kept his eyes forward, a slight frown on his face. “I didn’t see a car -- did you walk here?”
“Ran,” Jazz corrected, his voice cracking as he spoke. He tightened his arms around his legs, ignoring the aches that caused. He buried his face in his knees.
“That’s -- quite a distance,” Mitchel murmured, sounding unsure of what to say. Jazz snorted into his knees at that thought -- of course Mitchel wouldn’t know what to say now, when usually Mitchel had all the answers.
“Not really,” Jazz said, shaking his head. “Only a couple of miles.”
“I certainly couldn’t do it.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re old,” Jazz teased despite himself, lifting his head from his knees. He offered Mitchel a pained smile before turning and looking away from him. “You’re what, now? Almost fifty?” he cracked, forcing another smile.
“Thirty-seven,” Mitchel grumbled into his own glass. The annoyance seemed almost playful as a tiny smile tugged at Mitchel’s lips.
“Still older than me,” Jazz whispered, the joking tone to his voice dying away as tears threatened to spill over once again. He buried his face in his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees as he hunched over yet again, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Savin was five years older than him. Nearly six -- Mitchel ten, nearly eleven. Both men were taller than him -- though Savin weighed the same as he did. Mitchel was heavier.
So why did he feel safe here? Especially when Mitchel manipulated him in the past, tricked him into sleeping with him weeks before he was to be married to someone else. Tried to convince him that Savin wasn’t the right one for him, that Savin was an awful human being.
And Savin was. He had to be, if he could -- if he could do that to Jazz. Jazz took in a shuddering breath, trying to force out his next few words, despite the heaviness they placed on his heart. “Savin -- he --”
“You needn’t force yourself to speak, either, Callahan,” Mitchel whispered, putting a light, hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Whatever it was that Bates did, it can remain between the two of you, if you wish.”
Jazz nodded, biting his lip as relief flooded through him. “I can’t go back,” he gasped between his fingers, a high pitched whine escaping him as he gave into another wave of tears. “I can’t go back, Mitchel -- I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Then don’t,” Mitchel said nonchalantly. He pulled his hand away.
“Where the fuck would I go?” Jazz cried, futilely wiping the tears off his face. “I can’t -- I can’t just fucking leave, I’m the goddamn Emperor, we’re in the middle of a war -- maybe two --”
“The Resistance would certainly take a lack of leadership as an opportunity to strike, yes,” Mitchel said, nodding as he pursed his lips together in thought. “However, your personal safety is also of the utmost importance. As much as it pains me to say it, Bates is a capable man. If need be, he’d be able to run the Empire alone.”
Jazz shook his head. “That’s -- it’s not fucking right -- I can’t abandon my Empire like that,” he insisted, his tears stopping. He pushed himself off the couch and grabbed his glass. “I need another drink,” he mumbled, quickly moving towards Mitchel’s kitchen.
“Are you sure that’s wise, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, following Jazz with measured footsteps.
“Of course I fucking don’t,” Jazz snapped, turning to glare at Mitchel over his shoulder. He stood in Mitchel’s kitchen, trying to determine where to find what he was looking for. “I just want to pretend that tonight never fucking happened and go back to the Palace and somehow face that bastard after what he did.”
“Getting blitzed will accomplish neither of those things,” Mitchel said, plucking the cup from Jazz’s hand and placing it on the counter. He then leaned against the counter, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. “Just a moment ago, you were insistent about being unable to return to the Palace. What changed?”
“Nothing’s changed -- I just can’t abandon my Empire, Mitchel. That’s all there is to it,” Jazz explained, grinding his teeth together. “I just -- wanna forget for a little while, okay?”
“You keep speaking of staying for the sake of your Empire, but not for the sake of your husband,” Mitchel murmured, remaining in Jazz’s way. He frowned, his brow wrinkling in thought. “I assume it’s now over between the two of you?”
Jazz’s lips parted, just for a moment, before he tightly clamped them shut and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he gritted through his teeth. He turned on his heel and stormed towards Mitchel’s front door. “I should have fucking known that you’d try and see how you could use this whole thing to your advantage.”
“This damn well isn’t about me, Callahan,” Mitchel growled, causing Jazz to stop in his tracks, his shoulders bunching together. “This is about you and Bates, and ultimately, the Empire. If the two of you are going your separate ways because of something inconsequential --”
“You don’t even know what he did!” Jazz snarled, glaring at Mitchel over his shoulder. Tears gathered in his eyes yet again, but he ignored them as he continued. “Don’t even fucking try to tell me I’m overreacting when you don’t know what that bastard did to me!”
“I can certainly make an educated guess,” Mitchel responded simply, standing up straight. He continued to close the distance between them, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. “Bates has become increasingly agitated the past few months. The growing distance between the two of you has been painfully obvious in that time -- but I have not once seen you so adamant in refusing to work on your issues. Whatever he did, it’s not something you think can be fixed.”
“He almost fucking raped me,” Jazz spat. Mitchel’s eyes widened before his expression went blank. “So yeah, you’re right -- I don’t think that’s something we can fucking fix.”
Jazz remained where he was for a moment, wishing his chest wouldn’t heave the way it did before he swallowed the rest of his tears and headed towards the door yet again. He ran his fingers through his hair, whimpering into the palms of his hands as he continued forward, refusing to look back.
It wasn’t like Mitchel actually cared, anyway. The asshole never did. Only looked out for himself and no one else, always used those around him to get what he wanted. What the hell made Jazz think that, for once in his fucking life, Mitchel could actually be human?
“Jazz, wait,” Mitchel called, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over Jazz’s tears.
Jazz stopped yet again, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob. When was the last time Mitchel had actually called him by his name? It had to have been years. “What?” he dared to ask, facing Mitchel. He avoided the other man’s eyes as tears spilled down his cheeks.
“You’re right -- you really shouldn’t return to the Palace,” Mitchel said, frowning. “You should either report Bates for what he did and be prepared to handle the scandal it will cause, or...” Mitchel paused, taking a moment to clear his throat and approach Jazz slowly.
Jazz hastily wiped his tears away. “Or...?” he prompted, taking a step towards Mitchel.
Mitchel smiled, though it looked nothing like his usual smug expression. Sadness lingered behind it -- something Jazz wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. “Or leave,” he finished quietly, looking away from Jazz. “No doubt, Bates will feel it necessary to blame your disappearance on the Resistance, but at least you will be free of him.”
“I can’t -- the Empire --”
“There’s a Council for a reason,” Mitchel said, cutting him off. “If you wish, I can direct you to an...acquaintance of mine. That way, should you feel the need to provide suggestions for the ongoings within the Empire, you’ll be able to reach me.”
Jazz bit his lip and looked away, reaching for the doorknob behind him. “They’re not -- not someone who’d know who I was, are they?” he asked, scuffing his feet along the floor.
“I assure you, Diehl will not recognize you without that ludicrous wig you wear for public appearances,” Mitchel said, smiling slightly. “He’s a good man -- unlike myself.”
Jazz managed to smile back. “I dunno, Mitchel,” he whispered, feeling his cheeks grow warm, “You’re a better man than you realize.”
Maybe if Jazz had realized it before, he wouldn’t have gotten into this mess, in the first place.
Takes place after Flowers, Excuses, Everybody Lies, A Doorway to Hell, and Idle Hands.
Jazz panted as he came to a stop, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. Breathe. He needed to breathe. And to calm down, and to think, and --
He collapsed against the nearest wall, grateful that none of the Palace Guards had stopped him as he (somehow, calmly) walked through the gates. Just a moment. Just a moment to clear his head, then he’d figure out where he was going -- what he was going to do.
Shivering, he pushed himself away from the wall and tried to forget the feel of Savin’s hands on his body. Tried to forget how close Savin had actually gotten him unwillingly. His feet moved blindly, leading him to god knows where.
The air surrounding him grew colder, denser as he walked, his breathing slowly evening out. His mouth felt like cotton, dry and sticky all at once. Especially when he found himself in front of Mitchel’s house.
His hand still ached, the pain growing worse whenever he flexed his fingers. Swallowing as best as he could, Jazz took the steps towards Mitchel’s door two at a time, lifting his left hand to knock instead of his right. Maybe Mitchel wasn’t even home, yet.
As much as he had come to dislike the asshole, he was better than the downright bastard waiting for him back at the Palace. That thought only spurred Jazz to knock on the door quickly and as loudly as possible before hugging himself tightly.
What if Savin came looking for him? What if -- what if Savin followed him? Or worse yet, what if he were still back in their living quarters, waiting for Jazz to come back so he could “finish” what he started? The thought chilled him straight through to his very core.
Jazz shook his head and shuddered, leaning against the railing for a moment as he waited for Mitchel’s door to open. If it’d open at all, he reminded himself. If Mitchel wasn’t home, he’d have to go somewhere else. Not Mari’s -- Mari and Savin were too close. She’d tell Savin where he was in a heartbeat.
Just as his heart began to settle in his shoes, the door swung open slowly, causing Jazz to stand up straight and relax his arms.
“Callahan?” Mitchel asked, arching an eyebrow towards his hair. “Excuse my language, but what the hell are you doing here?”
Any other time, Jazz would have laughed. As it was, his face burned as tears filled his eyes. “Can I -- can I please come in?” he murmured, his voice thick and grainy.
Mitchel frowned, but otherwise moved aside and gestured for Jazz to step inside his home. Jazz mumbled a quiet thank you, being careful to keep his distance as he walked past Mitchel. It had been years since he saw the inside of Mitchel’s home, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see it hadn’t changed much at all, in that time.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mitchel offered as Jazz collapsed onto his couch.
“Strongest fucking thing you have,” Jazz croaked, putting his head in his hands. “Please.”
Mitchel didn’t say anything, but Jazz did hear his footsteps retreat back towards the kitchen. Sighing, Jazz ran his fingers through his hair and bit his lip, trying to stifle the next wave of tears. He leaned back against Mitchel’s couch, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them loosely.
He hardly moved when Mitchel approached him again, settling onto the couch beside him. Years. It had been years since they sat on this couch together, just like they were now. Jazz shivered at the thought, remembering how easily he had fallen into Mitchel’s arms back then.
“What happened, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, snapping him from his thoughts. He had a stout glass in his hand, proffering it to Jazz.
Jazz took it without a word, downing the amber liquid in one solid gulp and handing the glass back to Mitchel. It burned the whole way down, causing him to wince. But that pain, at least, provided a distraction. Something to focus on while he tried to find the words.
“Of course, if you don’t wish to speak with me about it, that’s perfectly okay as well,” Mitchel said after a while, keeping his tone quiet. Comforting. He kept his eyes forward, a slight frown on his face. “I didn’t see a car -- did you walk here?”
“Ran,” Jazz corrected, his voice cracking as he spoke. He tightened his arms around his legs, ignoring the aches that caused. He buried his face in his knees.
“That’s -- quite a distance,” Mitchel murmured, sounding unsure of what to say. Jazz snorted into his knees at that thought -- of course Mitchel wouldn’t know what to say now, when usually Mitchel had all the answers.
“Not really,” Jazz said, shaking his head. “Only a couple of miles.”
“I certainly couldn’t do it.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re old,” Jazz teased despite himself, lifting his head from his knees. He offered Mitchel a pained smile before turning and looking away from him. “You’re what, now? Almost fifty?” he cracked, forcing another smile.
“Thirty-seven,” Mitchel grumbled into his own glass. The annoyance seemed almost playful as a tiny smile tugged at Mitchel’s lips.
“Still older than me,” Jazz whispered, the joking tone to his voice dying away as tears threatened to spill over once again. He buried his face in his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees as he hunched over yet again, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Savin was five years older than him. Nearly six -- Mitchel ten, nearly eleven. Both men were taller than him -- though Savin weighed the same as he did. Mitchel was heavier.
So why did he feel safe here? Especially when Mitchel manipulated him in the past, tricked him into sleeping with him weeks before he was to be married to someone else. Tried to convince him that Savin wasn’t the right one for him, that Savin was an awful human being.
And Savin was. He had to be, if he could -- if he could do that to Jazz. Jazz took in a shuddering breath, trying to force out his next few words, despite the heaviness they placed on his heart. “Savin -- he --”
“You needn’t force yourself to speak, either, Callahan,” Mitchel whispered, putting a light, hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Whatever it was that Bates did, it can remain between the two of you, if you wish.”
Jazz nodded, biting his lip as relief flooded through him. “I can’t go back,” he gasped between his fingers, a high pitched whine escaping him as he gave into another wave of tears. “I can’t go back, Mitchel -- I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Then don’t,” Mitchel said nonchalantly. He pulled his hand away.
“Where the fuck would I go?” Jazz cried, futilely wiping the tears off his face. “I can’t -- I can’t just fucking leave, I’m the goddamn Emperor, we’re in the middle of a war -- maybe two --”
“The Resistance would certainly take a lack of leadership as an opportunity to strike, yes,” Mitchel said, nodding as he pursed his lips together in thought. “However, your personal safety is also of the utmost importance. As much as it pains me to say it, Bates is a capable man. If need be, he’d be able to run the Empire alone.”
Jazz shook his head. “That’s -- it’s not fucking right -- I can’t abandon my Empire like that,” he insisted, his tears stopping. He pushed himself off the couch and grabbed his glass. “I need another drink,” he mumbled, quickly moving towards Mitchel’s kitchen.
“Are you sure that’s wise, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, following Jazz with measured footsteps.
“Of course I fucking don’t,” Jazz snapped, turning to glare at Mitchel over his shoulder. He stood in Mitchel’s kitchen, trying to determine where to find what he was looking for. “I just want to pretend that tonight never fucking happened and go back to the Palace and somehow face that bastard after what he did.”
“Getting blitzed will accomplish neither of those things,” Mitchel said, plucking the cup from Jazz’s hand and placing it on the counter. He then leaned against the counter, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. “Just a moment ago, you were insistent about being unable to return to the Palace. What changed?”
“Nothing’s changed -- I just can’t abandon my Empire, Mitchel. That’s all there is to it,” Jazz explained, grinding his teeth together. “I just -- wanna forget for a little while, okay?”
“You keep speaking of staying for the sake of your Empire, but not for the sake of your husband,” Mitchel murmured, remaining in Jazz’s way. He frowned, his brow wrinkling in thought. “I assume it’s now over between the two of you?”
Jazz’s lips parted, just for a moment, before he tightly clamped them shut and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he gritted through his teeth. He turned on his heel and stormed towards Mitchel’s front door. “I should have fucking known that you’d try and see how you could use this whole thing to your advantage.”
“This damn well isn’t about me, Callahan,” Mitchel growled, causing Jazz to stop in his tracks, his shoulders bunching together. “This is about you and Bates, and ultimately, the Empire. If the two of you are going your separate ways because of something inconsequential --”
“You don’t even know what he did!” Jazz snarled, glaring at Mitchel over his shoulder. Tears gathered in his eyes yet again, but he ignored them as he continued. “Don’t even fucking try to tell me I’m overreacting when you don’t know what that bastard did to me!”
“I can certainly make an educated guess,” Mitchel responded simply, standing up straight. He continued to close the distance between them, keeping his arms crossed over his chest. “Bates has become increasingly agitated the past few months. The growing distance between the two of you has been painfully obvious in that time -- but I have not once seen you so adamant in refusing to work on your issues. Whatever he did, it’s not something you think can be fixed.”
“He almost fucking raped me,” Jazz spat. Mitchel’s eyes widened before his expression went blank. “So yeah, you’re right -- I don’t think that’s something we can fucking fix.”
Jazz remained where he was for a moment, wishing his chest wouldn’t heave the way it did before he swallowed the rest of his tears and headed towards the door yet again. He ran his fingers through his hair, whimpering into the palms of his hands as he continued forward, refusing to look back.
It wasn’t like Mitchel actually cared, anyway. The asshole never did. Only looked out for himself and no one else, always used those around him to get what he wanted. What the hell made Jazz think that, for once in his fucking life, Mitchel could actually be human?
“Jazz, wait,” Mitchel called, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over Jazz’s tears.
Jazz stopped yet again, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob. When was the last time Mitchel had actually called him by his name? It had to have been years. “What?” he dared to ask, facing Mitchel. He avoided the other man’s eyes as tears spilled down his cheeks.
“You’re right -- you really shouldn’t return to the Palace,” Mitchel said, frowning. “You should either report Bates for what he did and be prepared to handle the scandal it will cause, or...” Mitchel paused, taking a moment to clear his throat and approach Jazz slowly.
Jazz hastily wiped his tears away. “Or...?” he prompted, taking a step towards Mitchel.
Mitchel smiled, though it looked nothing like his usual smug expression. Sadness lingered behind it -- something Jazz wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. “Or leave,” he finished quietly, looking away from Jazz. “No doubt, Bates will feel it necessary to blame your disappearance on the Resistance, but at least you will be free of him.”
“I can’t -- the Empire --”
“There’s a Council for a reason,” Mitchel said, cutting him off. “If you wish, I can direct you to an...acquaintance of mine. That way, should you feel the need to provide suggestions for the ongoings within the Empire, you’ll be able to reach me.”
Jazz bit his lip and looked away, reaching for the doorknob behind him. “They’re not -- not someone who’d know who I was, are they?” he asked, scuffing his feet along the floor.
“I assure you, Diehl will not recognize you without that ludicrous wig you wear for public appearances,” Mitchel said, smiling slightly. “He’s a good man -- unlike myself.”
Jazz managed to smile back. “I dunno, Mitchel,” he whispered, feeling his cheeks grow warm, “You’re a better man than you realize.”
Maybe if Jazz had realized it before, he wouldn’t have gotten into this mess, in the first place.