A Thousand Words

Rating: T
Warnings: Character Death, Language
Desc: Jareth's story. A single moment. A blink. A breath. And no amount of screaming to a merciless god would save him.

The pairing here is actually a fanfiction of an original fiction of mine, set in an AU world (our own). But their story fits the theme of the series, so I decided to add it in here.

Big thanks to Kuromei for your review! I plan to revisit Alex and Wesley eventually, I promise. I'm just waiting for that inspirational song to give me the kick in the pants I need.

Please enjoy. Also, this is self-beta'ed so there may be some small editing mistakes.

A Thousand Words: Snapshot Two
Leave Out All The Rest

It had been an argument they'd had before and Lucas, ever the more emotional one, had left before things could get truly ugly. Or something was said that couldn't be taken back, that he didn't really mean. Jareth had been left staring at the closed door to their shared apartment, familiar scuff marks against the bottom of the wood. The swinging Christmas bell, lightly ringing, had seemed to mock him with its cheeriness.

Jareth could remember screaming at his departing form, at the accusing brightness of his red hair. Throwing things even. Calling him all manner of atrocities because Jareth, above all else, was a stubborn ass who couldn't admit when he was wrong. Even when it was so clear that it was his fault to begin with.

And that had been the last time he had ever seen his lover alive. Their last memories were screaming and arguing, heated words and all things Jareth didn't mean. He couldn't take it back, not anymore. Couldn't apologize because a dead man couldn't forgive, even if he did.

The accident had been Lucas' fault, but Jareth couldn't shake his own guilt. It was because of him that Lucas had been upset and drinking, despite knowing he was a lightweight. From there, it had only taken a single moment. A blink. A breath. And Lucas was gone from his life. No amount of crying and screaming to a merciless god would save him.

The wreck had been enormous, spreading across two lanes of traffic. Everyone painted Lucas as the drunk-driving villain, even though only he had lost his life. Jareth hated it, hated them, because no one understood the true story. No one had a clue how much Lucas had been suffering and how much those left behind were grieving.

Lucas hadn't wanted to die. He loved life far too much for that, cherished it even. Bathed in it. Rolled in life like a dog on a pile of freshly fallen leaves in autumn. Lucas always embraced life completely, and with that same crooked, cocksure grin. Silver eyes glimmering with pride.

He had been the only one who could pull Jareth from his shell. Phaedra had been trying for years, but Jareth hadn't wanted sympathy or pity. He had needed what Lucas offered him – understanding on the wings of ignorance. Someone who didn't know a thing about the past, and wouldn't try to heal him of it.

Four years. They had spent the better part of four years together, and Jareth was certain he cared for Lucas. He couldn't quite call it love. He wasn't even sure he knew how to define the word. They were simply two men who cared for each other in a world where love was a fragile, bleeding concept. Echoing the vulnerability of Jareth's own emotions.

“Stop squirming,” a low voice murmured in Jareth's hair, driving him from the painful memories. A hand slid down his side, settling on his hip. “It's still early.”

Jareth stilled, having not even realized that he was fidgeting. “Sorry. I was just thinking,” he murmured, relaxing into the warmth that seemed wrapped around him.

His lover grunted. “Whatever,” Stephen replied, his breath a warm pant against the back of Jareth's neck. “Think quieter.”

Jareth didn't answer, just forced himself to lay even more still as the other man fell back asleep. The calloused fingers on his bare hip had stopped stroking his skin, settling warm and heavy.

This was him, trying to move on. This was him, attempting to discover what it meant to be happy once more. Following Lucas' wishes that he wouldn't spend the rest of his life alone if anything happened to him. They'd had that conversation once before, Lucas recognizing him for the damaged creature he was.

“If anything ever happens to me, I don't want you returning to who you were,” he'd said. “Don't let that happen.”

And Jareth, at the time, had taken it foolishly. Treated it as a joke. Mostly because he didn't want to remember the creature he'd been before Lucas patched him together. The sex-crazed, affection-starved being that tossed himself from one bed partner to the next in search of something. He didn't even know what he wanted, he just felt he had to find it.

Lucas hadn't wanted him to remain alone, or to treat his body as worthless. He'd wanted him to cherish the life he had left, and to learn to love it, in much the same way Lucas had. And two years after his death, Jareth was finally trying to pick up the pieces.

He tried, he really did.

He moved out of the apartment they'd shared for the better part of three years. Moved all the way across town even, to be away from all the familiar faces that knew them by name. All the people that had their sympathies and their pity for him. He changed his phone number, he changed his job, he tried to change who he was on the outside. But he couldn't fix what was scarred on the inside.

Jareth went out again, started looking for another partner. He stumbled on a few, but none that really interested him. Until he met Stephen. The mid-thirties stock broker from across the states reminded him all too much of a past lover, and he was nothing like Lucas. Yet, Jareth found himself falling into the man's arms anyways. Somehow, the pain and the pleasure just swirled together, until he couldn't feel anything at all.

He liked it that way. He thought that it made it simpler. Penance, of a sort, for betraying Lucas. Even though his lover had wanted him to move on, Jareth didn't really want to. Not when it was his fault Lucas died in the first place. And not when the last thing that lay between them was bitterness and anger.

Suddenly, Jareth no longer wanted to be in this bed. He reached down and lifted Stephen's hand from his hip, carefully pushing it to the side. Behind him, the other man's breathing didn't change. Holding his own breath, Jareth eased out from under the thin sheets, shivering a bit as the fan above him blew a quiet stirring of cool air down.

He couldn't seem to get warm these days, as if he were constantly surrounded by a snowstorm and blanketed in white. Except that white all too easily showed stains, and the moment the snow touched him, it was no longer pure.

Jareth reached down and hooked a finger in a pair of boxers, dragging it towards him. He stepped carefully into it and rose from the bed, raking fingers through his disheveled hair. A sharp stab of pain echoed in his lower back. Biting back a yawn -- he really didn't sleep much anymore either -- Jareth stepped towards the window.

Pulling back the curtain, he stared out into a dull, grey morning. They were eight stories up, Stephen's window overlooking the large park across the street. It spanned for eight miles in either direction, and trees littered nearly every inch of the property. Stephen's apartment was prime real estate, and he was rich enough to afford it. He supposed it came from having a blue blood family. Jareth himself didn't understand wealth. He'd swam all too much in the lake of poverty.

The clouds were a thick cover across the sky, seeming ominous. Maybe it would snow again; it certainly seemed cold enough. Or perhaps that thick grey portended rain. Lucas had loved rain as much as he had loved the sun. He'd always run out into it without an umbrella or even a coat half the time, like some silly hippie from the seventies.

Life is rain and sunshine. You have to accept both.

Jareth's hand clenched around the pale curtain, his former lover's voice echoing in his head. It would be a lot easier to forget Lucas if he wasn't always remembering him. It took only the smallest thing to remind him of the void in his heart and in his life. He could still remember Lucas' warmth, and his voice. His smile, and the light in his eyes.

Most people talked about those kinds of memories fading with time. That it always started small. First they'd forget how they liked their coffee. Or the image would get fuzzy, and they wouldn't be sure of the shape of their nose. And then it would get bigger. The sound of their laughter would vanish. The feel of their touch would disappear. And then their face would start to blur away, until it became easier.

Two years later, and Jareth could still recall every minute detail. He wondered if that were normal. The therapist he had been seeing would probably tell him that he was obsessing too much over the dead. She didn't even know the half of it. Jareth had stopped those visits. She would never understand. No one ever did. No one but Lucas.

Brown eyes closed as Jareth sighed, ignoring the prickles of chill that spread across his skin. He wished so much that he could go back in time and prevent his own foolishness. If he'd only not been so stubborn, if he'd only known to treasure what he had... Jareth had always been a fool and it seemed Fate enjoyed mocking him for it.

There was a creak in the bed behind him, Jareth's only warning that Stephen had gotten up. He heard his lover pad quietly across the floor, not even bothering with clothes. He was never ashamed of his nudity. Not like Jareth who preferred not to reveal the scars that marked his body. Intimacy, however, always made it inevitable. Not that he didn't try to cover them whenever possible. As it were, he never swam in public.

Warm hands settled on Jareth's shoulders, squeezing once before sliding down his arms. “You always stand at the window,” Stephen murmured, pressing up against his back and nuzzling into his neck. “Why?”

“I like looking out,” Jareth replied offhandedly, allowing his body to melt back into that warmth. “It's different.”

It was a safe warmth, enclosed in Stephen's arms. He didn't really look like a stockbroker, but Stephen had admitted he played football in his high school and college days. He certainly seemed the part of a linebacker. He was a direct contrast from Lucas, who was short but had such a fiery spirit he seemed larger than life.

One hand slid around his belly, pinning him against Stephen. “Different from what?”

“From wherever I am.”

Jareth looked down at all the strangers, scurrying about in their everyday lives. It was scarcely six in the morning, and yet the city was as alive as always. The crowds and the hustle-bustle unchanged for the earliness of the hour. The streets were clogged with traffic, the bright yellow of taxis completely outnumbering the cars owned by citizens. A few colorful umbrellas bobbed across the sidewalks, preventative measures against precipitation that may or may not come.

A surge of melancholy attacked him. He was here, in another's arms, and yet he hadn't felt more alone. He wanted to see Lucas again. It wasn't Stephen he wanted, but Lucas, who he always caught opening the blinds first thing in the morning, to let the sun pour in. He preferred open windows to central air or lights.

“You're thinking about him again.”

Jareth startled at the sudden tone in his ear, not quite argumentative, but very much an accusation. “What makes you say that?”

Stephen's arm around him tightened. “Don't yank my chain, Jareth. It's not that hard to tell.”

He dropped his hand from the curtain, letting it fall shut over the window, until only a slit of the grey morning was able to peek through. “What? You can read minds now?”

Behind him, Stephen tensed, and then Jareth was spun around, until he was looking into the other's dark grey eyes, such a penetrating shade. He could clearly see the scar above Stephen's left eyebrow, faded and stark, but still present.

“It's been two years,” Stephen stated, his hands a tight hold on Jareth's upper arms as though trying to keep him from escaping. “When are you going to realize that he's dead?”

Jareth flinched, but felt a stirring of anger in his belly. “I never said that he wasn't,” he shot back with irritation. “And you wouldn't understand anyways.”

“That's all you ever say,” Stephen retorted on the edge of a growl, his eyes narrowed. “No one understands me, while you wallow in your pity party. You're still in love with a dead man, Jareth.”

He winced at the phrasing, but knew that Stephen was right on some level. He was still in love with Lucas, and he didn't want to let those memories go. Nor did he want anyone forcing him into doing so. If he wanted to cling to that past, it was his right to do so. And no one could tell him different. Especially not Stephen, who he'd only known for half a year.

He didn't understand.

Jerking out of Stephen's hold, and knocking away the hand that reached for him, Jareth started a search for the rest of his clothing. “I have to go to work,” he lied, pulling on his jeans and snapping the button through the loop even as he snagged his undershirt. “I don't have time to talk about this.”

“Liar,” Stephen accused, and if there was a note of hurt in his tone, Jareth pretended not to notice. “It's not that you don't have time, but that you don't want to.”

“Okay, then I don't want to.” Jareth shoved his hands through his long-sleeved shirt and ignored the buttons in favor of a quick escape.

He couldn't find his socks or his belt, so he dismissed them and strode out of the bedroom, heading for the hall. Stephen followed, snagging a robe off one of the racks and pulling it on with jerky movements. Jareth ignored him, practiced memorization making it easy for him to navigate the darkened corridor, barely lit by the morning grey.

“You're just running away,” Stephen called out after him, a lumbering presence down the hall as he followed, slamming his hand against a light panel to switch on a cascade of fake illumination.

Jareth winced, without meaning to. They were so different, so very different. And while it seemed like it could be a good thing, he could only long for what he once had. No matter how he tried and how he looked, Lucas wouldn't be in another person. And Stephen could never replace him.

“Maybe I am,” Jareth shot over his shoulder, passing by the kitchen just as the automatic coffeemaker sprung to life with a gurgle and a snort. “Maybe this is me saying its over.”

He snatched his coat off the hook by the door, shoving his feet into his shoes without bothering to tie the laces. He could fix them later. Jareth reached for the door, throwing the dead bolt open and switching the lock on the knob itself.

A hand curled around his free arm tightly, pulling him away from the door. “Over?” Stephen growled, jerking Jareth around to face him until their eyes met.

His dark hair flowed around his face, giving him a faintly menacing appearance. Jareth could remember how that hair felt flowing through his fingers – silky smooth as he gripped it tightly. He knew how it felt to drown in the pleasure that Stephen offered him. Always, always, mixed with an edge of pain that he relished. As his body throbbed and ached, he could forget, if only for a moment, all the anguish he had woven into himself.

“It would had to have begun to count as being over,” Stephen retorted sharply, his eyes gleaming in the half-light of the hallway. “But I never had you, did I, Jareth?”

Despite everything, Jareth couldn't find it in him to struggle. “I never had anything to give,” he returned, and there wasn't any anger in that comment. Just resignation. “You knew that.”

There was a moment of harsh silence, outlined by Stephen's breathing and the sound of Jareth's heart, abnormally loud. A rapid staccato of beating, throbbing inside his rib cage. And was that his own breath which sounded so frantic, so sharp and threatened?

“I thought I did,” Stephen finally stated, and abruptly released him, turning away. His shoulders were a hard edge against the soft lines of his robe. “If you walk out that door, don't come back.”

Jareth stood there, one arm within his coat, the other hanging down at his side, weighed by his keys, cell, and wallet. He knew what Stephen was saying, the ultimatum that the other man was giving. But Jareth couldn't find it in him to remain. He couldn't give up, not just yet.

He liked Stephen, he really did. But the man was asking for too much. He demanded more than Jareth had to give. More than he could relinquish. Lucas was still the bright spot inside of him. Jareth couldn't abandon that.

He curled his fingers around the knob. “I'm sorry,” was the last thing he said before he opened the door and stepped into the hall of the apartment complex. He pulled it shut behind him with a quiet snick.

Pausing to put his arm through the other side of the coat, he heard the loud click of a lock being slid back into place behind him. The sound, so normal, was like a gavel in a court room, signifying the very end. Jareth searched for some kind of regret, and couldn't find it. It just fell down and echoed in the emptiness inside of him, and no matter how long he waited, he would never hear it hit the bottom.

Sighing softly, Jareth pushed his hands into his pockets and headed to the elevator. This early in the morning, it took only seconds for the compartment to open and he stepped inside, hitting the button for the ground floor. He'd come home with Stephen the night before after they went out for drinks, so he didn't have his car. He'd have to walk home or catch a taxi.

The walk would probably do him some good. His head felt stuffed at the moment, disconnected from his body. He wanted to think, though he knew his thoughts would inevitably lead in one direction. Jareth did have to head into work later, but they wouldn't miss him if he were a little late. Rivalen would fuss, but he'd understand. He was the one who'd given Jareth the job anyways. Out of pity or understanding, Jareth wasn't sure.

The elevator dumped Jareth into the lobby of the apartment complex, and he passed by rows of numbered metal mail boxes. A woman was checking her mail, dog on a leash at her side. She smiled up at him, and returned to sifting through her envelopes. Jareth offered her a nod as he continued, walking past the unmanned desk and stepping through the revolving doors.

It was still grey outside, and a wave of cold washed over him. As did the noise of the outside world, car horns, people talking on their cells, the sound of many footsteps. It was strange, but with all that evidence of society, he still felt utterly alone.

Shouldering against a burst of wind, Jareth stepped into the mass of people and let himself get swept away in their flow. He'd walk for a bit, and then catch a taxi to his own apartment, he supposed. He wasn't in any hurry to return home. In an effort to move on, he'd rid himself of anything that reminded him of Lucas, and now it felt empty and cold. He didn't particularly like being there.

He remembered the pitiful person he'd been before he met Lucas. Wallowing in agony over a former lover who had treated him as though he were less than garbage. Nothing but a plaything, no longer even human. He still carried the marks of that man on his body, no amount of scrubbing would remove them. Back then, he had wanted to die, but he'd clung to his life, clung to that abusive man, because it was all he had.

He'd met Lucas purely by accident, attending a party that Phaedra had put together in an attempt to cheer him up. She was always trying to entice him in one way or another, but that had been one of her grandest attempts. Lucas wasn't originally a member of their group of friends, but he'd come because he was in town visiting his cousin, Rivalen's wife.

They'd bumped into each other, a drunk Jareth causing Lucas to spill his own drink. In fact, Jareth didn't remember most of that night, having drank himself into a stupor. It was only later that he'd found out how much of a fool he'd made of himself. He'd woken up in a room he didn't recognize, Lucas sitting at his side. Smiling at him and laughing, despite the fact Jareth had vomited all over his shoes.

From the beginning, Lucas had been the opposite of everything Jareth had ever known. Where he'd been drowning in darkness, Lucas had been the light that pierced it unerringly. He'd refused to let Jareth sink into the past, instead dragging him into the present and thrusting him towards the future with his usual zeal for life. He thought that he might have fallen in love with him from the first moment that Lucas smiled.

The next four years would be the happiest that Jareth could ever remember. He took part in things he never would have considered, had fun, enjoyed his life. Everyone was surprised by the changes in him, but none more than himself. He was able to escape from the clinging tendrils of his past. Not to say that things were perfect, far from it. They still had the occasional argument, and Jareth never could entirely rid himself of his stubbornness. But they always made up, and everything was all right in the end.

Except for that one time. When Lucas walked out the door and never came back. Jareth had been pacing the floor, worried out of his mind, when the call came in. By some fluke of paperwork, the staff at the hospital had called Mateya first, and she, in turn, had phoned Jareth. He'd rushed to the hospital, heart pounding in his chest and a fear unlike anything he'd ever felt swallowing him whole. Even then, he'd been too late.

There really hadn't been much they could do. And Jareth was left standing there, staring at the small form of his lover buried beneath blood-stained clothing and wires and tubes in all direction. The droning of the machine in the background was an ever-present whine, informing him over and over that Lucas' heart wasn't beating anymore. The blood that covered him blended all too well with his hair, and he seemed that much tinier.

He wasn't really sure what happened next. All he knew was that something in him shattered and his legs lost all feeling. He'd hit the wall, slid to the floor, and stared at the bed as the nurses moved slowly around Lucas. Their movements no longer frantic, restrained as they disconnected tubes and announced the time of death.

Jareth had stared, without blinking, tears filling his eyes and falling down his cheeks, but otherwise making no sounds. Rivalen and Mateya had been there, some of the others arriving much later, but he'd hardly noticed. He hadn't known who grabbed his arm, or dragged him home. He couldn't remember who'd forced him into bed. It might have been Phaedra. It could have been Rivalen on his wife's orders.

In his dreams, he'd thought of Lucas. And he'd attended the funeral like a dead man. Swathed all in black as the brilliant sun sent a cascade of cheery rays down on the mourners. It was a day that smelled sweet, the grave site surrounded by honeysuckle and clover. It was a day that Lucas would have loved. It would have been fitting, if Jareth hadn't felt as if he were mocked by it. And no one had understood.

The chirruping of a familiar ring tone pulled Jareth from his thoughts and he dug his hand in his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. A familiar name showed up on the caller ID and with a sigh, he pushed the button to answer it and held it to his ear.

“Yes?”

“You don't have to sound so grumpy,” Phaedra retorted, her sunny voice pouring through the cell, despite the noise of the crowds around him. “I know its early, but I figured you'd be up. It's still the weekday after all.”

He shrugged though she couldn't see it, and scanned the street signs, making sure he was still heading in the right direction. “Was there something you wanted?”

He could practically see her pouting on the other end, even as she sighed at him. “I know you haven't forgotten what this Saturday is.”

How could he? It was the anniversary of Lucas' death. He'd asked for the day off months ago, and he was going to be the first one there as always.

“Of course you haven't,” she continued quickly, when his silence spoke volumes. “We thought we'd all go as a group. I think Lucas would like that, don't you?”

“We?”

He heard something in the background, the clack-clack of a keyboard. She was probably working on her column. “Mateya will make Rivalen come, but yes, we. As in everyone. What do you think?”

Jareth resisted the urge to sigh, and paused at a crosswalk with all the other pedestrians, waiting for the signal. “You called me at six in the morning to ask this?”

“It's just a question, Jareth. Yes or no.”

In the interest of ending the conversation, Jareth rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Yeah, okay, whatever you want. Just let me know when.” He'd rather go alone, but maybe it was better that he didn't. They'd all just fuss over him again and Jareth was tired of being treated like glass, even if he felt as brittle as tissue paper.

There was a moment of silence and the sound of her typing paused. “Jareth, is everything all right? How's Stephen?” Her voice was filled with concern and he knew that if he let anything slip, she'd drop everything to rush over. He didn't want her to do that. Phaedra needed to move on and stop pining after him.

“I'm fine. He's fine. Everything's fine,” Jareth was quick to assure her, despite the fact he knew it sounded anything but. “Look, Phaedra. I have to get ready for work. Talk to you later, okay?”

He didn't really listen to a response. Just clicked the button to end the call and shoved it back into his pocket. On second thought, he pulled it out long enough to put it on silent before returning it to his coat. The cell clanged noisily against his keys.

Jareth breathed a sign of relief, the air not quite cold enough to make his breath visible. Around him, the other strangers were waiting impatiently. He watched the light, willing it to change, wanting to go home. Though that apartment still wasn't home to him.

Home, for Jareth, had been wherever Lucas was. The small studio apartment they had shared, situated perfectly between their two jobs. With the Chinese place on the corner that could have their favorite dinner ready in ten minutes or less. Sometimes, with a bit of bribery, they would even deliver so the two didn't even have to leave the apartment.

The big windows in the front room that faced the river, always glimmering in the distance just beyond the tops of huge, surrounding trees. The large bedroom, tucked away in a corner and raised a few feet higher than the other rooms. Lucas' stuff always intermingling with his because the two of them weren't neat and it took their best effort to make the apartment vaguely organized. The kitchen that always smelled of coffee because they both drank it as though their blood ran on coffee alone.

And Lucas, sitting at his desk, hair piled on top of his head in a messy bun as he hunched over his computer. Or smiling as he attempted to make pancakes and failed miserably -- they were always a bit burnt on one side. The two of them arguing over who would win the Super Bowl, Lucas always taking the opposite team because he really didn't care and it amused him to see Jareth so passionate about football. Eyes such a light grey that they seemed silver, especially in the morning when he first woke.

Jareth felt a smile tugging at his lips. Happiness... for him that had always been defined by being at Lucas' side. He'd never felt anything close to it with anyone else. Lucas had been the only who could make him smile, make him laugh. Make him try to live again. Being with Lucas, that was the only thing that could ever make him happy again. He realized that.

To say that he missed Lucas would be like comparing a papercut to a belly full of shotgun pellets. There was no comparison.

He felt warmth where he hadn't before. And Jareth paused, looking up at the sky. The grey was breaking a little, giving way to the force of the sun behind it. Little rays of light were peeking through, small streams of brightness pushing their way through the mire. The kind of new beginning that Lucas had always referred to poetically.

In the back of his mind, Jareth heard a distant sound. Annoying and loud. His brow furrowed in confusion at the noise and he looked to the side, trying to find the source of the noise.

A car horn, blaring loudly, warningly. His eyes widened in surprise, and yet, the smile didn't leave his lips. Someone was shouting, he might have heard. There were screams.

'How ironic,' he thought to himself. 'And yet so fitting. Looks like I'll get my wish after all.'

There was a screech, tires on pavement, and the sound of someone screaming in horror. And he knew that logically, he should be trying to move. Even if there wasn't time, he should have attempted something.

Above him, the sun finally broke through the morass, painting the city in a new light. It brought with it blue skies and fair weather. It looked down on blaring blue and red lights, the sound of sirens approaching swiftly. Brown hair painted in crimson, and the horrified faces of onlookers. A driver apologizing over and over and a phone buzzed continuously, unharmed for the strike.

And the day awoke in all its splendor, promising something new and different.

* * *

a/n: Strangely, this piece was actually a request from a devoted reader of mine, ending and all.

It's a bit depressing, but I'd like to think there's a bit of hope in it. Well, I hope you enjoyed anyway. Thanks for reading!