afabulouskilljoy | (no subject)

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Date night means an empty - or at least quiet - house. It's not a rule or anything, but sharing all this space with other people makes privacy a precious commodity. Especially now that Paul is also hanging around. He seems like a nice guy, Poison's glad Jillie has someone to hang out with.

He just wants time with Jack.

He also doesn't want anyone to witness a potential culinary disaster, so. Yeah.

Poison's in the kitchen, jeans and a t-shirt, and he's got a recipe on his phone that he's following. Maybe he's cheating a little with pre-made pasta, but he doesn't think he could make a tortellini to save his life and he wants dinner to be edible. He's avoiding meat for Jack's sake, but at least he can use real cheese. He's pretty sure his ancestors would fucking haunt him somehow if he had to cook an Italian meal without cheese.

For an aching, hollow moment he thinks of Ghoul. He could do this with a blindfold.

He pushes through it and checks on the cooking pasta and the sauce. He at least made that from scratch. Tortellini primavera sounded pretty good when he'd looked it up.

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"Bet seeing you with me would give him a stroke," he quips as a wicked little grin appears. Poison grabs a big serving bowl and dumps the drained pasta into it. He adds the sauce, mixing it carefully to avoid breaking up the tortellini.

"Come grab the salad, Mayor Vincent."

"Don't call me that," he says, remembering Bex's mother, how she'd smiled and called him Prince Vincent. He gets up from the table, though, grabbing the bowl of salad from the counter.

"Sorry, Jack." Poison leans close to kiss Jack's cheek. "I got a hundred better things to call you, love." He sets the bowl down so both hands can hold Jack's face, anchoring him for a sweet kiss.

"Either of those is fine," says Jack, sliding into a seat at the table, surveying the food in front of him. "This really does look amazing, baby. i might have to, like, chain you to the stove or something."

"That's a sure-fire way to get us all killed. This is like, a one-time fluke. You're talking to a guy that spent a lot of time eating really questionable things out of cans."

Poison sinks down into a chair and immediately tangles one of his legs up with Jack's.

"Powerpup. I remember," says Jack, nodding as he leans across to start serving pasta for both of them. "I'll bear that in mind. Find some other room to chain you up in instead."

"I hear I'm amazing in the bedroom," he quips, grinning like an idiot as Jack serves him. Poison plucks up his bottle of beer and takes a slow drink.

"I might be working on something new. I don't know yet, but I've been kicking it around."

"You know, that's what I hear about you to," says Jack, flashing a broad grin. He settles into his own seat, raising his eyebrows in question as he reaches for his fork. "Oh, yeah?"

Poison bobs his head. "Yeah, uhm. I mean I don't have anything to even call it other than: Poison attempts to actually cope with shit in a vaguely healthy fashion. Not a great title."

"Yeah, no, that's definitely not going to catch on, babe," says Jack, taking a bite of his food and making a soft and appreciative sound. "What does it feel like. Do you know that, yet?"

"Dark," he answers, looking at his food in contemplation. "It feels dark. I'm a little worried Sunny might want to tap out at some point? But she seems okay so far."

"Dark how?" asks Jack, nudging, knowing that Poison'll stop him dead if he pushes too far. "I can't imagine Dee tapping out of anything you're involved in. She'd follow you anywhere."

Poison shrugs a bit helplessly. "I don't know, just... dark. I'm trying to work through some shit, I guess. I can pull something up after dinner if you want?" Kav had sent him a copy of one of the more successful studio sessions.

"Yeah, I'd like that," says Jack, nodding. He chews his food thoughtfully. "What kind of shit? You know I'm happier when you talk to me about it. Even if it's shit."

Poison gestures a bit helplessly with his fork. "Shit," he answers. "Shit I haven't bothered trying to cope with or deal with since I got here more than a year ago. All my friends are fucking dead and I'm not."

"I don't know how you work through that," he says, quietly. "I had a hard enough time working through what happened to Jillie, and I'm still here."

"Apparently with some angst, if you're me. Loud, insistent angst." Poison shrugs a little. "I don't know, it's just-- I've never handled it. I've never actually confronted it. And you've seen how badly it fucks me up."

He didn't like bringing up the thing that happened with Kavinsky, but part of the reason it happened was because Poison had become so untethered at just seeing a face that looked like Ghoul's that he went on a drinking bender and did stupid things. And that was not healthy coping, in anyone's book.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. He remembers, even before they started dating, when they were just hanging out a lot, and Poison had been so brittle, had freaked out so easily. "You know I'm here for anything you need, baby."

"I know. May need you to hold Sunny back if this becomes a whole... aesthetic." He grins. "You know I can't do anything half-assed. And I think if I do make something out of this, it'll be a one time thing. Do it once, get it all out in front of hundreds of people, then bury it."

Jack's eyes narrow suspiciously, and he tilts his head.

"Define aesthetic."

Poison shrugs a bit. "Party Poison - who I am - grew out of an aesthetic," he says with a small gesture. "And look what that turned into. But that's not what this whole thing is, if it's anything. I don't know."

"I don't know if I love the idea of you disappearing into an aesthetic," he says, figuring that there's no point in being anything other than honest. "What if you don't come back?"

"Then you two can hold me back, if you need to. But trust me, too. Sometimes I need to go places and... and I don't want to be taken off guard so hard if grief hits me in the face again."

"The only time I've ever seen you not you was when you dyed your hair and tried to scrape all of the skin off your back," points out Jack, gently. "You can forgive me being nervous, right?"

"Of course I can, honey. But that was-- that was different. That was trauma, not aesthetic. See? I don't do well when I don't deal with shit. I flip out in... apparently wildly destructive ways. Either physically destructive or... relationship-destructive. I don't know." He shrugged a bit helplessly. "I just know I need to deal with this somehow or it's going to bite us both in the ass again, and I don't want my shit to hurt you."