TITLE: Nothing Really Matters
AUTHOR: Heather
SETTING: say, late 2002. Basically everything that has occurred on the show since June, 2002 and before, has happened in this story. There was no Jip at the time, but there was the whole Jason/Liz/Zander triangle.
SYNOPSIS: How can anything matter when you've lost the only person who made life bearable?
DEDICATION: For all of those Jason & Robin fans, especially my fellow diehards, who were unhappy with the current version of Jason, the emotionless, cold-hearted version. Maybe there's a reason he's that way.
--------
It was the dark of night, the witching hour, whatever that meant, and he couldn't sleep. There was nothing new in that, he spent many a sleepless night drinking scotch and staring out the window. It was better than dreaming.
But it was at these times that he thought of her. It angered him that he still did. He'd spent more years without her in his life that he had with her, and yet she was rarely from his thoughts. No matter how he pretended or what he did, all he had to do was pass by a bridge or catch a glimpse of a petite brunette and she was there in his head. She never left, and he was beginning to accept that she never would.
He lived his life in an emotional vacuum. Oh, he did his best to pretend, to act as if he actually felt emotion. Sometimes he felt stirrings of something deeper than a distant caring, but it was never deep enough to matter. Even the people he had cared about before roused only vague feelings in him. He went through the motions, pretended, and he knew that he had those around him convinced with their narcissistic narrow vision. But still, anything he felt was a pale thing to how he remembered feeling before. His friends lived their lives in hell, miserable in their existence, both feeling as if they had lost what they had most wanted. She, having discovered that she was barren, was bitter that another woman had given her husband a healthy child. And he, having been cut out of that child's life and deemed unfit, was bitter that another man played daddy to his daughter. There was an irony to their situations, some called it karmic justice for their past misdeeds, even he could see. But their misery failed to touch him, to move him. He really just didn't care, and he was tired of trying to fix their lives.
It shouldn't effect him like this, her absence from his life. She had left him, betrayed him, and broken her promise. But with the distance of time, he could look back with a less jaded eye and wonder if what he felt had been justified. He had let her down, broken promise upon promise to her, time and again, what did that compare to her one broken promise, made with the deepest of reluctance?
Not that it all mattered anymore. It was in the past, unfixable; he'd left it behind and he knew that she had too. He'd seen her once since that dark night on the bridge, leaving her home with a man on her arm and he'd discovered that she was engaged to him, a man who didn't put shadows in her beautiful eyes. She looked happy, free from the strain that had always been on her when she'd been with him. He'd almost resented that, resented her. Who was she to be happy when he was not? But that resentment had faded as everything did nowadays, leaving behind a heart that was hardened a little more.
She had moved on, and so would he.
So he had, to a young woman, petite and brunette, with a painful past and sorrow in her eyes. And if she reminded him of her, he could ignore it. She had already been half in love with him, looking at him as if he was her savior, willing to put up with whatever he asked of her. He had used her emotions, ruthlessly doing his best to win her from a man that he did not approve of, a man that had hurt his sister in ways that were too similar for comfort. It quickly became more about his opponent and the battle than it had about the prize. He'd won her, in his bed and in his life, and if he couldn't repeat her words of love, then so be it.
But not all emotion was dead in him. He knew that she deserved better. Better than a man who would close his eyes and picture someone else when they made love. Better than a man who would wake in her arms and feel a pang of disappointment that she wasn't someone else. So he had wished her well, and sent her out of his life, into the arms of a man who could still love, and would love her as he could not. She was happy now, planning a wedding and living in a little cottage with a white picket fence. She'd deserved better than him, and had gotten it, and he was glad for her. Or as glad as he could be.
It left him alone again. Alone with his thoughts and his demons. It was times like these when he wondered if this was his justice. Those around him whom he had thought worthy, lived lives of quiet misery, while those he'd deemed unworthy, lived happy lives. Even his brother, a man he'd believed to be one of the lowest of men, had found peace and contentment. He was happily married with a family on the way, in love and loved by a woman who had never stopped believing in him. He'd even managed to foster a relationship with his son, and suddenly daddy wasn't a fake one but a real one. After all of it, the lies and the schemes, it was his brother who had gotten everything. Was that justice? Did that speak some sort of judgment on the man his brother really was? Did the empty life he lived speak some sort of judgment on the man he was?
He didn't know, he didn't know much of anything any more. All he knew was that he'd lost. He'd lost the one person who had made him feel complete, who'd made even the bad times not so bad. She'd supported him, even when it went against her better judgment. She'd loved him, despite the condemnation of her friends and family. She'd defended him, stood up for him, stood besides him, and he'd taken it all for granted. He'd had his chance, not once but twice, and he'd lost them both. He'd been stupid, he'd put everything and everyone else ahead of her, and even she, with all of her love and patience, could only put up with that neglect for so long. There'd been a time when he had thought that he knew best, for himself, and for all of those around him. He knew right, he knew wrong, and it was up to everyone else to follow along. But he'd been the one that was wrong, not them. He hadn't known anything, nothing, and he'd lost it all, all that made his life worth living.
Justice after all.
So he stood here, in the living room of his expensive penthouse, sipping his imported scotch. He existed, but he didn't live, surrounded by people and places that should matter to him, but didn't. He had once told her that he'd love her for forever, but he hadn't really had any concept of that, not then. But he knew now. It was the one emotion that still sparked in his heart. He could watch his friends and his family suffer and feel next to nothing. He could kill without a drop of anger firing his blood. He could breathe, he could eat, he could sleep, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the face that he saw when he closed his eyes, the voice that whispered to him in his dreams. He knew now the concept of forever, the concept of hell. Hell was knowing that you'd driven away the one person who could make you feel. Hell was knowing that they were out there in the world, happy without you. Hell was knowing you'd lose your shot-forever.
After that, what in the world could possibly matter again?
AUTHOR: Heather
SETTING: say, late 2002. Basically everything that has occurred on the show since June, 2002 and before, has happened in this story. There was no Jip at the time, but there was the whole Jason/Liz/Zander triangle.
SYNOPSIS: How can anything matter when you've lost the only person who made life bearable?
DEDICATION: For all of those Jason & Robin fans, especially my fellow diehards, who were unhappy with the current version of Jason, the emotionless, cold-hearted version. Maybe there's a reason he's that way.
--------
It was the dark of night, the witching hour, whatever that meant, and he couldn't sleep. There was nothing new in that, he spent many a sleepless night drinking scotch and staring out the window. It was better than dreaming.
But it was at these times that he thought of her. It angered him that he still did. He'd spent more years without her in his life that he had with her, and yet she was rarely from his thoughts. No matter how he pretended or what he did, all he had to do was pass by a bridge or catch a glimpse of a petite brunette and she was there in his head. She never left, and he was beginning to accept that she never would.
He lived his life in an emotional vacuum. Oh, he did his best to pretend, to act as if he actually felt emotion. Sometimes he felt stirrings of something deeper than a distant caring, but it was never deep enough to matter. Even the people he had cared about before roused only vague feelings in him. He went through the motions, pretended, and he knew that he had those around him convinced with their narcissistic narrow vision. But still, anything he felt was a pale thing to how he remembered feeling before. His friends lived their lives in hell, miserable in their existence, both feeling as if they had lost what they had most wanted. She, having discovered that she was barren, was bitter that another woman had given her husband a healthy child. And he, having been cut out of that child's life and deemed unfit, was bitter that another man played daddy to his daughter. There was an irony to their situations, some called it karmic justice for their past misdeeds, even he could see. But their misery failed to touch him, to move him. He really just didn't care, and he was tired of trying to fix their lives.
It shouldn't effect him like this, her absence from his life. She had left him, betrayed him, and broken her promise. But with the distance of time, he could look back with a less jaded eye and wonder if what he felt had been justified. He had let her down, broken promise upon promise to her, time and again, what did that compare to her one broken promise, made with the deepest of reluctance?
Not that it all mattered anymore. It was in the past, unfixable; he'd left it behind and he knew that she had too. He'd seen her once since that dark night on the bridge, leaving her home with a man on her arm and he'd discovered that she was engaged to him, a man who didn't put shadows in her beautiful eyes. She looked happy, free from the strain that had always been on her when she'd been with him. He'd almost resented that, resented her. Who was she to be happy when he was not? But that resentment had faded as everything did nowadays, leaving behind a heart that was hardened a little more.
She had moved on, and so would he.
So he had, to a young woman, petite and brunette, with a painful past and sorrow in her eyes. And if she reminded him of her, he could ignore it. She had already been half in love with him, looking at him as if he was her savior, willing to put up with whatever he asked of her. He had used her emotions, ruthlessly doing his best to win her from a man that he did not approve of, a man that had hurt his sister in ways that were too similar for comfort. It quickly became more about his opponent and the battle than it had about the prize. He'd won her, in his bed and in his life, and if he couldn't repeat her words of love, then so be it.
But not all emotion was dead in him. He knew that she deserved better. Better than a man who would close his eyes and picture someone else when they made love. Better than a man who would wake in her arms and feel a pang of disappointment that she wasn't someone else. So he had wished her well, and sent her out of his life, into the arms of a man who could still love, and would love her as he could not. She was happy now, planning a wedding and living in a little cottage with a white picket fence. She'd deserved better than him, and had gotten it, and he was glad for her. Or as glad as he could be.
It left him alone again. Alone with his thoughts and his demons. It was times like these when he wondered if this was his justice. Those around him whom he had thought worthy, lived lives of quiet misery, while those he'd deemed unworthy, lived happy lives. Even his brother, a man he'd believed to be one of the lowest of men, had found peace and contentment. He was happily married with a family on the way, in love and loved by a woman who had never stopped believing in him. He'd even managed to foster a relationship with his son, and suddenly daddy wasn't a fake one but a real one. After all of it, the lies and the schemes, it was his brother who had gotten everything. Was that justice? Did that speak some sort of judgment on the man his brother really was? Did the empty life he lived speak some sort of judgment on the man he was?
He didn't know, he didn't know much of anything any more. All he knew was that he'd lost. He'd lost the one person who had made him feel complete, who'd made even the bad times not so bad. She'd supported him, even when it went against her better judgment. She'd loved him, despite the condemnation of her friends and family. She'd defended him, stood up for him, stood besides him, and he'd taken it all for granted. He'd had his chance, not once but twice, and he'd lost them both. He'd been stupid, he'd put everything and everyone else ahead of her, and even she, with all of her love and patience, could only put up with that neglect for so long. There'd been a time when he had thought that he knew best, for himself, and for all of those around him. He knew right, he knew wrong, and it was up to everyone else to follow along. But he'd been the one that was wrong, not them. He hadn't known anything, nothing, and he'd lost it all, all that made his life worth living.
Justice after all.
So he stood here, in the living room of his expensive penthouse, sipping his imported scotch. He existed, but he didn't live, surrounded by people and places that should matter to him, but didn't. He had once told her that he'd love her for forever, but he hadn't really had any concept of that, not then. But he knew now. It was the one emotion that still sparked in his heart. He could watch his friends and his family suffer and feel next to nothing. He could kill without a drop of anger firing his blood. He could breathe, he could eat, he could sleep, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the face that he saw when he closed his eyes, the voice that whispered to him in his dreams. He knew now the concept of forever, the concept of hell. Hell was knowing that you'd driven away the one person who could make you feel. Hell was knowing that they were out there in the world, happy without you. Hell was knowing you'd lose your shot-forever.
After that, what in the world could possibly matter again?