Sunday, 17th December, 2000

The cheerful mood of the tavern contrasted greatly with how James felt inside. He was completely unwilling to spend any of the dirty money resting in his account as it brought back too many horrific memories of who gave it to him, and why. He presently chose to live in an apartment that was uncomfortable in every sense imaginable. It was extremely small and a bed of nails was infinitely preferable to what he called his own. The only thing remotely luxurious about it all was the microwave, which was something he had never, and probably would never use. He wanted this scenario though; he felt he deserved nothing to grant an ounce of pleasure when it was his entire fault he no longer had the person in his life who had meant everything and more.

He loathed remembering she was not the last person he'd become intimate with, or the last to have kissed him. He dismissed his futile attempt of giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation; she had not wanted him to touch any part of her upon learning some of his past. He felt like even trying to do it at all betrayed her wishes almost more than how she'd have felt knowing it was ironically Tyra who had saved her from death's grasp. He felt sickened knowing the last person to run their lips over his was a dead man who had burdened himself with hating James over something he had never even known about. Not that it mattered now that he did. The weight of Carlotta's death—especially as she'd been with child—now dutifully resided in his own heavy heart, carrying on Deryck's mission of hating himself for it. No, he did not deserve comfort of any sort.

Unfortunately, his hours where he worked as a chef were recently cut back drastically to just a meagre three days a week. Where he lived was the cheapest he could afford without having to fear for his life, as his past would undoubtedly catch up with him should he seek out shelter in the darkest parts of the city, both literally and metaphorically. That was one hardship he would never permit himself to face again, at least not before he'd found Jessie and attempted to reconcile with her. Should she lack interest in talking to him again he was willing to make that sacrifice as that hope of seeing her again was all that kept his will to live active. Ironically, he was unaware that should he return to that area he would see her within instants, as she had followed the same path he once took. That brought him here to this tavern, The Silver Bullet, where he would undeniably earn discomfort alongside his salary. He had undergone a night of utter humiliation here a few months ago when he'd stripped completely, and was glad to a certain extent that he had no mental recollection of it occurring. That sense of ease would shatter in a heartbeat should he ever learn that he had been under narcotic influence at the time.

There was indeed little pleasure for him to acquire as Elora shook his hand firmly and welcomed him as her new barman. The landlady in question was a notorious seductress and he was aware he would have to fight that temptation unremittingly; he was not going to accept things were completely over with Jessie. His not knowing where or how she was would only be temporary, or so his fragile hope believed wholeheartedly. Speech was another thing he wished to merely be a short-term setback—his words were only now capable of a description as somewhat coherent. The smoke in which he knew he would be working on each shift would without a doubt hinder the painfully slow rate of progress, increasingly so if he had to indulge in small talk with the punters. Although he no longer possessed the youthful gleam in his eyes or smile, he prayed he could get by easily enough by relying on body language. Elora had denied his request to wear gloves (to hide the glaringly obvious raw burns on his fingers) due to hygiene laws, so he hoped she would allow him the option of buttoning up the black shirt of the uniform high enough to conceal the severe burn on his neck. He was at least willing to be in discomfort at something against his throat than receiving open stares from horrified customers on a nightly basis. A profound phobia of anything touching his throat, lightly or harder, had been born that cataclysmic day in his old home. The hardest thing about the job he would have to deal with, however, would be always looking at that booth he'd shared with Jessie that night. He prayed one day he'd look up and she'd be there with all forgiven, and it soon became instinct to look to the door whenever he heard it open.

He left the tavern upon learning the date he was due to start working there, as he was becoming progressively more ill-humoured at hearing the raucous laughter gaining rapidly in decibels as pre-Christmas office parties got into full swing. He locked out the noise as best he could as it reminded him of the night of his infidelity, something he remembered starkly enough by his own steam. A cold snowflake landing on his nose startled him, followed quickly by several others. Part of him longed to return to the warm edifice as what he wore lacked heat retaining abilities and he disliked the notion of returning to his just as cold apartment already. He opted to huddle his clothes closer to his skin and went for a walk to the park where he'd sat with Jessie in what seemed more than a lifetime ago. He gritted his teeth at having to pass several loud revellers in the street as he trudged jadedly along the route, and mentally implored no unwanted attention would come his way.

Jessie strode heatedly away from the darkened street after another wretched night of "working" just to be able to afford something with which to line her stomach. She'd been in this routine long enough now not to vomit the first thing she ate back up again in detestation of both herself and her pitiful life choices. It was times like this she felt extremely suicidal, causing her to resent her ex-fiancé all the more for sadistically making her bear his child. When she'd first learned of it in the hospital, part of her had wanted it removed without a second thought, but she'd known she could not allow anything to happen to such an innocent life. She could not guarantee she would still be alive were she not pregnant, and it was the recurring times like this that made her really wish she wasn't. Any faint optimism she may have once maintained of escaping this harsh world she was now permanently a fixture of had been dashed viciously the moment her "employers" realised she hadn't bled once in their presence, and as a result they used it as leverage over her. Too late she had thought of using the answer of her being sterilised in her former line of work for it to be conceivable. She yearned not to care about her unborn child's life so much, as otherwise she could move on with—or end—her own.

Beyond depressed, she slumped down on the riverbank, feeling ashamed at not being able to conceal her wearing haute couture de tarte. Her dark coat was knee length and showed nothing below her clavicle, but her ripped flimsy suspenders defied her desire to look respectable. She barely recognised the reflection meeting her gaze in the water. The current broke and distorted it by the second, mirroring how she felt hollowly on the inside. Tears slid from her eyes without her consent as she dwelt upon her scenario, wishing she had someone, anyone, left close to her for her to talk to. She needed an outlet to this misery before it crippled her, yet she was unable to find one anywhere in her murky thoughts.

She had dyed her hair a rich purple to be less recognisable to any of her former colleagues (if any Rockets did recognise her, they did not say as such, even when a couple had been her "clients"). It made her feel incredibly small that she'd picked the exact shade to imitate her late mother's, as now through her blurry vision it was Miyamoto being the painted tart looking back at her. The tears spilt freely now; a snowflake landed on the water, the only constant upon the undulating surface for the few seconds it lasted. Normally snow reminded her of the good times she'd had with her mother before that tragic mission, but now it was just a harsh reminder that she wasn't coming home again. Not that she had a home she could have taken her mother back to anyway. She cursed her pregnancy hormones and wanted her mother to help her through it and be there for her when she needed it. She wanted a family again.

As she wiped her hot tears away with the back of her hand she noted with a dull ache that all she really wanted was James and Meowth, all there for each other through the miserable times. She hated losing that sense of a replacement family for each other more than she was hurt about James' betrayal. She spent far too much time as it was wondering how life would have turned out if she'd just denied her desires and rejected him thoroughly when he'd officially put a stop to their platonic friendship by offering her his heart. She wondered if living with that ongoing unhealthy sexual frustration she'd suffered from constantly when she was around him would be worth ultimately having a man for a partner she'd grown up with but ostensibly hardly knew. As far as she was concerned, anything was bearable if it meant Meowth could live, and she could have her pokémon with her.

Feeling overly sentimental, she snatched a snowflake as it drifted past her, and watched it slowly melt in her palm. The water trickling off her palm as it melted hypnotised her to an extent, and she mused over how her ex-fiancé was now. Part of her wanted him to suffer, but the larger part of her hoped he hadn't and that he could embrace her and promise her their futures would be nothing but hopeful. She wondered if she could face telling him what she did for money like he hadn't and if she couldn't then she had little right to resent him. That didn't excuse his years of silence. He hadn't ever said he'd done things he wasn't proud of but didn't want to talk about it. For gods' sake he had never even possessed the decency to tell her about his family's background until the inheritance scam forced it out of him! Her eyes glazed over as a deep sense of seething overwhelmed her at the mere thought of those people. She wasn't sure if she hated them or Giovanni more; they had shattered her trust and more with James, but Giovanni had deliberately drugged her and forced himself upon her just to get back at him somehow.

She shivered involuntarily as the relentless blast of the icy wind clawed hungrily at her poorly covered body, but she barely registered any of it. She was too deeply engrossed in the locket and ring in her trembling palm, watching the frosty drops land on the surfaces of her only possessions of sentimental significance. She longed to be back in the life she lived when that picture of their first successful mission together as a team depicted. That night had been beyond buoyant; they'd naturally blown their wages for it on cheap alcohol and become very, very drunk, but with the company she'd had that night it had been the absolutely ideal way to celebrate it.

It was only now she finally understood fully why James had always said money wasn't worth anything at the end of the day—she'd assumed he'd just been trying to cover his tracks for not coming clean about his heritage. Ever since she'd learned about it she had always partially resented him for having riches whereas she'd been his polar opposite throughout childhood, but now she bitterly knew she would rather have nothing at all than do what she had to for money. She also realised that his offhand attitude to poverty was because he knew they'd never sunk as low as they could. She hated herself for not being capable of forgetting him, for never forgetting how she felt at ease in his embrace, or how she'd felt that heightened euphoria upon learning she was pregnant, then being told by that plastic Nurse Joy he'd signed himself out. She wished she'd never over-reacted when she'd woken up; he may not have told her about his past, but as she thought about it, he'd never lied about it either.

Neither was she sure if she wanted him to remember her to the same extent, or even at all. She doubted she could ever forgive his liaison with Tyra, no matter how much she'd trued to look at the circumstances from his point of view. She had gone to hell and back hoping he'd rescue her that night, but instead he'd decided she wasn't worth the effort without taking Giovanni's standard outlook to Rocket women into consideration, and jumped into bed with that witch who wanted them both dead. Part of her secretly wanted to know who he'd preferred for bed sports, as seemingly she was only good for a tumble when the other person drugged or threatened her. For all she knew, he was still with her and that thought cut her deeply more than remembrance of the past. Perhaps their pillow talk consisted of how they could finish her off properly this time. The hot tears burned her cold cheeks as the wind blew against them, and now she wanted more than ever before to end it all just to stop the constant pain she held within. The few snowflakes escalated into a mini blizzard so reluctantly, she went over to the trees to gain some shelter, unwilling to return to her distasteful life just yet.

James sank back wearily onto the empty bench in the park, ignoring the thick flakes gathering on his thin layer of clothes. He was gasping for air, something he despised as his stamina levels were nearly back to normal, it was breathing the harsh icy air that didn't agree with his throat. He ignored it as best he could as breathing comfortably was something he had difficulties with at least once a day. He loathed remembering the weeks he'd spent in hospital, feeling utterly depressed Jessie at learning had checked herself out the first day she was fully conscious with the last words he'd heard her say were that he was to leave her alone and was in no uncertain circumstances was he to be let near her again. He only had her pokémon to remember her by, nothing with her scent or sentimental value. No Meowth to talk to. That hit him just as hard as anything of the trauma they'd faced; after so long working with him he'd become the wily older brother he'd never had and his death struck just as callously as if he really had been. He'd just been an innocent life in the crossfire, and never knew what it was all about, or why.

He'd never been one to indulge in wishes to change the past, but this time he really wanted it to be possible, to come clean about all of it to his partners before he'd taken the step to make Jessie more than a best friend. Thinking back, he would readily prefer they both shunned him and never spoke to him again as at least they'd have known the truth about who he once was. He could remember witnessing the slaughter—murder was too light a term—of the person who'd got him into that life as vividly as the day he was there. Scents, touches and sounds haunted him just as equally as the visions did, and if he could change anything, anything at all, he would have been anywhere else in that city than there. Part of him would rather have stayed at home altogether and married Jessie Belle and endured her punishments in that twisted dungeon of hers. How his mother had ever found it proper enough to exist in her house was another matter he couldn't solve, but that he did not care about. Although he was not what you could call a vengeful person, he wished his parents dead from the most painful way possible for their deeds.

He sighed as he took his glasses off, hating needing them to see since the attack when his vision used to be near perfect. He rubbed the lenses with his t-shirt to clear the droplets the snow left on them, exposing the skin on his abdomen to the chill for a few moments. He noticed with irritation the cold was making the vicious scar on his front show up a stark angry purple, so he put the glasses on without finishing the job properly just so he could conceal it again rather than to retain body heat. Suddenly painfully aware that any person from his past could walk into the park with his senses as dulled as they were, he decided leaving was the best option available to him. He didn't want to return to that cursed apartment yet but he had few choices open to him. He stood up with a violent shiver and readjusted his clothes before he set off, feeling the freezing weather more now. He mentally decided slaughtering the group of drunk, flat carol singers would be the best solution to end their revelations in his misery. Of all the songs they had to butcher, they just would have to choose All I Want For Christmas Is You when he felt isolated more than ever. He smiled vindictively as he considered the image of them choking on their ridiculously over-sized white bobble-top hats.

Jessie became painfully aware of how little she wore as the snow worsened, and she found standing still a challenge as a sharp draught had found a path under her coat to snatch what little heat she had left. Her body trembled from the cold and her teeth chattered violently, but suddenly she didn't notice any of it; she was engrossed in a flashback of when she was still in Team Rocket. The weather had been just as harsh as this if not more so, and her, Meowth and James were snowed into a Rocket hideout with little heat left and even less food. They were still new to the organisation but had been somewhat successful lately so they had plenty of potent alcohol, which the humans drank to keep their insides warmer even though there was no food in their stomachs to limit the rate the alcohol would hit their respective bloodstreams. She was hopeless with being able to keep somewhat sober when she tried to keep up with him whereas he barely got more than tipsy. He'd kept telling her to slow down but she'd refused to listen in her bravado, and before long she was unable to say anything coherently or walk in a straight line. It did, however, give her a great boost of confidence.

From what pitiful memories of that night she could mark as decidedly real, she became hideously sick and he'd looked after her without really joking about it to Meowth, and he hadn't said anything vicious to her when she'd thrown up on him. As she'd been losing her grasp on consciousness he'd carried more than helped her to the only bed there, and as he went to put the covers over her, she'd grabbed the front of his vomit-covered shirt and pulled him on top of her, managing to hoarsely command him to stay. She remembered him somewhat reluctantly taking the soiled item off and joined her even though his bare skin made it that much harder for him to keep a constant temperature. She'd awkwardly pulled him into a very close embrace, but passed out before she could do what she'd really wanted to. A hangover from hell woke her the next morning, and instead of using their position for something more interesting, she whimpered as her body tortured her with the after effects of too much drink. She'd felt his body enjoy her close contact, which pleased her, but she didn't have the courage to make any suggestions when she felt like she was dying inside, and knew he'd just woken up with her moving and so it was probably more from that. Plus her hips were incredibly stiff from her having slept with her legs wrapped around his waist all night, made even worse when she realised they'd slept on their sides and he'd added more pain to her right leg unintentionally by his being unable to move her. Although he never mentioned it either, she noticed him grimace as she moved, her drool having hardened on his nipple in her sleep and when she moved back it had the same effect as waxing on him. Her confidence strangely never returned to the same extent, and the longer they were just friends, the more she felt he didn't feel that way about her.

She stirred from her reminiscing thoughts, suddenly feeling less resentful towards him for the first time in a while. Perhaps part of her knew that he'd make a fine father to their child and she wanted to have him there. The rest of her would never allow someone who was once depended on syringes to feel good anywhere near her family, but right now she wanted him more than anything. Even just to hear him out. She knew it would never happen, not when she had no idea where he was or how to contact him. She also knew that from what she'd heard of him being in the same rank she was in now, if they did meet his life would be in grave danger, as would hers if she attempted to leave to find him. Although neither had any religious beliefs whatsoever, this time of year was always of sentimental value to them both, as it was a rare time they had a couple of days off and nothing but each other's company. They exchanged tokens when they could too, but money had never been in enough supply to offer more than that, except for the one year she'd scraped every loose coin she had together to get him a Koffing. It distressed her greatly thinking about what had happened to it in later life. Gods, she wished James was here.

Even with the thickening snowfall, he could just about make out the pharmacy across the street where he and Jessie had been fighting over who was going to buy contraceptives, and he became lost in the memory, remembering her laughter, and how excited she was. She'd also been nervous as hell but she had never said as such, he'd been with her too long not to know her emotions inside out. She'd pressed herself against him many times in the street, both because she was hormonal and because it was something she'd done for years when she needed reassurance he was there. He remembered how she'd tried not to let her fears show when they'd first become intimate; it had been extremely dark but he could taste the panic in her, and had felt her flinch when they'd started it. She'd shrugged it off when he asked if she was ok even though he felt the blood. Her greatest strength was never showing she was hurt unless it was something really critical, physically or otherwise, which is why he took her reaction at the hospital that much harder. That, and when she'd told him that he had hurt her when he'd pinned her in anger for her near-betrayal with Giovanni. He'd hated her being so afraid to talk to him after that, clearly afraid of what he could have done to her if he'd wanted to. That was so completely against his character he couldn't get over it, it was something that he might have once done if he was really out of it on drugs or something, but it shouldn't have happened to the woman he loved under any circumstances. It weighed heavily near the top of the list of things he hated about himself and his past actions, or lack of them.

He suddenly found himself lost in the same flashback Jessie had, recalling how he'd mentally divided at the time between telling her how he'd felt while she was drunk, or just be supportive for her as she got sick. He knew almost the instant he'd taken her to the bed that he had to stay silent; she was still dangerously drunk and any sort of confession would fall on deaf but aroused ears. He could probably put off her advances if she'd tried anything if he had spoken up, at least until she was going to be sober enough to remember it, but when she wrapped her legs around him he knew he was having difficulty enough as it was and she'd only hear what she wanted and wake up in the morning wondering if she'd consented. He'd felt somewhat relieved when she fell asleep almost immediately, but a much larger part of him wanted to wake her up and spill his heart out, knowing she could answer truthfully and would hopefully not remember it by morning. Although his upper body wasn't covered completely by the cover, he hadn't noticed the chill as his body released more sweat than he thought was physically possible. He didn't think he'd ever have her in such a close compromising position again, spreading fear and teenage excitement through him, but luckily his conscience kept a tight check on reality.

He still hated how much his cheeks had burned when Meowth came in a little while later and snickered at his discomfort, both emotional and literal. Ignoring the cat-type's presence, he'd leant forward to kiss her, just to see if she'd wake up and what would happen if she did, ready with the excuse he was drunk and she'd just been too drunk to witness it. She chose then to twist in her sleep and rested her head on his chest. Sadly, even that didn't go right for him; she'd head-butted him in the mouth doing that, and then the extra force of her landing had resulted in her mouth partially opening and she bit on his nipple. He suppressed the feral yell he wanted to release by biting the back of his hand, causing blood to appear almost immediately. He also wondered all the while how it was at all possible for someone unconscious from excessive levels of alcohol to still be able to clamp their jaws shut like that when they wanted. Meowth laughed at his friend harder and then curled up at the bottom of the bed to keep him company. A long time had certainly passed until he'd been able to sleep, from both extreme self-inflicted pain and emotional trauma.

The snow fell too thickly to see properly now, so he removed his glasses and pocketed them, in the hope that his poor vision would provide more useful than peering through lenses covered in drops of water and snowflakes that were not yet melted. As one of the icy flakes landed on his lips, he wryly thought about the old wives' tale that if you kissed a snowflake your wish came true. As he had little better to think about, he focused on wanting to see Jessie again, cursing himself for even wasting his time wondering about it. His mental argument distracted him to the extent that he accidentally walked into someone who was approaching from his left. Without stopping to see if they were all right, he muttered an apology as best he could with his throat feeling so raw, as he knew he couldn't say much else before his vocal chords gave up completely. The last thing he wanted was someone else belittling him in his present mood.

Rubbing her shoulder angrily, she turned back to shout abuse at the person who'd acted so inconsiderately, but froze when she saw who it was. She wiped the cold snow from her mouth and tried to will her voice to call him back. He became lost from her sight in the swirling flakes as she stalled in her decision, and she concluded now was not the time for him to see her. She still hated him to a degree, but she couldn't let him see what she did for a living, even if she just wanted to spend Christmas telling him he'd be a father. If she'd caught up to him now, he'd most likely rebuke her and say the child clearly wasn't his judging by her state of attire. Her tears were no longer coming as she focused instead of waiting for the right time to find him and say what her heart could not right now. He was clearly staying in the area since there was no logical reason for him to visit a city where both Team Rocket and the scum that resided in the streets wanted to see him punished. She prayed someday soon he'd be back in her life, and for her, that day could not come soon enough.

AN

Yeah my happy endings are pretty much non existent, but I got bored on a flight and started it a few months ago, and finally got around to finishing it. There are a couple of continuity errors between this and what gets divulged in Dark Pasts, Hopeful Futures but nothing particularly important; most likely if you read it now you probably wouldn't even notice what they are P Happy holidays.