If there was one word that could sum up the trek back home from Parsons State Insane Asylum, it was awkward. It was slow, and it was clumsy, and most troublesome of all, it was quiet. Yes, Edward supposed, awkward seemed sufficient enough a word for it.

Jack was uncharacteristically sullen as he shouldered a steadily increasing portion of his bodyguard's weight. In the spray of gunfire, the ghoul had taken more damage than he'd readily admit, though that was nothing new. Under better circumstances, Jack surely would have nagged him for not speaking up sooner, for not taking his injuries seriously enough, or quite likely both of those offenses. It was a minor tiff that Edward had been fully prepared for; one he'd been through so many times before, but it was ultimately one that never came that day.

Not even as he sat planted firmly on the kitchen island back at Cabot House, under Jack's scrutinizing gaze and careful hands.

Edward glanced down at the tools and the chunks of metal in the blood-smeared surgical tray that lay near him on the formica counter, the interesting curvature of the mangled bullets that Jack had -

A jolt of pain ripped through him as the scientist's tweezers unearthed yet another bullet, and he drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth. Startled, Jack looked up at him, concern etched into his features as the ghoul slowly released the tense breath. It felt like the first time their eyes had met since they'd made it home safely.

"Sorry, Jack… didn't mean to scare ya'. It just, uh… smarted a little." Edward offered a somber smile and a half-hearted chuckle as he relaxed again. He'd generally had a pretty high pain tolerance, but there was something about the way Jack used those tweezers that could bring him to his knees, even after the countless bullets he'd extracted over the years. "How many more of those little bastards you still gotta' dig outta' me, anyway?"

"I think that was the last of them." Jack informed, placing the small metallic torture device down into the tray with all the spent ammunition he'd recovered. "Sorry."

He could feel Edward's eyes trailing him as he dipped his bloodied hands into the bowl of water next to the steel tray, and wrung the excess liquid from the towel inside. Maneuvering closer to the ghoul, he began working to wipe the dried blood on his arm and chest and stomach. He knew that Edward was waiting for him to speak his peace, or waiting for the right window of opportunity to voice his own thoughts, but neither seemed to be working in his favor.

Sometimes, when they'd bickered, or had verbal spats in years past, or when Jack was just being plain old petty, he would withhold - a playful test of patience, to see who would crack under the pressure of the silent treatment or the cold shoulder first. He sincerely hoped that Edward knew such wasn't the case this time. There was so much he wanted to say, if only he could find the words, much less the energy.

They sat in silence for a short while, allowing the scientist the chance to finish cleaning his guard's wounds, and to start the arduous process of bandaging them. He never minded patching Edward up, though. It got him away from his work for a while, it got them some time together, and it let him feel like he was actually doing something worthwhile. Often, he wondered if the research he'd poured his heart and soul into for all those years was actually going anywhere -

"You okay?" The ghoul finally rasped, lowering his head to meet Jack's surprised gaze.

It took a full moment for the question to register as he skillfully wrapped the last bandage, but Jack breathed a small, bitter laugh through his nose. Typical Edward. "I just dug five bullets out of you, and you're the one asking if I'm okay?"

"I've been through worse." He chuckled, an attempt to entice a laugh - a real one - out of the man, though he knew it was all for naught. His stance, his eyes, and his voice softened as he shifted closer, pressing his forehead to Jack's. "It's nothin' I can't handle. Trust me. It's you I'm worried about."

He studied his boss's face; the tremble in his features as his facade had begun to crumble, the curve of his frown, the mist in his eyes. There had only been a handful of times in the last two centuries he'd seen the man this way. It broke his heart, and if he was being honest, he wasn't sure how Jack had kept it together since they'd left Parsons. But he had a creeping suspicion that he was about to come unglued.

The scientist's hands collapsed to his sides in defeat. He could feel that sensation that he so wholly loathed beginning to prick at his eyes, and a burning in his nostrils. If there was anything he hated more than crying, it was the added insult and humiliation of having Edward there to witness it. Sure as he was that his stalwart bodyguard would be more than okay to help him through a meltdown, he hated the mere idea. He thought to turn tail and run, but -

"Jack, you… you know you don't have to deal with this all on your own… don't you?" Edward slithered his hand around his waist and pulled him closer - slowly and gently, his ruined lips fostering a gentle peck against Jack's forehead - and he rested his chin against an unusually disheveled head of dark hair. With a gentle squeeze, he held him a little tighter against his bandaged chest, and breathed a tired sigh. "You wanna' talk about it?"

"Not really." Jack mouthed, laughing bitterly. He could feel the dam growing weaker, and against his better judgement, he pulled away from the warm embrace. "I… I can't do this right now, Edward."

He backed away, a sorrowful expression on his face. After a moment's hesitation, he dipped his head in shame and fled to the comfort and seclusion of his bedroom.

It hurt, even more than the stinging and burning of the bullet wounds. More than it probably should have, but Edward was quick to remind himself that old habits die hard, and more often than not, even after all those years, Jack still tried to deal with things on his own. Especially those of an emotional nature. However, he would be the first to admit that he couldn't begin to fathom the things that Jack was thinking or feeling after everything that had transpired that day.

He'd just have to give Jack a bit of time to process it all. It's all he really could do.

Jack could hardly begin to fathom it all himself - even in the confines of his bedroom, away from anyone and anything, all he could find it in himself to do was pace as he fought his tears. It suddenly hit him - just how empty the house felt without Lorenzo - perhaps the hardest it had hit him in the entirety of his long life. Because even if Lorenzo wasn't physically there with them, he was there in spirit, keeping Jack busy - always busy - working tirelessly on a way to get his father back. Whatever may have been left of his father inside that shell of a man he called Lorenzo, whatever tiny shreds of hope he still had of saving him, and the better part of his life's work, were gone at the press of a button.

It was over.

And it was when he finally admitted that much to himself - and the reality began to sink in - that the tears began to spill of their own volition. Defeated, Jack sunk down onto the edge of his bed, took off his glasses, and simply let them as his thoughts ran amok.

Lorenzo was gone, and his father gone with him. Jack hated how the man had seemingly become two separate entities over the passage of time, though he supposed it hardly mattered anymore. He'd spent four centuries - four long, trying centuries - reaching for a goal that he, if he was being honest with himself, had never even been terribly certain he'd be able to grasp. Perhaps it was doomed from the start. Perhaps he was just setting himself up for a miserable, painful defeat.

Was he mourning his father? Or was he mourning the four hundred years he wasted trying to achieve the impossible? All those years of research, and experimentation, and hard work, and sleepless nights, and putting his own wellness - and often even his own happiness - on the back burner, all on the sheer chance that he might have been able to save his father? Lifetimes worth of effort, and not a single wretched thing to show for it but a miserable failure. His miserable failure.

But his was a failure that wouldn't just affect him; what of Mother? What of Emogene? How would he even begin to tell them that not only was Lorenzo dead, but that the deed had been done by Jack's own hands? He'd always assumed they would understand - that in some corner of their minds, they knew it would come to this eventually - and he assumed the same from himself; for so long, he'd told himself that there was little possibility of a happy ending to this whole mess. He'd had lifetimes to try to process and come to terms with it, but in spite of all that, there he lay, curled up in his bed like a small child, an unrelenting ache in his chest, his face half-buried in a damp pillow, and his tired eyes swollen from a stream of tears that didn't seem to want to stop.

And just like the tears did, the thoughts kept coming, in spite of his deepest wishes. He could say with confidence that he'd never felt so lost or hopeless as he did in that moment, in the entirety of his long life - and he hated it even more than he'd thought he would.

What would he even do with himself now? He'd spent so much of his life dedicated to his research of the artifact, and everything related to it, that he'd all but forgotten what it felt like to indulge in his own research. The last time had probably been - Gods, it must have been shortly after the bombs fell, when he was tending to a sickly Edward at Parsons, and taking notes on his strange condition. He'd actually enjoyed the venture, in retrospect, and it was always something he'd wanted to pick back up, if ever he had the chance. If only it were under happier circumstances. But he supposed now was as good a time as any, even if it was about 200 years later than he'd hoped for.

If there was anything that could be said for the span of his life, it was that there was a certain degree of comfort in the routine and the predictability of it all. Or, that was to say, of the better part of it, anyway. Even in the wasteland... no, especially in the wasteland. They had it made, and Jack wasn't too proud to admit that. But maybe they'd all gotten too comfortable in the monotony; taken it for granted, and, after so long, just begun to assume that nothing would change. As long as Lorenzo was kept locked in that basement, and as long as Jack was able to keep making the Serum -

Oh, God, the Serum.

The thought alone stirred up an overwhelming feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. That single epiphany cancelled out all of his other concerns in the worst way possible - all of the worries that were bombarding him, all his jumbled thoughts, all his darkest fears, and deepest wishes... did any of it even matter now?

Sure, they'd kept an emergency stash of the Serum locked away, but... how long would it even last? Between the three of them? Was it even worth it to keep taking it? Or should he just accept his fate? There was still so much he wanted to do, so much he wanted to learn, so much he wanted to see... he and -

Oh, Edward.

The sheer notion of having a limit on his time left with Edward was finally his undoing; Jack's face contorted against his will as he felt another swell of tears coming on. The faintest cry finally escaped his tired lungs, and he burrowed his face further into his pillow to quell it - to quell the onslaught that he felt coming, try as he may to stop it. Every bone in his body ached, every limb, every muscle, but none more than his heart.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, or whether or not he had fallen asleep, but he knew that when he finally stirred again, day had long since faded into night. Shuffling out of bed, he made his way to the his door. The house was still deathly quiet, and the lights still burning bright as he looked around the corner for any signs of life.

"Mother?" He called, his voice just a bit hoarse. His feet led him just across the hallway, to her cracked door, where he peeked in to find a gently stirring lump under her blanket.

Good, she's asleep, he thought. A relieved sigh escaped him. He was far too physically and mentally exhausted to deal with her just yet. He couldn't say when he'd ever truly be ready to tell her everything, but he knew this was his chance to better prepare for when the time did come.

A glance down the hallway, to Emogene's bedroom door, made Jack wonder if perhaps she'd returnedyet, but deep down he already knew his answer. I do hope she comes home soon. But I suppose in the meantime…

It wasn't uncommon for him to venture out of his room at night, when the house was quiet, and the world seemed like it was asleep. Frequent were the evenings he'd sneak downstairs seeking Edward's company - but it felt even more imperative to see him now that he was faced with the notion of his own mortality.

Stepping lightly, evading all of the creaky, tattletale floorboards with practiced ease, he made his way back downstairs; past his lab, past the parlor, and down to the basement. There was no doubt that Edward had already laid down, but Jack peeked into the kitchen for good measure anyway. He wasn't surprised to find no evidence left of the mess of bloody clothes and bandages and spent bullets that had cluttered the counter earlier. Of course; even in his compromised condition, Edward would still try to tidy up. The tiniest smile tugged at his lips.

Clearly Edward wasn't there, but the sound of a familiar, nervous DJ could be heard at a low volume in the room nextdoor was a fair indicator as to where Jack could find the ghoul. He gave three gentle taps at the door before opening it enough to look in. An expectant pair of bloodshot eyes soon found his in the dimly lit room; unspoken permission to enter.

"You, ah... wanna' split a sandwich?" Jack asked, doing his best to feign a chuckle in his voice, though he knew it was all in vain.

Still, Edward humored him with a small smile as he stamped out his cigarette butt. It had been a running joke between them; since the first time they'd happened to bump into one another in that kitchen late one night, two hundred and some odd years ago, and had their first actual conversation over a sandwich that Edward had offered to share with him.

Without even having to be asked, the ghoul shifted position, careful of his wounds as he made room for Jack to lie down. He settled into his new position with a strained grunt, readily wrapping his arms around the scientist after he'd joined him. There was a quiet thank you spoken before Jack nestled in against him, basking in the comfort and warmth he'd denied himself earlier.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm… sorry for taking off earlier."

A rumble rose in the ghoul's throat as he smiled. "Don't sweat it."

It was a tight squeeze for the two of them in Edward's bed, in his dark, dusty little room, but there was something oddly comforting about it; something about it that felt so detached from the rest of the house. An escape of sorts.

Jack wasn't sure how long they had laid there. If he was being honest, his entire concept of 'time' felt skewed, even moreso than it typically did, since they had left Parsons. It all felt like a bad dream that he was still trying to wake up from. But it was certainly no dream, and there was assuredly no waking up from it. This was their reality now, for better or for worse.

Edward stirred, as much as he could given their crammed quarters and their tangled limbs, his groggy eyes opening just a bit to look at Jack. His glasses off, it was only easier to see the turmoil that was scrawled into his features, and Edward did his best to hug him just a little closer.

"Hey. I know it hurts…" He rasped softly. "- but… it'll be alright."

"Will it though?" Jack asked, a sense of hopelessness at his insides as he buried his face in the crook of Edward's gnarled neck.

"You'll figure somethin' out." Edward reassured. "You always do."

"But… I don't. If I did, we… we wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place. You got hurt, and I… I couldn't save him." Jack sighed, tracing a hand along the bandages on the his guard's torso. "Not even after… lifetimes worth of trying. I failed."

"The fact that you even kept trying for that long, though…" the ghoul trailed off for a moment, tracing circles in the small of his lover's back. "You did all you could've. And then some."

Jack remained quiet, but he considered Edward's words.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Jack, but… maybe there was no saving him."

"You speak as though it hasn't crossed my mind as well." the scientist chuckled just a bit, but the sound was hollow and bitter. "I've pondered exactly that… so often, but… I tried not to think it so frequently that it would be detrimental to my work. Perhaps you're right, though. Maybe… it wasn't meant to be."

"I'm sorry."

"You've absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Edward. Not sure I'd have even made it this far if not for you. Or at the very least, not sure I'd have kept my sanity while getting here."

"That last bit's debatable."

For the first time since everything had unraveled, Jack felt a real, honest to goodness laugh rise from his chest, and an all too familiar sting in his eyes; just when he thought he'd run out of tears to cry.

His sniffling didn't go unnoticed, and Edward felt his stomach flop as Jack raised a hand to wipe at his eyes. "Hey… I didn't mean to-"

"No, Edward, it's… this is the first I've laughed all damn day." Jack chuckled softly, nestling against him with another small sniffle. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

He craned his neck enough to place a gentle kiss against his forehead before settling back into position. "Listen… I know you got all kinds of stuff runnin' through your head right now, but… it'll be alright."

"Hmm, you're usually more of a realist than an optimist." Which roughly translated to you're a terrible liar.

"My gut tells me it'll be alright." Edward chuckled. "Besides, if there's anyone who can figure somethin' out… with the serum… it's you."

Jack breathed a tired sigh and closed his eyes, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hope you're right."

They lay there a while longer, until the sound of feet shuffling upstairs began to disturb their peace.

"Might be time to rise an' shine." Edward grumbled.

"… can we just stay in bed?" Jack asked, voice grown feeble. Generally, he was the one who was up with the sun, on account of lack of sleep, or on account of his alarm clock. Staying in bed was an uncharacteristic request, but it was one that Edward would gladly humor, given the circumstances.

"'Course we can."