Title: Beautiful

Author: WeyrdChic

Rating: PG

Archive: I'd love it, just let me know.

Disclaimer: Nobody's mine.  Damn.

Warnings: Mild J/P slash, darkness, maybe a little UST.  Minor spoilers for "627".

Author's Notes: I was going to write an angry rant about "627".  About how Jumba thoroughly irritated me.  How he basically did a backslide into WORSE than what he was in the first movie.  About how my favorite character started to scare the hell out of me and he really, really shouldn't do that.   ...But then I thought "Ooh, angst," and decided to write a fic instead.

Major apologies for all the formatting problems on this thing.  I really don't get why it's not behaving.

Shameless Plug: I have other fics, but I'm only posting my best (and my non-slash work, if I ever write any) to FF.net. For the rest, head over to the Yahoogroup I link to in my author profile.  And if you're a fan of the J/P pairing, join up. We're already pretty active, and we'd be glad to have you. :)

Jumba loves the shadows.
He loves shades of dark blue and purple, and even the deep red-gold in Earth sunsets. He loves strongholds and fortresses, with moats of dark water and bridges that become walls. Secrets behind their double-bolted iron doors.
He loves the thrill of such secrecy. He knows lies as if they're packaged with speech, a two-for-one deal. He's always searched for the perfect cover story, for the best way to hide or lock a compartment. So nobody can get inside.
Jumba loves to create. A mass of DNA, warped by chemicals or shaped by machines. A titanium frame, gleaming claws, breath of fire or ice. Or both. Impossible, impossible, it's always proclaimed. And with a faint chuckle and a calm snap of safety goggles, he sets out to prove them wrong.
Creating them, his experiments...that's wonderful. But it's even better when they destroy.
Plasma, lightning, brute strength. And the less obvious ones, the ones that distract. That hypnotize, that search your heart and pluck out the secrets for all to see. It all reflects his own genius; he'd just as soon glance at a molecular structure as he would a deepest wish.
Blow it up, says that little voice, that strange fascination. Blow it up and see what happens. And unlike most, he listens. Because he's a genius. He's an evil genius, and why shouldn't he?

Painters paint, and writers write, and he creates. He releases the demons that beat at his brain, and feels the surge of pride and delight as he watches them move.
They're his creations, his legacy. And even when they're ugly, they're beautiful.

Jumba loves the stars, but he didn't always.
He learned to love them under a blanket that was too small, struggling to find comfort with the hard earth beneath him. But he found it hard to focus on that for too long. Because there was a small, shrill voice beside him, gesturing to the air.
"...and that's Sirius, and that reddish one one over there? Well, that's not a star, y'know, that's Mars, but it's still really pretty to look at. And the line of them over there, see how they kind of form the handle of a spoon, well..."
Chattering and pointing, until Jumba gave up and followed Pleakley's gesturing fingers. Saw the shapes, rough as they were, as much imagination as they required.
Why didn't it irritate him? He'd asked himself then and still wonders today. His mind was on 626, on freedom, on the chance to create again, and then suddenly...stars.
Science matters a little less now, when they talk half-asleep in their shared bunk bed. When he tries a forkful of burnt meatloaf, learns about this or that Earth custom, understands Pleakley's joy or anger or fear, no matter what caused it. Even if he caused it.

 But he loves those conversations, and the cooking that smokes with effort, and how he learns something new every day. Jumba loves Pleakley's smile and nervous laughter and even the way he glares, unafraid now, at talk of experiments and chaos and evil geniushood.  Annoyance fading to resigned acceptance, and to embrace.

Jumba loves to stand beside Pleakley, to loop an arm around him, to hold him tight. He can't remember ever caring about touch quite so much.
Only a year or so gone by, and they move through each day like they belong on this planet, in this house, with each other. He never admits it, but sometimes he imagines Pleakley wearing wings.
And it's beautiful.

He creates, and now he has two voices. Blow it up, says the familiar friend, and see what happens.
And how do you explain THIS? says another. Why would you do this, anyway?
Why do you need this so much?
It makes him angry, gives him tension and edge. But he knows how to deal with that. He can't wait until creation is done, so destruction can begin.

Two worlds cross one day, clash their swords. Pleakley's first name calls him "warrior", but he's no fighter. Yet he makes it his battle, morality and justice a sharp edge to horrified questions, his attempts to understand.
Jumba doesn't plead, or explain, because he can't explain. He justifies the tiny blue pod, the drooling and growling dementia he knows it contains, but for once the words ring false.
And Pleakley still presses on, not convinced either, prattling about his procedure and laws, probably thinking of the damned Councilwoman that couldn't care less about either of them.
Jumba has no blaster ready, but his broad form is powerful on its own. He threatens, and later he attacks, silencing his best friend, his conscience, by whatever physical means.
It's a relapse of a part of him that seems ancient, but it's the only thing he can think of. All the while saying "friend," his new justification, as if the word makes such bullying measures the right thing to do.
There are no wounds on the outside, he made sure of that. Inner wounds, though, he can do nothing about those. Pleakley will pretend nothing happened soon, dismiss the past and ignore the pain. It's a trick Jumba taught him well. But memories stain like scars.

A dehydrated pod, locked away in his latest version of the perfect safe. It had been evil, pure evil that extended beyond mischief or a childlike love of fire. Pure evil, a force so few had been able to pinpoint or define. And he, HE had achieved it.

A shame it had failed, but he doesn't mind.  One learns from these things.  For next time.
Jumba has tried to channel his genius into other things. Oven improvements, dune buggy repairs. Devices to capture experiments, instead of create them. But his visions always return, begging to be released.
He will create again, and Pleakley will never ask him what he's up to. They'll never speak of it, pretend there is nothing but Hawaii and 'ohana and each other.
Jumba thinks of his creations, and of his little one. His angel and his demons. So beautiful.
He pretends there will never be a day when he must finally choose between them.

-fin-