Curious how Jameson would handle the ableism that comes with being able to walk but also using a wheelchair…. Ash I live for his sass.
"Hey! Didn't I see you in here last week? You're a regular, too, right?" The voice behind him is cheerful and feminine and it tastes like butternut squash.
The barista meets Jameson's eyes as they pour coffee into a mug, and they both know, he thinks, that this is going to be really fucking irritating.
Jameson takes the mug and turns, putting the closest he can manage to something pleasant in his expression. He's seen this woman before, yeah - and knows she's a chatty asshole, the kind of person who does speakerphone calls while sitting in a coffeeshop asking her son to tell her how to use some sort of program on her laptop and tells complete strangers who just wanted to enjoy their damn latte her life story.
"Yeah, my-... my partner-" That still feels weird as fuck to say, doesn't it? "-my partner and I come here a lot."
He keeps his voice low. It's hard, still, not to defer, to feel the urge to curl into himself in self-protection. But Jameson was never all that good at being demure, and that hasn't gotten better with real freedom and time.
"Oh, that's lovely. Like a weekly date! How sweet. Are you feeling better?"
He blinks, looking down at himself, then back up at her. She has impeccable makeup, he thinks randomly. It reminds him of Nova, who struggles to choose groceries at the store when she goes with the big guy, but whose hands are always steady when applying eyeliner and mascara, because it's what she knows better than she knows anything else.
Nova's the one who told him makeup is armor, if you do it right. It lets you change yourself and be protected because no one can see who you really are, or they see exactly the parts of you that you want to show. Makeup is control over yourself.
Allyn doesn't see it that way, but... but he can see what Nova means. He told Dr. Berger that he gets it. He feels the same way about baggy clothes that Nova feels about makeup. The long sleeves and baggy pants... it's showing only what he wants to be shown.
He wonders what this woman is protecting herself from.
Maybe she's just protecting herself from herself.
If he was such a nosy bitch, he wouldn't want to look at himself in the mirror either.
"Uh." He realizes the pause has drawn out just a moment too long. "I feel... like I always feel, I guess? What do you mean, better?"
"Oh, I just-... I noticed the last few times you were, you know-" Jameson has to set his jaw when she mimes her hands gripping something and pushing forward, and he realizes she's mimicking someone pushing him in his chair, which doesn't even happen, he mostly pushes himself. But still, the only thing she can think of-
She doesn't even want to say it-
Like it's something shameful, like he should be ashamed of being able to get out of the fucking house even when he hurts-
Like it's his fault he was locked up for so long his legs stopped remembering how to fucking stand up straight-
He has to remind himself to breathe.
"Oh. I don't-... always need it. Just on, you know, pain days." He was having a good day, until this - his legs ached, sure, but they carried his weight and he'd only needed the painkillers to get him out and moving.
"Well, that's good. I'm sure you must hate that."
"I like it, actually. I got to pick the color myself."
"Oh." She looks a little taken aback, and for a second he hopes this means the whole damn thing will be over.
He feels a twinge in his right knee, as if mocking him, and he locks it despite the way it makes the pain flare higher. His teeth grind together. The woman doesn't notice.
"So, what happened? Have you been getting over a broken bone?"
None of your fucking business.
He bites his tongue until it hurts and then answers, quietly, "No, it's just a thing my legs do."
"Is it like a disease, or-"
"It's just... it's just a thing my legs do. It's not-... I don't talk to people about it?" He's trying, he really is. But he can hear the barista's breath hitch and feel the burst of a taste like licking wood on his tongue as they whisper, oh my god. "I'm not comfortable-... talking about it."
Allyn would be so proud of him for staying calm. He can just see them over in the corner of his eyes, by the window, curled up on a couch with one of their books, squinting a little as they sip their peppermint tea.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," The woman says, in a tone that says she really isn't. "I have just been seeing you come here for weeks, and I was a little curious-"
"Do you ask people with headscarves if they've had cancer?" The question pops out of his mouth before he can stop it. His right hand is white-knuckled on the handle to his coffee cup, and he can feel the pain spreading from the bones back through his palm, up his arm. He tries to ground himself with it.
He should have worn his fucking gloves today.
The woman's eyes go wide at the sudden viciousness in his voice. "I'm sorry?"
"Do you walk up to guys with one leg and ask what blew it off? Do you fucking ask people if they've got autism when they, I don't know, do anything, do-... do you-... do you tell people their moles don't look right, do you ask-... shit. Fuck."
He turns abruptly on his heel.
"Well, I'm sorry, I was only curious-"
"No, you weren't." He turns back. He needs to walk away but he can't make himself do it. Some of the coffee sloshes over the side of the mug from the violence of his movements and splatters on one of his shoes. "No. Don't pull that shit. What you were doing is looking at me and thinking you could remind yourself that you don't look like me and what a goddamn blessing, huh? That you're better because your goddamn legs work better than mine do, but you know what?"
She looks frozen, as if she expects him to hit her. Her mouth is a pink O, and the lipstick is wearing off on the inside, showing the paler natural color against her teeth.
"You being an annoying piece of shit is the least important thing in my life, so take a good fucking look and enjoy your fucking working legs, because I may need a wheelchair sometimes - and it's a badass fucking chair, for the record - but you need a goddamn brain transplant and too bad, you're fucking stuck with yourself for the rest of your life instead. And frankly that makes me luckier than you."
He's limping by the time he makes it to Allyn, his right leg is burning pain up his thigh, and he half-collapses onto the couch.
His heart is pounding, adrenaline and fear dumping into his veins on a delay. They look up and their eyes widen at the sight of him, leaning over to touch his shoulder. He dips his head and they put a hand to the side of his face. "Jameson? What's wrong?"
He can't stand up to tell them they should just leave and go somewhere else, that's what's fucking wrong. He has to sit here and feel like shit and-
He realizes the woman has left without ordering, her face bright red in embarrassment. The bell over the door jingles with her exit.
"Can you-... can you call the big guy?"
"Yes, but-... but what's-"
Jameson swallows down his anger and his pride, and reminds himself there's nothing wrong with asking for help. "Ask if he'll come by with the car to get us, and bring my crutches. Please?"
Allyn nods, and they shift closer to him on the couch, their hand dropping to rub his back. "Of course. I'll call him, you just drink your coffee. Is everything okay? I mean, other than-"
Jameson watches the woman's car as it pulls out of the parking lot, and he hopes she never comes back to this fucking coffeeshop again.
He really likes the coffee here, and he's sure as fuck not going to give it up just because one asshole tried to ruin his day.
He settles his head on Allyn's shoulder and takes a sip, eyes slowly closing. "Tell him not to hurry," He says, quietly. "I still want to stay here for a while with you."
He feels Allyn's smile, hears it in their voice and tastes it in the rainwater of their sound, he doesn't see it. "Of course."
No one's going to ruin his fucking day.
