Jack Fuckin' Twist

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 02:11:14 GMT

Hell, it's been a day.

Seems like all the cattle (alright, three) just felt like calving at near the same time--whether in solidarity or for some other reason Jack's got no clue, but between four-in-the-morning fights with creatures three times his size and a hell of a lot stronger, feeding the newborns and making sure they get checked out all proper with the vet from town, and listening to the low bellows of the mothers worried that their young might try to get too far too soon makes for some days he won't be all that depressed to see pass.

At least it ain't the season for sheep (not that Shadow's got 'em, anyhow). Goddamn but he hates sheep.

It's times like these he really enjoys an evening cigarette, fence railings cold against his jeans and the biting smoke drawing hot into his mouth and lungs.

'S a pretty night, anyhow. A real nice orange-colored sky.

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 16:11:03 GMT

Sallie'd have his head if she caught him napping during chores--

or, anyway, that's what Jack supposes, even if it ain't, strictly, true.

He'd sure like a nap, though. He's been chopping wood for going on half an hour now and his arms are burning, his back is burning, and the sun that had been just warm enough when he'd started out now feels like a blaze along the back of his neck.

Rise, and fall. Chop.

Nothing better to do, no better place to go. And it's quiet: the only sound is that off the axe chopping through wood.

His company isn't much in the way for words, after all.

Fri, 17 Nov 2006 04:28:16 GMT

It's been...

Well.

Jack's been in and out--mostly out--and going about his business; helping out with the chores here and staying plenty with Sallie on Shadow. Now and again his minds drifts to Kaylee's offer of a bunk on Serenity, and hell if that ain't something he'd sure like. Not the bunk, exactly, just the serenity.

But even cowboys with the blues have got to get their fill of smokes and a drink or two, so Jack Twist sits at the bar with a bottle of beer and an ashtray's got two burnt-out cigarette butts in it already, and another looking like it's going to be joining them in the near future. And if he didn't walk in with quite the same spring to his step as he'd had once upon a time, well...

Sometimes things happen, you can't do much of anything to fix 'em. And you got to just keep on going, because at the very least there's always another smoke and another drink and maybe a friendly face or two around.

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 01:42:15 GMT

The clump of his boots is a lot louder in here, and the ceilings a lot lower, and Jack'd feel pretty damn claustrophobic if they weren't only gonna be on the damn thing for a little while.

...Well, hell, he feels sorta that way anyhow.

Thu, 21 Sep 2006 03:27:24 GMT

The difference between being on a ship and on the ground is that on a ship, there ain't no room to move. No room to storm around--not unless you want the whole god-damned crew knowing what you're up to. The difference is that there ain't fresh clean air, just this recycled shit that tastes like

(a tire)

iron. The difference is that there ain't any place to go to that's far enough from the one place you ought to be, or near enough to the place you want to be.

But there's space, of a sort, to be found, which is why when Jack finally stops pacing around, he's settled on one of the landings above the cargo area, his hat in his hands.

The brim's all crumpled.

Wed, 16 Aug 2006 00:47:05 GMT

Things about Jack Twist:

1. He accumulates stuff. Just things--hats, belts, books (read or otherwise), and other varities of knick-knack. He's the sort of dad who'll keep a newspaper mention of his son, even if it's kept in a box somewhere in a closet. He isn't materialistic, though he does enjoy nice clothes, a good home, and maybe the latest in camping equipment--he's more of a pack rat.

2. On a similar but not entirely related note, Jack never stops talking. If he's silent, he's communicationg something through body language; through touching, smiling, looking away or down, slouching, etc.

3. Following that note, if Jack is silent and unreadable? Something is very off.

4. He will probably be letting you know what that something is without your having to pry too awfully much.

5. He is silent and unreadable a lot around Lureen.

6. Brokeback Mountain is simeltaneously the place he loves most in the world, and the place he will never go back to (until after his death, which is why he insists that his ashes be spread up on Brokeback).

7. His son is the most important person in his life, barring only Ennis.

8. He will never hate anyone or love anyone as much as he hates and loves Ennis.

9. He will never use the word "love" to describe any part of his relationship with Ennis.

10. When he looks at Desire, he doesn't always see dirty blond hair and hazel eyes and a cowboy hat. Mostly he just sees the fact that to Desire, Jack seems to be important and wanted and liked.

11. He will never stop trying to gain his father's affection and respect.

12. He will never get it.

This is my sundown

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 00:44:58 GMT

It was black for a long time.

And it's still dark, and the air should be warm, smelling like canvas and sweat and horse and old leather, but instead he's cold, and huddles down, curling into himself to get warm again. Instead of wiry grass against his skin, there's only a firm softness, and he stretches one arm out to pull Lureen

(Ennis)

closer, but there's nothing there and all he grabs hold of is a sheet--not even a blanket or a pillow.

And he has one fuck-all of a headache.

It isn't until he rolls onto his back and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes in the darkness, that he realizes that the stifling air smells sweet, and warm. Like peaches. And

"Shit!" He sits up, abruptly, and immediately regrets it. Waves of nausea washe through him, his head pounding like he'd drank at least an entire bottle of bad whiskey the night before--

But.

But he hadn't been drinking. He'd been--hell, he'd been on the road, and the goddam truck had taken one final sharp rock to the paper-thin tires, and he'd stopped to fix it, and everything kinda got blurry from there. He remembers shapes, black against the bright afternoon sun, and something swinging at him--

clang
(and it burns burns burns)

He touches the bridge of his nose gingerly, and for a long moment his breathing stops.
(that ring of fire)

Fuck.

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 14:59:04 GMT

And that's all it is.

Just a road, stretching straight as the eye can see

(which is odd, 'cause weren't it winding like a snake trying to shed its skin just a minute ago?)

and the only thing on it is Jack's old broken-down truck, the same old piece-of-shit he'd driven to Signal, the same one what kept trying to quit on him once he got down from Brokeback

(that's if he'd ever gotten down from Brokeback, and if those mountains sitting humped and purple in the distance are any clue, he never truly did)

and he's just sitting on the hood, sweating and grease-stained and just about ready to give up on the damned thing.

"Shit," he says, softly, to himself, and squints into the sun.

He hates changing flats.

Fri, 05 May 2006 05:13:04 GMT

Seems that fence and that gate get worse ever year, and when Jack finally straightens, his back cracks in protest. One hand on the gate, the other on his hip, he looks out over the empty plains, squinting and sweating, before he swings the gate back and forth, testing.

It creaks a bit, but holds, and despite the heat and the ache in his neck, Jack grins, pleased with himself, takes off the rough work gloves covering his hands and sticks them in his back pocket when he turns around to head back.

The house itself squats, gray and sullen--one more lump out here in the middle a godforsaken nowhere, and the screen door bangs behind him when he heads into the kitchen, hangs his hat up on a nail by the door and gets a glass, runs some cool tap water into it.

Home sweet home.

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 13:36:49 GMT

The problem with hitting a man with a closed fist is that generally, you hurt yourself just as much as you hurt them, and Jack looks at the blooming purple on his right hand with resignation when he's unbound it, moves the fingers gingerly. Got no ice in the room, so he goes into the bathroom and turns on the cold water, lets it run over the hand.

Shit. As good as he feels, he's the one coulda been punched in the jaw, from everything went on tonight.

Fuckin' Milliways.

Sun, 09 Apr 2006 18:39:07 GMT

The problem with working with horses, mostly, is that you end up smelly and sweating and unwilling to go back inside, even though it's more comfortable there. But you get used to the open space, and the work, and somehow going in to sit by the fire just seems stifling. Not to mention people look at you kinda funny when you smell like horse and hay.

Which is a long way of saying that Jack has opted to sit on outside this evening, smoking slowly and taking a few sips from a flask of whiskey that he'd smuggled out of the bar proper, watching the gray clouds roll slowly over the lake and forest. Feels like rain.

Fuckin' damp Scottish weather.

Sat, 08 Apr 2006 15:14:01 GMT

For all Jack's been here for a while, now, he still ain't what you'd call close to a lot of people. So when he sits down at the Bar to get some coffee before heading out stable-wards and a note and package appear along with the steaming cup, he's more than a bit surprised.

After reading the note, though, he laughs, surprised and touched, and flips through the book that'd been left, with interest.

And that pie sure does smell good.

Takes a minute of rearranging, and then Jack, the coffee, the roster, and the pie all head out towards the stable.

She did say to share, after all.

Meme

Sat, 25 Mar 2006 22:52:23 GMT

Go on, ask Jack somethin. Be warned, though, you get him talkin', you're the one's got a listen till he stops.

Tue, 21 Mar 2006 05:25:28 GMT

"Shit."

Jack straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at the drawer, frustrated.

"Honey? You seen that gray shirt a mine?"

The tick-tick-tick of the typewriter all but obscures Lureen's reply, but the little Texas voce comes tripping down the hall, cool and sweet and just barely annoyed.

"Last time I seen it it was tossed in the laundry basket."

He'd walked in, dropped the bag, swept Lureen up into a hug and a kiss on the cheek while she'd laughed in surprised delight, before just about running down the hall to Bobby. And when he'd put Bobby to bed, he'd gone into the bedroom, skimmed that damned shirt off and thrown it into the laundry.

That had been almost three weeks ago. Just about as long as he'd been stuck--no, not stuck he wasn't never stuck there, could a left just about any time he'd wanted to, if he'd wanted to--at that goddam bar they said was at the end of the universe.

If he'd wanted to.

"Shit," he says, under his breath. "Guess I lost another harmonica."

No reply, only the ticking of the typewriter, and Jack sits down, sinks slightly into the bed, and rubs at his face.

(If you're goin')

"Shit," he mutters, again.

(go)

There isn't anything all that interesting on the wall of the bedroom, but Jack sits, and looks at it for a long time.

(go)

Turns out, he hadn't wanted to go. Turns out, he'd have happily stayed, bitching around the fireplace, helping out in the stables. It's confining there--too many trees, too many people, no mountains, no rivers.

But there are the horses.

And there's Ennis.

Jack gets up, and goes down the hall, to the closet where Lureen keeps her office supplies, takes out a blank postcard. The message is short, to the point, and he scribbles it, scrawls only "Jack" at the end, before he addresses it:

Friend,

Ennis del Mar, General Delivery,

this letter is long overdue.

Riverton, WY.

He sends it in the morning.

Ain't some things never change.

AU: aftermath

Fri, 17 Mar 2006 05:03:24 GMT

Jack stalks a good distance out of the bar, fuming and silent, before he tosses his still burning cigarette viciously to one side and rounds on Ennis angrily.

"And just what in the hell was that, Ennis? Huh?"

Thu, 16 Mar 2006 03:22:23 GMT

He hadn't come with all that much, really.

His worn shirt--the one he'd worn when he'd first stepped into this goddam trap of a bar--hangs loose on him and he buttons it up absentmindedly, pushes it into the waist of his jeans, hair wet from the shower he'd taken dampening the collar. The coat he'd begged from Bar lies on the bed, his hat next to it, and Jack takes a moment to run his hand over his face, freshly scrubbed and shaven and lets out a breath when he pushes his palm into his eyes, runs his hand through his hair.

He's glad there isn't a mirror in the room. He isn't certain he could look at himself.

Instead, he sets to folding the jacket neatly, and doesn't glance at the meager pile of possessions next to it.

Tue, 14 Mar 2006 16:53:57 GMT

It turns out you can get just about anything from Bar.

For a small price.

"I tell you," Jack gripes, dumping an armful of tent and equipment on the ground by the stable door, "I've had a borrow a lot a things in the past, and most always no one wanted to give 'em to me, but tryin' to get a Bar to lend me a tent just 'bout takes the cake for 'strangest thing I ever had a do.' Had a pay up my tab 'fore it'd let me." A pause. "And promise not to lose any a it."

He wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, looks up, pushing the brim of his hat up on his forehead.

In the stables

Tue, 28 Feb 2006 17:49:03 GMT

The stables are warm and sweet-smelling, and quiet, some of the horses put out to pasture, and Ennis has been there for a while now, doing chores, stopping now and again to run his hand over a forelock or an inquisitive nose.

Jack, on the other hand, is doing nothing.

Looks mighty comfy, sitting on that hay bale, though.

Thu, 23 Feb 2006 05:50:25 GMT

It's much later now, and the light slants over the two sleeping figures in warped gold rectangles. Jack, sound asleep, has pulled Ennis' hand over his waist, but his grip has slackened in sleep and the two are curled together, breathing easy.

playlist

Sun, 05 Feb 2006 21:04:25 GMT

Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles brusied by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me
"Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Best of My Love - The Eagles

Every night I’m lyin’ in bed
Holdin’ you close in my dreams
Thinkin’ about all the things that we said
And comin’ apart at the seams
We try to talk it over
But the words come out to rough
I know you were tryin’
to give me the best of your love

Beautiful faces and loud, empty places
Look at the way that we live
Wastin’ our time on cheap talk and wine
Left us so little to give
That same old crowd
Was like a cold dark cloud
That we could never rise above
But here in my heart I give you the best of my love
Oh sweet darlin’ you get the best of my love, oh
Sweet darlin’, you get the best of my love

I’m goin’ back in time
And it’s a sweet dream
It was a quiet night
And I would be all right
If I could go on sleepin’
But every mornin’
I wake up and worry
What’s gonna happen today
You see it your way
And I see it mine
But we both see it slippin’ away

You know we always had each other baby
I guess that wasn’t enough
Oh, but here in my heart
I give you the best of my love
Oh, sweet darlin’
You get the best of my love
Oh, sweet darlin’
You get the best of my love
Every night and day,
You get the best of my love
Oh, sweet darlin’ you get the best of my love

The Last Thing on my Mind - Tom Paxton

It's a lesson too late for the learnin',
Made of sand, made of sand.
In the wink of an eye my soul is turnin'
In your hand, in your hand.

Are you goin' away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
I could have loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind;
Oh, you know that was the last thing on my mind.

You had reasons a-plenty for goin',
This I know, this I know.
And the weeds have been steadily growin',
Please don't go, please don't go.

Are you goin' away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
I could have loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind;
Oh, you know that was the last thing on my mind.

As I lie in my bed in the mornin',
Without you, without you,
Every song in my heart dies a-bornin',
Without you, without you.

Are you goin' away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
I could have loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind;
Oh, you know that was the last thing on my mind.
Oh, you know that was the last thing on my mind.

As Long As It Matters - The Gin Blossoms

How can I find something
That two can take
Without stumbling as we
Walk into our future’s wake

I’m like a broken record
That you can play
Repeating as if it matters
Everything I want to say

I’ll be all right
As long as it matters
As long as you’re here with me now

Forget that time
It’s nothing we touch and see
All this is fine
Even as it crashes down on me

I’m looking around
There’s nothing that I could want
More than to tell you
There’s no more than we’ve already got

I’ll be all right
As long as it matters
As long as you’re here with me now
Forget that our time is almost up I’ll be all right

Dirty Little Secret - Sarah McLachlan

If I had the chance love
I would not hesitate
To tell you all things I never said before
Dont tell me it's too late
Cause I've relied on my illusion
to keep me warm at night
and I've denied in my capacity to love
but I am willing to give up this fight

Been up all night drinking to drown my sorrows down
But nothing seems to help me since you've gone away
I'm so tired of this town where every tongue is wagging
When every back is turned
They're telling secrets that should never be revealed
There's nothing to be gained from this but disaster

Here's a good one
Did you hear about my friend
He's embarrassed to be seen now
Cause we all know his sins

If I had the chance love
I would not hesitate
To tell you all things I never said before
Dont tell me it's too late
Cause I've relied on my illusion
to keep me warm at night
and I've denied in my capacity to love
But I am willing to give up this fight
Oh I am willing to give up this fight

Milliways Application

Sat, 28 Jan 2006 06:34:44 GMT

"You know, friend, this is one goddam bitch of a unsatisfactory situation."

Jack Twist has a talent for understatement.

Just another good old boy raised in Lightning Flat, Wyoming, on hard knocks and ranch work, he managed somehow to hang onto dreams of a better life: making it big in the rodeos, having a ranch all his own, getting the hell out of Lightning Flat. Jack rolls with the punches, getting back up again and again with that same shit-eating grin on his face, observing life's realities and hardships with a philosphical cigarrette in his mouth, bitching and moaning without any real malice. Jack clings to some wordless impossible hope, and it keeps him going when sometimes it seems like nothing else will. And though that has always been part of his character, none of it really seemed to make much difference until after Brokeback Mountain and Ennis Del Mar.

Jack, at the time of his entrance, is not yet twenty-four, freshly married and with a few loose ideas of what he's doing, where he's going, and what his general purpose in life seems to be. He is a flirt and a charmer, but behind almost everything he says and does is a barely tangible disdain, a smirk lying just behind his ready smile. There's a core of steel in Jack, and it shows sometimes in the way he raises his head to meet a steady gaze, or in the carelessly graceful way he sprawls against the side of his beat-up old truck. As Stephen King writes about Larry Underwood, there's something in Jack that is like biting on tinfoil. Not that he's the strong silent type--hell no, Jack has a temper and he uses it, lightning-fast and mean. He's mercurial, is Jack, a quicksilver soul bottled up inside holey boots, broken-in old jeans and cowboy mentalities.

Generally, he isn't much of a talker, but when the mood comes on him he can go for hours on ranching, horses, rodeoing or whatever topic strikes his fancy. At times of particular abandon, he might burst into song in a cigarette-roughened voice, or pull out a battered old harmonica, which he plays with minimal skill and much enjoyment. He drinks only beer and neat whiskey, and the one thing you ain't never gonna get him to talk about is what really happened that summer up on Brokeback.

I suppose a relevant question here would be why, exactly, it is that I want to play Jack. The most general reason is, of course, that I want to. Within that sweeping generalization though, are these reasons:

1. Jack is complicated. Unlike Ennis, he doesn't truly try to push away his attraction to other men. He flirts with them, goes down to Mexico to pick up a prostitute now and again, and attempts a relationship of sorts with another rancher. He's torn between the ideal of the cowboy--getting married and having a child because that's what cowboys do--and the things he truly longs for. Some security that he can't find with his wife Lureen, with his life in the rodeo circuit (although that seems to come closer than anything else), or in his stable career and good fortune later in life. He craves the kind of tenderness and understanding that he is not allowed to have. He does not live from day to day, or paycheck to paycheck--or he wouldn't, if he wasn't forced too. He has his dreams--they aren't much, maybe, but they're his and he cherishes them. This conflict of interest is what makes Jack such a force of nature.

2. These complications, therefore, raise questions that can't be answered without getting as deeply into Jack's mind as possible. Why does he get in touch with Ennis, after four years apart? Why wait until they're both married, settled down? There must have been some catalyst, something to make him think of trying again, even after four years.

Which is where Milliways comes in. Those four years in canon are not kind to Jack, and in an environment like Milliways, he might start to relax, see how things might work out for the best. And just the possibility of seeing Ennis again...well. That's the kind a thing gives a man a certain amount of hope, ain't it?