Work Text:
Despite appearances, Jack has always been fond of silence. It is by chance that Oswald seems made of it.
Every word that passes between them feels like a drop of water into a still lake. It feels like ripples that reach farther than either of them mean to. Oswald speaks sparingly, eyes fixed on something Jack can’t see. His quietness is not cold, though it cuts like it. It’s the sort of stillness that could carve the world cleanly in two.
Jack wishes he could match it. He wishes he didn’t fill every pause with laughter, didn’t trip over his own words trying to bridge the gap between them.
But that’s what he is: a man made of noise and masks. As for Oswald… He is the only one who ever seems to see through it all.
When Jack enters his study after dinner, Oswald doesn't look up from his writing. The Baskerville coat hangs from his shoulders, dark against the pale walls. The ink on his quill trembles only slightly, betraying that he does in fact know that Jack is there.
Jack smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “Glen.”
“You shouldn't be here.”
“You always say that.”
“And yet you never listen.”
“Would you prefer it if I did?”
Oswald’s quill stops. For a long moment, there is only the sound of rain against the window.
“Yes, actually,” he says. “I think I would.”
Jack’s grin falters, but only just. He moves closer anyway, closing the distance like he always does. It’s a dance that they’ve perfected: Oswald pushes him away with words while Jack pretends not to understand. Then, Oswald secretly revels in it.
But today, something feels different. The air tastes heavier, like thunder waiting to break.
Jack circles around to stand beside Oswald’s desk, peering down at the papers.
“Orders from Glen?”
This time, Oswald doesn’t answer.
He sets the pen aside and folds his hands together, finally meeting Jack’s gaze. His eyes are pale, almost colorless in the candlelight. They are like moonlight trapped in violet glass.
“You play at things you don’t understand,” Oswald says quietly. “With people you don’t understand.”
Jack’s heart stumbles. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Playing?”
Oswald looks at him for a long moment, then away again. “If you're doing anything else, it would be worse.”
Jack laughs, too quickly, and reaches for the back of Oswald’s chair. “You wound me.”
“Not enough, apparently.”
The smile slips away entirely. Jack steps closer, the scent of ink and candle smoke thick between them. Jack doesn’t touch him - he never does - but tonight it feels like he could. Like one wrong breath would send the whole fragile world tilting.
“So mean… I only wanted to see you,” Jack says, and it comes out softer than he means it to. There’s a tremor underneath and it is too close to a confession.
Oswald’s eyes flicker, a brief flash of something unguarded.
“You shouldn’t want that.”
“Why not?”
“My company isn’t desirable.”
Jack’s throat tightens. He wants to say “You’re wrong”, wants to reach out, to take that sharp, self-condemning certainty and crush it in his hands. Alas he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a single step closer, his voice lowering.
“You think too little of yourself, Oswald. You always have.”
Oswald rises from his chair in one smooth motion, closing the book of orders with a hard snap. The sound echoes through the room.
“And you,” he says, “think too little of consequences.”
Their gazes lock. For a heartbeat, neither moves. Then Oswald exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders in a slow, reluctant wave. “What is it you want from me, Jack?”
Jack opens his mouth but nothing comes. Lacie, he thinks. I want everything you won't give.
He settles for, “Just a moment with my best friend.”
Oswald studies him, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You never stop reaching, do you?”
“Someone has to,” Jack says, smiling weakly. “If I don’t, you’ll disappear into that silence of yours.”
Oswald’s expression softens. He looks away again, toward the rain-spattered window. The candlelight catches on his hair, turns it gold at the edges. For an instant, he looks almost fragile.
“I don’t deserve to speak when I failed to listen,” he murmurs.
Jack’s heart aches with the weight of what isn’t being said. He wants to tell Oswald that silence won’t save him. Indeed Glen’s path is leading them both toward ruin. But the words dissolve before they reach his tongue.
Jack is a coward when it comes to truth. He always has been.
Instead, he takes another step forward until their sleeves brush. It’s nothing, a breath of contact, but Oswald stiffens all the same.
“Don't-” he begins.
Jack cuts him off. “Tell me to stop.”
Oswald doesn’t. The rain fills the pause between them, relentless and unending.
“Jack,” he says finally, almost whispering. “You never know when to let go.”
Jack’s hand hovers near his shoulder but doesn’t touch. “That’s because I’ve already lost too much.”
Their eyes meet again. There’s something breaking in Oswald’s expression and he hides it too late. Jack catches a glimpse of it: loneliness, grief, maybe even longing.
And in that fleeting moment, he knows Oswald feels this impossible thing between them. Right now it’s real, even if it can’t last.
The thunder outside breaks the silence, a deep, distant rumble. Oswald steps back, the spell shattered. He turns away, reclaiming his composure piece by piece.
“This will destroy you,” he says sternly. “Whatever it is you think you feel… It will ruin everything.”
Jack laughs softly and the sound trembles. “Maybe everything deserves to be ruined.”
Oswald flinches. “You don’t mean that.”
Jack looks at him. He really looks at the man who stands so straight beneath the weight of duty, this quiet strength that’s already begun to crack. He wants to hold him, to tell him that love can exist even at the edge of destruction. But Oswald isn’t someone who believes in such mercy.
He steps closer again, just enough to speak near his ear. “If I do mean it… would you hate me for it?”
Oswald turns his head, their faces inches apart. His voice is barely audible. “Easily so.”
It’s a lie. They both know it. But it’s the only truth either of them can bear.
꧁꧂
Later that night, Jack dreams of Sablier burning.
He sees Oswald amid the ruins, head torn, eyes blank, his body covered with blood. Jack reaches for him through the fires. He tries to call his name, but the sound is swallowed by the Abyss.
When Jack wakes, the smell of smoke clings to his skin. He realizes, with quiet glee, that it isn’t only a dream: it’s a glimpse of what’s to come, a sign that he will fulfill Lacie's wish. He will succeed, even if it has to be at Oswald’s expense.
Jack must smile, because even knowing the cost of his victory, he would not change a thing.