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Love is War	By : grimreaperchibi Category: +G through L > Jak & Daxter Views: 4213 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Jak & Daxter, nor the places, people, or objects within. I make no money writing this. Additional disclaimer within.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: I apologize for the wait. This chapter was having issues that were only recently resolved. For the moment, however, I'm back on track and will hopefully get this finished up before the next project takes up what's left of my attention. Halloween's been on the brain a bit too much...but that's neither here nor there. Please note that the large sections in italics are designated points in the past. You're flipping back and forth between two seperate scenes that have been combined into a single one (since that was the only way it decided to work out).
Additional Disclaimer: The lyrics used within are part of the fair use clause of copyright law and remain the property of the individual artists and recording companies to which they belong. Any misconstruing/mistyping of the lyrics is strictly the fault of the author. All lyrics are used here only for setting ambience.
Mari: You have no idea how much I have anticipated spitting in Erol's face. It was a sinful pleasure to write. I may have to do it again at some point. Thanks for reading!
Amaronith: Your patience is appreciated. Your questions will now be (mostly) answered.
Robin: No one should ever feel sorry for Samos, Younger or Elder, but I do feel a little bit for Torn. Just a smidge. At least he realized how badly he screwed up.
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Chapter 8 – Make A Move (Lostprophets)
Daxter grabbed him, crushing their mouths together. The staggering rush of need that poured out kept Jak from arguing, though he caught clumsy hands before they could wander too far. There was slight whine, the gesture taken as refusal instead of the means to slow things down. Jak growled and pushed back, making his point silently, but clearly. The redhead relaxed slightly. The need was reigned in, somewhat controlled, ever ready to slip free the moment the opposition lessened even the slightest. Jak didn’t intent to give it the opportunity.
Jak shifted so that he could start combing his fingers through limp red hair without disturbing his friend’s sleep. Neither of them had slept well since their second escape from the Fortress. For a while, half-waking nightmares had been the best they could manage. The first time he’d truly awoken, Daxter had been in a blind panic. It had taken a while to calm him back into a coherent state, and then Samos had riled him up again with questions about Widgit. Only there was no one there when Underground agents arrived, gone just as mysteriously as the kid had arrived.
Hard and fast. The scrabbling of fingers and the bruising force of teeth. Their clothes were already a mess, so tearing and clawing them apart to get to the body underneath wasn’t much of a concern. The room was cold, freezing against overheated skin, The air smelled stale and dusty under the more immediate scents of sweat, blood, and that sour note of infection that still lingered despite the layers of salve and bandages. Daxter tasted coppery, a constant reminder that they shouldn’t be doing this. However, the need was stronger than the hesitation, so long as it remained only a taste.
Added to the weight of two broken promises was the fact that they had lost everything all over again. It was impossible to know exactly how much Torn’s moment had really cost, so rather than trying to save a sinking ship, it was abandoned. The entire internal structure of the rebellion had shifted within a matter of hours, and its many agents had been moved by morning, tucked in new safe houses, armed with new communicators with a brave few willing to help pull off the charade that nothing had changed. Tess was sent back to the Hip Hog, safe because of Krew’s connections. Shadow-Samos made himself a target by staying at the old headquarters while Torn effectively erased himself from existence.
He picked his friend up, using the motion to both take pressure off the wounded leg as well as check the ugly injury for more bleeding. The body was still fragile—he needed to be careful, keep his strength in check so that he didn’t crush what he was trying to protect. Daxter’s arms locked around his neck and wrapped his other leg around Jak’s waist, clinging through sheer stubborn tenacity rather than any sort of skill. There was some stumbling through the unfamiliar room before the controlled fall to the bed.
Everyone had pretty much left everything behind. For two people just starting to get comfortable with their lives again, it was a devastating blow to take.
No more excuses. No more stalling. There was still some reservation, but there was no stopping. The need was sharper now, digging at him, pushing for an answer, justification, acknowledgement and acceptance. Daxter trembled beneath him, inciting both the want to attack as well as defend. They were disheveled, surprisingly hard and as unclothed as they were going to get for this. It seemed wrong somehow until the other arched up against him with a whimper. “Jak, please.”
And now this eco connection thing… Was that why Dax always knew what he was going to say as a child? How he always knew what it was that Jak needed to hear just when he needed to hear it? And if that was true, could he use it to his advantage now, to say the things his friend needed to hear? Because despite his claims to the contrary, he could feel that Daxter was only playing at being fine. He was quiet, pensive, and lacked the spark that turned his natural sarcasm into wit rather than snark.
They moved roughly against each other, panting hotly across slick skin, into flushed ears, holding one another like they would somehow disappear if their grips slackened. Jak held himself carefully above his partner, becoming a living wall between the outside world and this moment between them. One arm curled up under Daxter’s head and neck to hold him close while the other hand stretched down. His knees pushed the redhead’s apart at the same time he wrapped his hand around both their erections, pumping erratically counter to their jerking movements.
Daxter shifted with a small noise, causing Jak to freeze. That hadn’t sounded like a bad noise, but it hadn’t been a good noise either. Still, he slept on, so it hadn’t been anything critical. That didn’t stop Jak from curling up a little closer, attention a little sharper now. There was so little else he could do anyway, no reassurance he could voice or action he could take that would bring back the confidence that had shattered in his friend. All he had was symptom management and the memory of another time and place when that over-abundant self-assurance had also gone down in flames. This time, the world could go to hell if it meant Daxter would look at him with that cocky smile again and mean it.
Coming did more than let tense muscles relax. Gasps for breath became breathless sobs. Trembles of pleasure turned into the shaking of distress. With nothing else to keep it in check, the hot, bitter pain no amount of green eco could cure bubbled to the surface. Daxter cried, longer and harder than the night that had started them down this path. The emotional poison was slow to bleed off and Jak was loath to press, but he needed to hear it as much as the redhead needed to speak it.. In the end, all he could do was hold his friend, whispering what reassurances he could against the rising flood of self-doubt until exhaustion finally let some peace be found in sleep.
They needed to get up soon—the sewers called once again. Whatever Krew was up to nowadays had given him a short attention span and a case of decidedly creepy mumblings and chuckles. He would have put it off as Krew being the more-than-slightly unhinged person he was normally if it wasn’t for Sig. The Wastelander had wanted to warn them about something. He wasn’t the type of man to go looking regretful and that was more than enough to make Jak sit up and take notice. But the chance seemed to have slipped away. Now it was all curt shakes of the head, grumbled oaths, and looks that had nothing to do with seeing what was in front of him. Even though he didn’t have Daxter’s ability to interpret body language, Jak knew whatever was wrong was something serious and close at hand.
“For lack of a better term, it’s called an eco-connection. Sometimes, high end channelers can forge a bond through the eco both in them as well as around them. If we were in close enough proximity, we Sages could create such a thing and share, first hand, experiences and discoveries. Gol was the only one who never participated in such a way. To my shame, I never pushed. A lot of tragedy might have been averted if I had. But I was afraid…”
The Sage had said a lot of things during the long hours of treatment (spread out over a very long week), slowly and methodically mending muscle, nerve and artery. There was still a ghostly cast of fingers around his throat, a partial black eye that refused to fade, and an ugly red scar on his leg that would probably never fade, but Daxter was back to full physical health.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No, Jak. I’m afraid for you. There’s still so much hardship to come… I just hope this time, it turns out for the better…”
He wanted to ignore those words, forget them, overrule them. He wanted to ask how it could possibly get worse than this, but realized that knowing that answer was part of what made Samos so old to begin with. All Jak had was the hope that even if it did get worse from here on out, they could make it through together in more than less one piece. And there was a lingering fear that even that was too much to hope for.
***
Left button turbo, right button jump. Left, turbo. Right, jump. Left. Right. Jump. Turbo. Daxter closed his eyes, trying to make the hover bike controls feel natural in his hands. This was the clutch, this was the accelerator. This was for a turbo boost, that button was for a jump, and this other button was… He blinked his eyes open, staring down at the extra button, trying to remember its function. Had it even been there a moment ago? Swearing softly, he looked back to the instructions Keira had given him.
He sighed, half convinced it was a lost cause. For as simplistic as it seemed, the thrice-cursed contraption was a nightmare to operate. It was nothing like a normal zoomer’s configuration and instead of being able to take his time to learn the controls, he had only until the race started to get comfortable. No messing around, no time for trial and error—he got one chance to get it and get it right.
Considering his current track record, they were doomed.
It shouldn’t have been him. Jak was the one who loved break-neck speeds and near-death experiences. He might have been have been good at the wheel for a fast escape or desperate getaway, but those things were necessities in life. This, while also serving a need, was considered fun, least of all by his friend. But Jak had been riding a mood ever since their little escort through the sewers with the bomb expert who puffed more hot air and smoke than Daxter did. The destruction of Mar’s statue pissed him off too, more for the means than anything. Jak, however…two days and he was still spitting mad. And then Keira just had to go and prick that particular sore spot about Krew.
All things considered, the blond had shown a considerable amount of restraint by simply walking away. The timing just couldn’t have been worse. He’d assured Keira he could handle the race with a bravado he didn’t feel. There wasn’t anyone else who could. They either made this, or their fast-track for the Baron crashed and burned with his fiery corpse. That, oddly enough, was a comforting thought. If he managed to fuck this up, he wouldn’t be around to deal with the consequences.
As the call for drivers to take their marks sounded, Daxter reached back, following that little thing that left him connected with Jak…and was firmly rebuffed by a solid wall of anger for his effort. Nope—still pissed and unwilling to talk. His last chance of getting out before he screwed something else up was now firmly denied. He took a deep breath and tried to hope, but it was with resignation that he clamoured onto the hover bike and headed out to the track. If Keira or Samos had any parting shots of wisdom, they were lost to the roar of the crowd.
Nerves got the better of him when the green light flashed and he stalled out on the starting line. Some swearing and a swift kicks to the machine’s guts got him going, though he was now woefully behind everyone now. Amazingly enough, it worked out to his advantage. With the rest of the pack scrambling for position right out the gate, they had crammed around the first curve, leaving the turbo engager on the far outside completely untapped. Even as panicked and harried as he felt from his late start, a part of him snickered at the stroke of luck. Don’t mind if I help myself, do ya?, he thought, a bit giddy as the turbo indicator turned on.
Staring at a map of a track and actually being on the thing those squiggly lines represented were two vastly different experiences. He’d memorized it, each and every curve, trying to find its weakness and ways to exploit it. They needed every advantage they could get, considering the odds against them. But actually going up and down, trying to muscle the beast under him so that he could turn without riding up the track edge while maintaining speed was a logistical nightmare. But each jerk and stutter he went through brought him a little closer to control while letting him really see the track. There were five laps total. He could afford to take a little time the first time through to get his marks and comfort level up. Hopefully.
Hard right, up, down into the enclosed part of the track and a soft right, and then a hard left. It went by in a barely noticed blur. He could see where the track started to buckle in on itself, twisting back and forth like a sand snake. That first turn would have been a great place to jump instead of following that left all the way around. But he followed the wall instead, trying to maneuver into the second turn. This was where he’d make his jump, cutting out the largest loop of track and taking a straight shot at the next section. It was a big chance, a bigger pay off if he didn’t end up splattered on the other wall. Two turbos on the gauge and nothing else to lose, Daxter gunned the engine, not giving himself time to talk himself out of the move.
The bike jumped, the turbo boost at the height of which helping him clear the gap with a good bit of extra to pad the distance. The hard thump against the flooring almost threw him over the handle bars, but he found his seat quickly. Up and up and out, hauling hard to the right again to stay out of the gutters. Another turbo got him peeling through the next turn. His first lap finished with him riding even with the back of the line.
Adrenaline started to pick up. He went to the outside again to avoid the crunch at the corner, tripping the same turbo sensor he had the first time before leaning into the gas. Up, down, grabbing another turbo before sliding into the next turn and watching some poor schmuck misjudge his timing and plow headfirst into a pylon. He threw his less than considerable weight into his turn to get lined up for his jump, snarling as another racer cut him off. His jump was a little more hectic this time, his cushion space drastically cut and the landing a bit rougher. But he’d catapulted himself past most of the group as he raced out of the enclosed section. By the time he hit the line, the official ranking was third place.
Or maybe that was the lap number. Daxter didn’t pay that much attention as he flew into the curve, wincing as he bounced off the side. The controls felt better in his hands now that he wasn’t trying to think about them all the time. There were a lot of things he wasn’t giving himself time to think about, like his speed, or his ranking in the race, or how close death and dismemberment was looming. All that mattered was making that next turn, making sure to pick up a turbo regularly, and not crashing stupidly into anything along the way. His heart was hammering away in his chest so loud he couldn’t hear anything else and his jaw ached as he clenched it in concentration. A flawlessly clean jump. An unconscious yell of exaltation. Another lap completed.
He forgot about the other racers. He forgot about the crowd. He stopped sucking in breaths and something inside him stilled in response. He was blind and deaf to just about everything that wasn’t about the track and the next thing he needed to do. It was just about the right now, and right now, he was flying. His stomach still clenched when sweaty fingers slipped on the controls, adding a wobble to his death-defying leap over oblivion and sparks followed his landing. He powered on as the bike jerked in his hand unsteadily. And hey, look at that—that extra button was the brake, which suddenly made those hard turns easier to navigate. Wouldn’t that have been nice to know earlier?
There was an ominous groan as he pulled through his next turn. The bike refused to straighten back out, weaving erratically despite Daxter’s attempts to control it. Trying to compensate for the damaged steering was a lost cause as he dropped hard into the enclosed section. It was slow to pick speed back up, throwing his timing off. He jumped too soon, barely scraping over the opposite edge, and his alignment was off, sending him crashing hard into the wall. He shoved off, barely feeling the throb of pain that accompanied the movement. One of the stabilizers had broken free, adding an even more pronounced wobble. Daxter kicked it clear from the bike, then stood in the stirrups, leaning forward over the handlebars, using his weight to compensate. Insanely dangerous with his foot now completely supported by the gas pedal, but what was really safe about any of this anyway? Another turbo to blast through the Precursor-damned gutters, and then another to help make up the lost time and speed. He was going to make it over that damn checkered line come hell or high water and anyone in his way was going to be slag if they—
Wait a minute. Checkered? That meant something important—
The sudden buzzer as he shot over the line warred with the volume of the mob, which sounded like it was in the beginning stages of a riot. It startled him so much that for a moment, he forgot what he was doing, nearly slamming into a wall again. The screech of metal was almost lost under the excess noise until he peeled the bike away from the edge. That’s when it finally hit him, the cheering, the line, the absence of engines bearing down on him—he’d finished. The race was over. Had that really been five laps already? He couldn’t remember… Then the more immediate issue gripped him and he wrenched his back trying to get a look at the leader board.
Eighth, sixth, fourth…his heart sank a little even as his breath caught. Third, second, and then, unbelievably, first. Orange Lightning—Team Hagai.
Unbridled euphoria ripped through his system like the lightning he’d been named after. He yelled and whooped with the crowd, fist pumping through the air as his exuberance was reflected back from everyone living vicariously through him in that moment. He’d won! Honestly, truly, undeniably won! A grin split his face and another round of crowing shouts filled the air before he could find another way to let some of the pressure go. It was like drowning, soaring, and that perfect spot of sunshine all mixed into one, being so achingly overjoyed, relieved, and too many other things to identify. It pumped through his veins so hard there was a vague concern about something literally bursting, but honestly he could have cared less about any of it. Even his residual anger at Keira and consistent tension between him and Samos stood no chance against this. He hugged them both as soon as they were within arm’s reach.
Tess surprised them in the garage, just as hyperactive and gushing as Daxter felt. With someone who could keep up with him to take in the tide of words ready to spill from his mouth, the redhead barely noted the odd little tug in his chest right before Jak walked in. The jovial feeling was lost in a heartbeat. The friendly flirting with Tess was instantly dropped, completely forgotten. His friend didn’t seem two steps away from murdering someone anymore, but he couldn’t really read Jak’s expression either. He suddenly became aware of Keira at his back and decided to intercept the blond before the two were in sniping distance again. Still nothing from his friend on the internal communication network. His smile wobbled worse than the hover bike had and he winced when his voice cracked. All Daxter could think was that he’d managed to screw something else up. How, he wasn’t sure, but that had never stopped someone from blistering his ears before. It didn’t help that Jak’s first words were criticisms about his driving skills. He lowered his eyes and braced for the inevitable tongue lashing habituation told him would come next when he heard the four words he’d spent his whole life waiting to hear.
I’m proud of you, Dax.
His eyes went wide, jerking his gaze and his ears up even as he automatically returned the fist bump. He could only stare dumbly as Jak smiled at him, that soft little half smile that had once belonged to a boy much more innocent. There was a mental/emotional reaffirmation, I’m proud of you, behind the next set of words. The rapidly waning glow from his earlier accomplishment roared back into a full-on inferno, fueling his own response, which in turn lit something up in his friend.
The good-byes were stilted, but short. Tess smiled and made a shoo-ing motion. Keira turned her back. Jak glared at the mechanic girl briefly before grabbing his hand and pointedly walking away.
No sooner had they turned the corner, leaving the direct line of sight from the garage, than Daxter found himself shoved against a wall, being kissed like Jak was trying to physically mesh them together. The moment his startlement eased and he began kissing back, the emotional seal between them broke and all the things that had been kept back flooded out. There was the residual anger that flavoured everything Jak did nowadays, but it was almost entirely supplanted by guilt. Remorse from when he’d walked away, forcing Daxter into a role he shouldn’t have ever had to fill. Contrite because he had left the redhead completely alone again. And then there was the alternating pride and worry that had followed the progress made on the track, the want to reach out only to realize doing so was an unnecessary distraction. More pride, swelling until it threatened to burst, making the shared victory something more than words could describe, made somewhat bittersweet when that shared enthusiasm might not be so easily shared. Finally, and most powerfully, there was relief—that Daxter wasn’t mad at him, that he’d survived the race, that those broken feelings of confidence were no longer just pieces lying around.
It didn’t take long after that for fingers to tangle in hair and clothing as Daxter pushed back, melting into their kiss. The only reason it never moved further that that was a sudden, loud burst of conversation that reminded them they weren’t alone. Jak growled and glared, as if daring someone to actually walk into view. Daxter laughed a bit unsteadily, pulling his friend’s face back around and kissing him again.
“Forget ‘bout ‘em,” he said when they pulled apart again. “’Sides, I ain’t lookin’ to get busted for indecent exposure, no matter how hysterical Grandpa Green’s reaction would be to watch. Kinda inglorious, all things considered, huh?”
Jak snorted, but let the redhead settle back on his own feet…and then promptly caught him again when his legs refused to hold his weight. “Dax?”
“Huh? Yeah, I’m good.” He was staring at his hands, which were shaking like leaves in a strong wind. He could feel similar tremors throughout his body, his heart rate spiking hard as the enormity of what had just happened finally hit home. Whether Jak could feel it was debatable, so he added, “Adrenaline just wore off.”
“Then we should get back to the safehouse.” A critical eye was already scanning the hallway. “Do I need to carry you?”
“Only if you don’t plan on draggin’ me through the gutters.”
There wasn’t a verbal response to that. Rather, Jak gathered his wrists in one hand and slipped the now hooped arms around his neck, swinging Daxter onto his back. Those arms tightened when Jak let go and reached for his legs, helping him shift up so that the collapsed morphgun and hover board weren’t pressed uncomfortably into his chest.
“There are plenty of people dragging their drunk friends out of the bars by now,” Jak said. “Just act like you’ve passed out and we should be fine.”
It was hard to relax with so many sharp angles poking him in the gut, but he managed to slump and drape over Jak’s shoulders like he’d been dumped that way. “You sayin’ I can’t hold my alcohol, buddy?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” And then Jak started walking.
Daxter closed his eyes and let his head loll. It’d been a long time since he’d been carried like this. There’d been a time when it had been almost every other day. The onset of puberty had helped Jak grow taller and stronger. It had tried to kill Daxter with gangly limbs and an absolute lack of balance or coordination. He didn’t have any of those problems now, but then, he’d constantly trip over absolutely nothing, or knock something over, or run head-long into something that would leave a constant trail of bruised knees and scrapped hands. Instead of making him limp back and potentially hurt himself more, Jak had carried him. Always patiently listening to him whine about whatever hurt or rail about not being a kid who couldn’t take care of himself. It never mattered how far they had to go, how superficial the injury, how petulant he was about the whole process, Jak was there with his silent offer, amused and patient instead of exasperated and irritated. Always.
“I love you,” he murmured, not even aware he’d spoken out loud. “I love you so much.”
The hands holding his legs gave a possessive squeeze as they continued on their way. I know.
***
So are we lost or do we know which direction we should go?

Sit around and wait for someone to take our hands and lead the way.

‘Cause every day we're getting older and every day we all get colder.

We're sick of waiting for our answers.

Wake up, wake up, wake up, I’m so tired of waiting, waiting for us to,

Wake up, wake up, wake up, I’m so sick of waiting for us to make a move.
~Make A Move – Lostprophets~
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To be conitnued.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Love is War