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Coda to 1x10, 'Loom of Fate', with reference to 1x05 'Apple of Discord', and also to the film 'The Librarian: Curse of the Judas Chalice'. I've just watched all ten episodes, and then rewatched all three movies, and I really, really wanted some Jenkins hurt/comfort with bonus Judson. *grins sheepishly*
Title: Reflections of the Past
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Librarians (2014), The Librarian Movies, Christian & Arthurian Myth
Characters/Pairings: Jenkins, Judson, mention of Dulaque, Charlene, Flynn and Eve. Jenkins & Judson, Jenkins & Dulaque, Judson/Charlene, Judson & Flynn, Eve/Flynn
Summary: With the Librarians and Guardians all back out doing their thing, Jenkins finally has a moment of peace and quiet in his Annex, to grieve and to acknowledge the impact of his choices. Or at least he did, until someone unexpected drops in, and maybe makes things a little bit better. Jenkins & Judson, post 'Loom of Fate'
Wordcount: 2792
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for the series plus movies. Hurt/comfort, families of choice, kinda schmoopy?
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Reflections of the Past
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Librarians (2014), The Librarian Movies, Christian & Arthurian Myth
Characters/Pairings: Jenkins, Judson, mention of Dulaque, Charlene, Flynn and Eve. Jenkins & Judson, Jenkins & Dulaque, Judson/Charlene, Judson & Flynn, Eve/Flynn
Summary: With the Librarians and Guardians all back out doing their thing, Jenkins finally has a moment of peace and quiet in his Annex, to grieve and to acknowledge the impact of his choices. Or at least he did, until someone unexpected drops in, and maybe makes things a little bit better. Jenkins & Judson, post 'Loom of Fate'
Wordcount: 2792
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for the series plus movies. Hurt/comfort, families of choice, kinda schmoopy?
Disclaimer: Not mine
Reflections of the Past
The Librarians left. All of them. Finally. The door closed behind Eve and Flynn, off to ... oh, who knew where, and finally, finally, there was silence in the Annex. There was peace. For a few moments at least, there was peace enough to breathe.
He needed that, Jenkins thought. He really did. Just a few minutes. Just half an hour of silence. Yes. Please. Thank you, oh, so much.
He should put a kettle on. The tea set was still stashed in his workroom, none of these blasted children ever used it except him. He should make himself some tea. Or some whiskey, right now that sounded pretty good as well. It was just ... it was too much effort. In a minute. He'd do something in a minute.
Any second now.
Thank you, Eve had said. Thank you for doing what you did. He'd deflected, of course. Habit, as much as anything else. If Flynn didn't remember, and no-one else remembered, at least those who hadn't carried Santa's Gift, why should he have remembered? No reason. None at all. So. Best to keep things that way, hmm? Best to keep quiet. Toe the company line. Pretend ...
Pretend that he hadn't made a choice. Pretend that he didn't have to remember what it was
Pretend that swords had never been crossed where once they'd been aligned.
Okay! Alright. Tea, yes. Making tea. When in doubt, do something constructive. Or at least distracting. Yes. He'd ... he'd just do that. Now. Yes.
"... Coincidence?"
Jenkins closed his eyes, leaning heavily against the edge of the worktable. The teaspoon clattered gently into the tray. Neither of them paid it any mind.
"Not now," he managed, opening his eyes and turning towards the mirror. Towards the calm, rumpled face that inhabited it, that never left, that could not ... that couldn't be gotten rid of. Ever. Jenkins held out a hand to it, honestly beseeching. "Please. Judson. Not now. Hmm? One hour. Is that really too much to ask?"
Judson looked abashed. Briefly. Very briefly. God, there was a reason Jenkins had always preferred Charlene. At least she never beat around the bush. No sugarcoating, no bandying about. Wonderful woman. She wouldn't have looked abashed. She'd just have stared at him until he shut up and did what he was told. Which he was going to have to do anyway, so it would be nice not to have all this ... this lollygagging. If you please.
"You looked like you could use some company," Judson offered, his image shuffling awkwardly within the frame. He said it earnestly, like he meant it. And he did, of course he did, but Jenkins really, really could not deal with this right now. Not today. No.
"... No," he said, smiling fixedly. Politely. Yes, lets be polite for a second. "No, I think what I could use right now, if it's alright with you, is actually the opposite of company. Its antithesis, if you will. I would like, if it's not too much trouble, to be alone. For one hour. For one second. Please. That would be ... appreciated. Alright? That would be very nice, if you could just manage it. Thank you."
Judson blinked, opening his mouth, but Jenkins wasn't in the mood. He turned around, shoving a few things onto his tray, heaven knew what, and picked it up to stalk over to the table. Tea. He was having tea. In silence. Judson could do ... whatever he liked. So long as he did it quietly, so long as it wasn't expected to be Jenkins' problem, he could have the run of the place for all Jenkins cared. He could ... He could ...
"I'm sorry," Judson said, very quietly, and Jenkins stopped. He set the tray down, very gently, and he stopped. Everything. Anything. He couldn't ... there was nothing to be done. Not anymore.
He'd already made his choices.
"It wasn't coincidence," Judson went on. Gentle, and sure. It wasn't a question. Of course not. "You saved them, Galeas. You made a choice, and you saved them. She was right to thank you."
"No," Jenkins managed, thickly. "I mean, yes, I ... I did save them. Or I tried. But she shouldn't ... She would have died anyway. It wasn't enough. Flynn saved her. Not me. After all I ... It wasn't enough. It never is."
Judson was silent for a second, long enough that Jenkins found himself turning around. He found himself looking at the mirror, meeting the eyes of a man who'd saved him, once upon a time, and given him a purpose in this world. It was ... hard. It always was. Ezekiel had had a point, maybe. At the Conclave. There had always been something of a coward in him, and time and a slew of choices had worn it close to the surface. Judson, as ancient and as mighty as he was, the face of the Library itself, had always been a difficult thing to face, and only more so now.
So it was a little confusing, maybe, that facing him was what Jenkins found himself doing. Automatically. Instinctively. And when he did it, when he looked at Judson's face, it was approval he found there. Approval, and understanding.
"It didn't work," Judson said, watching him gently. "You knew it wasn't going to work, but you did it anyway. Because you could, because it was all you could do, so you did it. You tried to save them. And you succeeded. You enabled them to survive long enough for Flynn to do what he does best. To come up with one last trick. He saved her. But you got them to that place. You tried, even when you knew it wasn't enough, and you made it work."
Jenkins looked at the floor. It ... it hurt. It shouldn't have, but it did. He wasn't sure why. So he did what he did best. He deflected, one more time.
"One last chance," he murmured, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that only half-faked. "One more impossible thing. He does you proud, you know. He's ... He's really something. As good a Librarian as I've ever seen."
Judson smiled. His chest swelled, all puffed up with pride and with joy, utterly ridiculous, and Jenkins felt a shard of something icy slide into his gut. He looked at Judson's pride in Flynn, and felt a stab of grief that suddenly made everything so horribly clear. What he was feeling. Why he was feeling it. He understood now. He really did. And oh, how he wished he didn't.
"He's the best," Judson agreed, ducking his head shyly. "The Librarian we've been looking for, all this time. Someone who can make the last chance a reality. He's a good boy, Flynn. We're, ah. We're very proud of him, Charlene and I."
"... You should be," Jenkins managed. He swallowed the lump in his throat enough to smile, enough to make it look almost real. "Even if it's not enough to defeat what's coming, he'll give it his all. They all will. They'll do the Library proud, Yehudah."
Judson, Yehudah, St Jude. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes, the Guardian of the Impossible, and the man who'd spent all of himself, even past the point of death, defending the world that one last trick at a time. Yes, Jenkins thought. Flynn was exactly the kind of Librarian, the kind of man, to carry on that legacy.
Flynn was ... the best kind of son.
Judson stared at him. Startled, a frown beginning to creep across his face, and Jenkins looked away hurriedly. He looked back down at the floor, at the tea set, at anything else in the universe. This was why he'd wanted some peace and quiet. He couldn't deflect worth a damn right now, could he? So he looked away, and hoped it counted for the best.
He looked back again a second later, though, when he heard a strange, fizzing sort of sound, and snapped his head around in horror to find Judson climbing out of the mirror. Sort of. As best he could. He faded half out of sight almost immediately, a translucent collection of orange sparks with the image of a man rather carelessly draped across them, but he managed it more or less. He stood there, at what had to be an insane energy cost for his circumstances, and Jenkins could only gape at him.
"Don't mention this to Charlene," Judson warned, grimacing faintly. "She's going to kill me all over again as it is. And don't mention it to Flynn, either. This is just between you and me, alright?"
Jenkins stared at him. "What ... are you doing?" he demanded. His hands came up around his head, grasping at the air in frustration, hoping to find something containing some form of sense. There had to be something somewhere, something he could siphon off, inject into the proceedings. "You're dead. The energy costs for even a semi-corporeal manifestation ... what are you doing?"
Judson grinned. He looked so evil sometimes. He looked like this tired, rumpled little man, and then he did something, he smiled or he killed someone, and he looked ... He looked like a two thousand year old warrior of knowledge who had just remembered how to kick your ass. It was alarming. Really, it was.
Then Judson reached out, manifested a sensation of weight and presence around his hand the better to touch Jenkins, to grip his shoulder gently, and Jenkins stopped thinking altogether. He blinked, looking from the hand to Judson's face, and couldn't think of a thing.
"You did the right thing, Galahad," the Librarian said softly. "You didn't want to, but you did it anyway. You made a space where the impossible was possible, and you saved our people doing it. I know things haven't been easy lately. Facing your father. Having to choose a side all over again. I know things have been hard for you. But I think ... I think you proved them right. The ones who said you'd be a greater knight than your father ever was. You proved them right, and I think he knew it, too. I think, somewhere in his heart, that he was proud of you for it."
Jenkins made a sound, a ragged, guttural thing. He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head onto his chest. Judson didn't let go. He kept his hand tight around Jenkins' shoulder.
"I betrayed him," Jenkins whispered. "He betrayed me, and I betrayed him back. I don't think pride ... I don't think ..."
"Sometimes heroes fall," Judson said, and there was a weight of knowledge in his voice. Jenkins looked up, through blurry eyes, and wondered briefly how many betrayals Judson -Yehudah- had seen. From the first, Judas in the garden, to the last, Edward Wilde, the failed Librarians, even Cassandra. "Sometimes heroes fall," he said, and Jenkins believed that Judson, of all of them, knew what he was talking about. "When they do, it's not a betrayal to fight them. It's ... It's an honouring, of who they were before. Of what they did that mattered to you. He wasn't always a madman, Galahad. He was a knight once, one of the best. That man would have been proud of your choice, and the strength you found to face him. Believe that. I do."
Travel well, whispered a voice in Jenkins' memory, his father's voice on the day of the Conclave. Travel well, Lancelot had said, when Galahad had refused to join him. Maybe ... Maybe there had been a part of his father left. Maybe it had been enough.
"And if that's not enough," Judson continued, looking vaguely uneasy once again. Almost shy, Jenkins thought, and blinked at him a little bit. "That is ... Well. You've done good work here, you know. You've, ah. What I mean is, we're proud of you too. I am. We all are. You ... you did good. You should remember that. When, you know. When things are hard."
He coughed uneasily, stepping back and beginning to fade a bit around the edges, and Jenkins stepped after him, entirely on instinct once again. He stepped back into Judson's space and reached out his own hand to grip, carefully, at the hollow space where a shoulder should have been. It didn't work as well on a ghost as he would have liked, but he thought it worked well enough for the job.
"Thanks," he said, not quite meeting Judson's eyes, as embarrassed as the other man and more so. But it had to be said. Colonel Baird had gotten that much right, he thought. Sometimes, the words had to be said. "Thank you. It, ah. It means a lot."
Judson shuffled, his hands twitching at his sides. "You're welcome," he managed, and Jenkins had to laugh at them. The pair of them, standing there like a pair of idiots. One of them missing the father he hadn't known in years, and the other missing the son that wasn't really his. They were ... god, they were idiots. All of them.
"You should get back before Charlene catches you," he said, letting Judson go and retreating to the worktable once more. "She's, ah. She's going to be pretty mad once she realises what you've done."
"Yes," Judson said, a little distantly. He shrugged, blinking a bit and visibly pulling himself together, before visibly tearing himself apart again. The manifestation crumbled, orange lights crackling as they melted back into the mirror frame, and Jenkins shook his head.
Hell with Charlene killing Judson. If she ever found out about this, she was going to kill him. And what's worse, he'd probably deserve it, too.
"Well," Judson said from the glass, back where he belonged and smiling sheepishly once again. "That was ... I think that accomplished something, don't you? A good talk. Yes. We should ..."
"Never do it again?" Jenkins asked mildly, and chuckled a little at the relief in Judson's face. "You know, no offence, but I always preferred Charlene. She's very ..." He held up a hand, pointed it ruefully in front of him like a blade. "She's very straightforward. It's much easier to deal with."
"Don't I know it," Judson muttered, but he didn't look offended. Not really. "I know I'd have been lost without her this last while. She's ... You don't meet someone like her just every millennium, I know that."
Jenkins paused, pulling back in sudden suspicion. Sudden realisation, perhaps. No. No, they wouldn't. Would they?
"Just out of curiosity," he started slowly. Disbelievingly. "What, exactly, have you two been doing in that Library all this time?" He waved a hand, watching the man carefully. "All alone. No-one else around. Together. You weren't ... You wouldn't. Would you?"
Judson stared at him for a second, his expression doing something indescribable, and then ... Then he up and vanished. Immediately. Without a single word. And Jenkins would have sworn that his expression, just before he went, looked like nothing so much as guilt. A mortified, horrified admission of guilt.
They ... They'd been doing it. They had. Judson and Charlene. They'd been doing ... something, Jenkins didn't even know what. Judson was incorporeal, how would they ...? But they were in the Library. They'd woven dimensional energy together, and transported themselves beyond reality, and then they'd ... Done something. Together. For all that time. Judson and Charlene.
Oh my God. Just ... No. Just no. First Flynn and Eve, and then ... No. Not happening. He wasn't thinking about it. At all. Ever. He was just ...
He was going to drink his tea, and then he was going to take something magical and mysterious and incredibly ancient apart in the workroom, and he was going to pretend this whole day had happened to someone else, somewhere else, who was not even remotely his problem.
Yes, he thought. That was the plan. That was a very good plan. He'd get to that right away.
God. This was why there should be nobody allowed in his Annex. The Library, that was one thing. That was the Librarian's problem, or Judson's problem, or somebody's problem. Not his. What happens in the Library stays in the Library, and what happens in the Annex ... Nothing happens in the Annex. That was the point. Nothing should be happening in his Annex. Ever. No kissing, no dying, no nothing.
Librarians. Why did he put up with them? Really, why? There was just ... there was no dealing with them. They were all trouble, every last one. From the first right down to the last, and everyone in between.
And some day, he thought ruefully, when he was feeling a little more honest that he was now, he might even admit that he loved it.
Hah! That'd be the day, alright. That'd be the day.
A/N: The Judson-as-St-Jude thing isn't canon, I know, but given the revelations in 'Judas Chalice' it seemed to make sense? Judson was potentially revealed as 'The Scholar', Yehudah, which is a variant Hebrew form of Judah, Judas, Judd, Judson or Jude, all meaning 'praised'. He's supposedly also over 2000 years old, and possibly the Library's founder. In the Librarians universe, Judas became the first vampire, so Judson is unlikely to be him. There was, however, another Biblical Jude, and give that he became known as the patron saint of hopeless causes, of the hopeless and despaired, and the patron saint of the impossible, I thought that rather suited the Librarian? Heh. It worked for me, so I went with it.
I was actually rather proud of figuring out Dulaque/Lancelot fairly early, but Jenkins being Galahad ... ouch. The purest knight, the grail knight (which possibly explains why the Library's had it for a while), and Lancelot's illegitimate son. That moment in 'Apple of Discord', Jenkins': "No. We choose. A thousand years ago. You know that very moment when you and I stopped being ... whatever we were." And then Dulaque's answer. Ouch. No wonder Jenkins was so battered-sounding that episode.
So, ah. Hence the hurt/comfort? Heh.
The Librarians left. All of them. Finally. The door closed behind Eve and Flynn, off to ... oh, who knew where, and finally, finally, there was silence in the Annex. There was peace. For a few moments at least, there was peace enough to breathe.
He needed that, Jenkins thought. He really did. Just a few minutes. Just half an hour of silence. Yes. Please. Thank you, oh, so much.
He should put a kettle on. The tea set was still stashed in his workroom, none of these blasted children ever used it except him. He should make himself some tea. Or some whiskey, right now that sounded pretty good as well. It was just ... it was too much effort. In a minute. He'd do something in a minute.
Any second now.
Thank you, Eve had said. Thank you for doing what you did. He'd deflected, of course. Habit, as much as anything else. If Flynn didn't remember, and no-one else remembered, at least those who hadn't carried Santa's Gift, why should he have remembered? No reason. None at all. So. Best to keep things that way, hmm? Best to keep quiet. Toe the company line. Pretend ...
Pretend that he hadn't made a choice. Pretend that he didn't have to remember what it was
Pretend that swords had never been crossed where once they'd been aligned.
Okay! Alright. Tea, yes. Making tea. When in doubt, do something constructive. Or at least distracting. Yes. He'd ... he'd just do that. Now. Yes.
"... Coincidence?"
Jenkins closed his eyes, leaning heavily against the edge of the worktable. The teaspoon clattered gently into the tray. Neither of them paid it any mind.
"Not now," he managed, opening his eyes and turning towards the mirror. Towards the calm, rumpled face that inhabited it, that never left, that could not ... that couldn't be gotten rid of. Ever. Jenkins held out a hand to it, honestly beseeching. "Please. Judson. Not now. Hmm? One hour. Is that really too much to ask?"
Judson looked abashed. Briefly. Very briefly. God, there was a reason Jenkins had always preferred Charlene. At least she never beat around the bush. No sugarcoating, no bandying about. Wonderful woman. She wouldn't have looked abashed. She'd just have stared at him until he shut up and did what he was told. Which he was going to have to do anyway, so it would be nice not to have all this ... this lollygagging. If you please.
"You looked like you could use some company," Judson offered, his image shuffling awkwardly within the frame. He said it earnestly, like he meant it. And he did, of course he did, but Jenkins really, really could not deal with this right now. Not today. No.
"... No," he said, smiling fixedly. Politely. Yes, lets be polite for a second. "No, I think what I could use right now, if it's alright with you, is actually the opposite of company. Its antithesis, if you will. I would like, if it's not too much trouble, to be alone. For one hour. For one second. Please. That would be ... appreciated. Alright? That would be very nice, if you could just manage it. Thank you."
Judson blinked, opening his mouth, but Jenkins wasn't in the mood. He turned around, shoving a few things onto his tray, heaven knew what, and picked it up to stalk over to the table. Tea. He was having tea. In silence. Judson could do ... whatever he liked. So long as he did it quietly, so long as it wasn't expected to be Jenkins' problem, he could have the run of the place for all Jenkins cared. He could ... He could ...
"I'm sorry," Judson said, very quietly, and Jenkins stopped. He set the tray down, very gently, and he stopped. Everything. Anything. He couldn't ... there was nothing to be done. Not anymore.
He'd already made his choices.
"It wasn't coincidence," Judson went on. Gentle, and sure. It wasn't a question. Of course not. "You saved them, Galeas. You made a choice, and you saved them. She was right to thank you."
"No," Jenkins managed, thickly. "I mean, yes, I ... I did save them. Or I tried. But she shouldn't ... She would have died anyway. It wasn't enough. Flynn saved her. Not me. After all I ... It wasn't enough. It never is."
Judson was silent for a second, long enough that Jenkins found himself turning around. He found himself looking at the mirror, meeting the eyes of a man who'd saved him, once upon a time, and given him a purpose in this world. It was ... hard. It always was. Ezekiel had had a point, maybe. At the Conclave. There had always been something of a coward in him, and time and a slew of choices had worn it close to the surface. Judson, as ancient and as mighty as he was, the face of the Library itself, had always been a difficult thing to face, and only more so now.
So it was a little confusing, maybe, that facing him was what Jenkins found himself doing. Automatically. Instinctively. And when he did it, when he looked at Judson's face, it was approval he found there. Approval, and understanding.
"It didn't work," Judson said, watching him gently. "You knew it wasn't going to work, but you did it anyway. Because you could, because it was all you could do, so you did it. You tried to save them. And you succeeded. You enabled them to survive long enough for Flynn to do what he does best. To come up with one last trick. He saved her. But you got them to that place. You tried, even when you knew it wasn't enough, and you made it work."
Jenkins looked at the floor. It ... it hurt. It shouldn't have, but it did. He wasn't sure why. So he did what he did best. He deflected, one more time.
"One last chance," he murmured, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that only half-faked. "One more impossible thing. He does you proud, you know. He's ... He's really something. As good a Librarian as I've ever seen."
Judson smiled. His chest swelled, all puffed up with pride and with joy, utterly ridiculous, and Jenkins felt a shard of something icy slide into his gut. He looked at Judson's pride in Flynn, and felt a stab of grief that suddenly made everything so horribly clear. What he was feeling. Why he was feeling it. He understood now. He really did. And oh, how he wished he didn't.
"He's the best," Judson agreed, ducking his head shyly. "The Librarian we've been looking for, all this time. Someone who can make the last chance a reality. He's a good boy, Flynn. We're, ah. We're very proud of him, Charlene and I."
"... You should be," Jenkins managed. He swallowed the lump in his throat enough to smile, enough to make it look almost real. "Even if it's not enough to defeat what's coming, he'll give it his all. They all will. They'll do the Library proud, Yehudah."
Judson, Yehudah, St Jude. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes, the Guardian of the Impossible, and the man who'd spent all of himself, even past the point of death, defending the world that one last trick at a time. Yes, Jenkins thought. Flynn was exactly the kind of Librarian, the kind of man, to carry on that legacy.
Flynn was ... the best kind of son.
Judson stared at him. Startled, a frown beginning to creep across his face, and Jenkins looked away hurriedly. He looked back down at the floor, at the tea set, at anything else in the universe. This was why he'd wanted some peace and quiet. He couldn't deflect worth a damn right now, could he? So he looked away, and hoped it counted for the best.
He looked back again a second later, though, when he heard a strange, fizzing sort of sound, and snapped his head around in horror to find Judson climbing out of the mirror. Sort of. As best he could. He faded half out of sight almost immediately, a translucent collection of orange sparks with the image of a man rather carelessly draped across them, but he managed it more or less. He stood there, at what had to be an insane energy cost for his circumstances, and Jenkins could only gape at him.
"Don't mention this to Charlene," Judson warned, grimacing faintly. "She's going to kill me all over again as it is. And don't mention it to Flynn, either. This is just between you and me, alright?"
Jenkins stared at him. "What ... are you doing?" he demanded. His hands came up around his head, grasping at the air in frustration, hoping to find something containing some form of sense. There had to be something somewhere, something he could siphon off, inject into the proceedings. "You're dead. The energy costs for even a semi-corporeal manifestation ... what are you doing?"
Judson grinned. He looked so evil sometimes. He looked like this tired, rumpled little man, and then he did something, he smiled or he killed someone, and he looked ... He looked like a two thousand year old warrior of knowledge who had just remembered how to kick your ass. It was alarming. Really, it was.
Then Judson reached out, manifested a sensation of weight and presence around his hand the better to touch Jenkins, to grip his shoulder gently, and Jenkins stopped thinking altogether. He blinked, looking from the hand to Judson's face, and couldn't think of a thing.
"You did the right thing, Galahad," the Librarian said softly. "You didn't want to, but you did it anyway. You made a space where the impossible was possible, and you saved our people doing it. I know things haven't been easy lately. Facing your father. Having to choose a side all over again. I know things have been hard for you. But I think ... I think you proved them right. The ones who said you'd be a greater knight than your father ever was. You proved them right, and I think he knew it, too. I think, somewhere in his heart, that he was proud of you for it."
Jenkins made a sound, a ragged, guttural thing. He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head onto his chest. Judson didn't let go. He kept his hand tight around Jenkins' shoulder.
"I betrayed him," Jenkins whispered. "He betrayed me, and I betrayed him back. I don't think pride ... I don't think ..."
"Sometimes heroes fall," Judson said, and there was a weight of knowledge in his voice. Jenkins looked up, through blurry eyes, and wondered briefly how many betrayals Judson -Yehudah- had seen. From the first, Judas in the garden, to the last, Edward Wilde, the failed Librarians, even Cassandra. "Sometimes heroes fall," he said, and Jenkins believed that Judson, of all of them, knew what he was talking about. "When they do, it's not a betrayal to fight them. It's ... It's an honouring, of who they were before. Of what they did that mattered to you. He wasn't always a madman, Galahad. He was a knight once, one of the best. That man would have been proud of your choice, and the strength you found to face him. Believe that. I do."
Travel well, whispered a voice in Jenkins' memory, his father's voice on the day of the Conclave. Travel well, Lancelot had said, when Galahad had refused to join him. Maybe ... Maybe there had been a part of his father left. Maybe it had been enough.
"And if that's not enough," Judson continued, looking vaguely uneasy once again. Almost shy, Jenkins thought, and blinked at him a little bit. "That is ... Well. You've done good work here, you know. You've, ah. What I mean is, we're proud of you too. I am. We all are. You ... you did good. You should remember that. When, you know. When things are hard."
He coughed uneasily, stepping back and beginning to fade a bit around the edges, and Jenkins stepped after him, entirely on instinct once again. He stepped back into Judson's space and reached out his own hand to grip, carefully, at the hollow space where a shoulder should have been. It didn't work as well on a ghost as he would have liked, but he thought it worked well enough for the job.
"Thanks," he said, not quite meeting Judson's eyes, as embarrassed as the other man and more so. But it had to be said. Colonel Baird had gotten that much right, he thought. Sometimes, the words had to be said. "Thank you. It, ah. It means a lot."
Judson shuffled, his hands twitching at his sides. "You're welcome," he managed, and Jenkins had to laugh at them. The pair of them, standing there like a pair of idiots. One of them missing the father he hadn't known in years, and the other missing the son that wasn't really his. They were ... god, they were idiots. All of them.
"You should get back before Charlene catches you," he said, letting Judson go and retreating to the worktable once more. "She's, ah. She's going to be pretty mad once she realises what you've done."
"Yes," Judson said, a little distantly. He shrugged, blinking a bit and visibly pulling himself together, before visibly tearing himself apart again. The manifestation crumbled, orange lights crackling as they melted back into the mirror frame, and Jenkins shook his head.
Hell with Charlene killing Judson. If she ever found out about this, she was going to kill him. And what's worse, he'd probably deserve it, too.
"Well," Judson said from the glass, back where he belonged and smiling sheepishly once again. "That was ... I think that accomplished something, don't you? A good talk. Yes. We should ..."
"Never do it again?" Jenkins asked mildly, and chuckled a little at the relief in Judson's face. "You know, no offence, but I always preferred Charlene. She's very ..." He held up a hand, pointed it ruefully in front of him like a blade. "She's very straightforward. It's much easier to deal with."
"Don't I know it," Judson muttered, but he didn't look offended. Not really. "I know I'd have been lost without her this last while. She's ... You don't meet someone like her just every millennium, I know that."
Jenkins paused, pulling back in sudden suspicion. Sudden realisation, perhaps. No. No, they wouldn't. Would they?
"Just out of curiosity," he started slowly. Disbelievingly. "What, exactly, have you two been doing in that Library all this time?" He waved a hand, watching the man carefully. "All alone. No-one else around. Together. You weren't ... You wouldn't. Would you?"
Judson stared at him for a second, his expression doing something indescribable, and then ... Then he up and vanished. Immediately. Without a single word. And Jenkins would have sworn that his expression, just before he went, looked like nothing so much as guilt. A mortified, horrified admission of guilt.
They ... They'd been doing it. They had. Judson and Charlene. They'd been doing ... something, Jenkins didn't even know what. Judson was incorporeal, how would they ...? But they were in the Library. They'd woven dimensional energy together, and transported themselves beyond reality, and then they'd ... Done something. Together. For all that time. Judson and Charlene.
Oh my God. Just ... No. Just no. First Flynn and Eve, and then ... No. Not happening. He wasn't thinking about it. At all. Ever. He was just ...
He was going to drink his tea, and then he was going to take something magical and mysterious and incredibly ancient apart in the workroom, and he was going to pretend this whole day had happened to someone else, somewhere else, who was not even remotely his problem.
Yes, he thought. That was the plan. That was a very good plan. He'd get to that right away.
God. This was why there should be nobody allowed in his Annex. The Library, that was one thing. That was the Librarian's problem, or Judson's problem, or somebody's problem. Not his. What happens in the Library stays in the Library, and what happens in the Annex ... Nothing happens in the Annex. That was the point. Nothing should be happening in his Annex. Ever. No kissing, no dying, no nothing.
Librarians. Why did he put up with them? Really, why? There was just ... there was no dealing with them. They were all trouble, every last one. From the first right down to the last, and everyone in between.
And some day, he thought ruefully, when he was feeling a little more honest that he was now, he might even admit that he loved it.
Hah! That'd be the day, alright. That'd be the day.
A/N: The Judson-as-St-Jude thing isn't canon, I know, but given the revelations in 'Judas Chalice' it seemed to make sense? Judson was potentially revealed as 'The Scholar', Yehudah, which is a variant Hebrew form of Judah, Judas, Judd, Judson or Jude, all meaning 'praised'. He's supposedly also over 2000 years old, and possibly the Library's founder. In the Librarians universe, Judas became the first vampire, so Judson is unlikely to be him. There was, however, another Biblical Jude, and give that he became known as the patron saint of hopeless causes, of the hopeless and despaired, and the patron saint of the impossible, I thought that rather suited the Librarian? Heh. It worked for me, so I went with it.
I was actually rather proud of figuring out Dulaque/Lancelot fairly early, but Jenkins being Galahad ... ouch. The purest knight, the grail knight (which possibly explains why the Library's had it for a while), and Lancelot's illegitimate son. That moment in 'Apple of Discord', Jenkins': "No. We choose. A thousand years ago. You know that very moment when you and I stopped being ... whatever we were." And then Dulaque's answer. Ouch. No wonder Jenkins was so battered-sounding that episode.
So, ah. Hence the hurt/comfort? Heh.
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