"Come on, it wasn't that bad," Jacques said, trying to sound a bit reassuring to his unresponsive companion, who was wallowing in self-pity.
Good things take time, or so they say. Sure, that doesn't exactly tell you how much patience it will probably take, too.
"Atlas wasn't built in a day, you know." He nudged her, only to receive a pitiful groan in return. "You just need a bit of patience."
Patience.
That word wasn't exactly a staple in his vocabulary. Oh, both he and his predecessor could fake it well enough—Jacques had built an empire on faking things, and Jack was patient enough not to kill anyone (too close semi-accidental occasions notwithstanding) in his short twenty-four years, despite many deserving it—so playing mediator between a neglectful mother and her children? Sure, it probably required a different skill set and level of restraint he wasn't used to, but he could always bullshit with the best of them, so it was manageable. Barely.
The breakfast had been… not the ultimate success? But also not the train wreck he'd been bracing for as the worst-case scenario. So a good ol 3.6 roentgen.
Even if Jacques had to do most of the heavy lifting, Winter had proved to be a somewhat reliable ally. She'd managed to steer the conversation away from total collapse, bless her dutiful heart even if her chosen topics leaned far too militaristic for the breakfast table. Willow had made an effort to engage, but, as it turned out, wine bottles weren't great at giving conversational pointers.
Whitley, who had been undoubtedly the strongest contender for the most miserable person on that table, at least, refrained from throwing any direct barbs at Willow, which was about the highest praise Jacques could give for the morning. He just focused on trying to take all of Jacques' attention.
Jacques would take that as progress, even if the bar for success was currently buried somewhere down in Mantle. "The first stone laid in Mantle still holds the weight of the city," and would you look at him?! Using proverbs and shit from this world? He was actually getting used to this nonsense.
But he did have a point(he always does) because progress didn't always mean fireworks or grand epiphanies; it often looked like awkward silence and forced politeness. A quiet battlefield where nobody emerged victorious, but at least no one came out bleeding from a wine bottle to the head—no, he was never letting that shit go! That had to count for something, right?
He glanced over at Willow, slumped in the armchair across from him, staring blankly at the unlit fireplace. Her hands gripped a glass of watered-down wine, which Jacques knew tasted like absolute garbage; his superior palate could attest to that. Still, at least she wasn't trying to down the whole bottle this time. She was keeping her promises. That was progress, too!
Willow let out a groan, leaning forward and pressing the glass against her forehead. Her brows knitted together, eyes closed.
Not ready to call it progress, huh?
Not yet.
"He hates me," she finally muttered. "I thought you said that was a lie."
Jacques rolled his eyes. "I didn't lie. He doesn't hate you. Trust me."
"You're right. He fucking loathes my guts."
Jacques barely stifled a groan of his own, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, for crying out loud, Willow." He waved a hand dismissively. "He doesn't hate you. If Whitley hated you, trust me, you'd know. He might think he's pretty slick, but the boy's about as subtle as a brick through a window."
Willow didn't lift her head, the rim of her glass still pressed against her forehead. "Then what do you call whatever that was this morning? He refused to look at me, let alone talk with me, Jacques."
"A great starting point," Jacques said bluntly, folding his arms. "He wants to convince you and himself that he hates you, and even if he actually did, that's great!"
Willow stared at him like he'd grown a second head—but not with the disdain usually reserved for something stuck under her shoe, or worse, an idiot. Progress all around. She finally spoke, her voice incredulous. "It's great that my son hates me? Jacques, did you check your head lately?"
"I did, and it's still as full of glorious hair as ever." Unlike Klein's bald coconut. Heh. Fucking baldy."But my point is... That means that, in a roundabout way, he still cares about you. Or at least your existence. Because, my dear, adorable Willow, the opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference."
He finished with a smug, self-satisfied nod. He should check if that saying existed in Remnant. If not, he was definitely going to claim it, hon hon!
Willow groaned again, dragging the glass down to her lap as she leaned back. "So, by your logic, I should be grateful my son barely acknowledges my existence because it means he doesn't completely despise me?"
Jacques clapped his hands once, leaning forward with a grin. "Exactly! See, you do get it."
Her glare could've melted ice. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet, here I am. Believe it." He spread his arms, gesturing as if to say, Look at all this brilliance. "Whitley is a smart boy, Willow, but he's still a boy. He's hurt, he's confused, and he's stubborn, gee, wonder where he got that from."
Willow's expression darkened, but Jacques pressed on undeterred, tapping his temple. "Love and Hate are different sides of the same coin." He was gonna claim that saying too. "We simply have to flip the coin."
"That's your big plan?"Willow arched a brow, unimpressed. "Flip the coin?
Jacques leaned back, completely unbothered. "Exactly. And lucky for you, I'm excellent at flipping things—coins, fortunes, situations." You, over my bed, one of these days. He gestured broadly with a smug grin tugging at his lips. "It's practically my specialty."
Willow sighed, dragging her hand down her face. "You make it sound so simple."
"That's because it is simple. Not easy, mind you. It's going to be hard as a bitch, but it's not complicated." Jacques leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his tone grew just a bit more serious. "Willow, our son doesn't hate you. He's just... testing the waters, whether he knows it himself or not. You've been distant for years; can you blame him for not diving in headfirst?"
Her lips parted slightly as if to argue, but no words came out. Jacques took that as his cue to continue.
He threw the hook.
"We flip the coin by giving him reasons to, oh, I don't know, want to see the other side. Show him that you're trying. That you really want to change. That is what will matter in the end." He smirked, shrugging. "And if you mess it up, well, try again. Atlas wasn't built in a day, and let me tell you, you have one hell of an architect helping you. "
Willow scoffed, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward ever so slightly before she realized and scowled. "You're insufferable."
She took the bait unknowingly.
Jacques smirked as he moved to stand behind her chair, his hands casually resting on the backrest. Jacques leaned over the backrest, getting closer, practically towering over her. "So, are you giving up?"
Willow shot him a sideways glance. "I never said that."
"What are you going to do?"
Willow huffed. "Something."
"Ah, so you do have a plan then?" Jacques's grin stretched wider.
"I said I've got something."Willow shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"Oh, really?" the smugness practically dripping from his voice. He leaned a bit more. "Something vague, huh? Care to enlighten me, or should I start guessing?"
Willow met his gaze challengingly, even with the awkward position. "I'm not giving up. I'll keep trying. That's the plan."
Jacques raised a brow. "Trying? What's your big strategy? Sounds like an Atlas C-rank mission: no clear objectives, no guaranteed results. Real solid plan there."
"I'll make him see I'm here. I'll show him I'm trying." Willow snapped upright, growling at him. The Lady of the house sure had a temper. How scary~
Jacques leaned closer and the smugness was cranked up to eleven. "And what if he doesn't care? What if he still pulls away? What if all this trying of yours amounts to nothing?"
Her jaw clenched, her words coming out clipped. "Then I'll try harder, damn it! What else do you expect me to do?"
His grin turned devilishly amused. "Try harder? That's the fallback, is it? And what does that actually mean, hmm?" He taunted. "More vague promises, or do you plan to outline this glorious escalation of effort?"
Willow matched his movement, leaning in closer with a sneer. "It means I fight for it! I'll keep pushing until something changes, until I get through to him."
It couldn't be this easy, now could it?
Jacques didn't flinch, his face now mere inches from hers. "Oh, I see, fight for it. Very dramatic. And if that still doesn't work, Willow? What's your next brilliant move? Going to flip the breakfast table?"
Her temper finally flared, her tone sharp and nearly a growl. "Then I scream 'I LOVE YOU' in his face!"
"And what if he tells you to fuck off, and leaves?!" Jacques decided to keep pushing.
"I'll drag him back kicking and screaming if I have to!"
Jacques leaned in even closer. Oh, this was way too much fun! "Oh, I'd pay good money to see that. You, storming into his room, dragging him by the collar, yelling 'You will love me, damn it!'Brilliant."
Willow's glare could've ignited the wine in her glass. "I'm not joking, Jacques."
"Neither am I!" he shot back. "I'm genuinely entertained by this image. But seriously, Willow, what's the next step after that?! You yell, you drag, and then what? Handcuff him to the dinner table and force him to smile!?"
Willow was practically yelling at this point. "I'll make him listen! I'll prove to him that I care, no matter what it takes!"
"And if he still doesn't believe you? If he shuts you out completely?"
Willow's fists clenched at her sides hard enough to crack the seat. "Then I'll try again! I'll keep trying until I break through to him, Jacques! He's my son—I'm not giving up on him!"
"But can you actually do it!!?"
"Of course, I fucking can!!"
Jacques smiled, letting the silence be filled with her heavy breath as she glared at him.
In the end, Willow did really make it that easy.
Willow stiffened suddenly as she finally realized just how close they were. She instinctively tried to push herself out of the chair, but Jacques was quicker. He pressed the backrest down, tilting the chair toward him. Her feet left the ground, and his hand caught her arm firmly before she could pull away.
With no footing, he held her in place on a rocking back chair. The back of her head leaned onto his chest.
"What the F—"She looked up, and the words died in her throat.
He really was glad he mastered that light trick.
His glowing blue eyes bore into her wide eyes.
"I suppose it really is that simple." His voice was low, smooth, and maddeningly sure of himself. "Just keep trying." He leaned in, his voice became even smoother, and fuck me, Jacques had one hell of a voice when he wanted to, getting closer, filling the last bit of space between them.
"That's why I'll keep trying too," he said, his tone dropping even further. "No matter how many times you insult me, how many times you push me away, how many bottles you break over my head..." His grip on her arm tightened slightly as his other hand slid over hers, keeping it still. Just a tad bit aggressive.
Willow's breath caught again, her heart thudding loud enough for his improved hearing to catch.
"...I'll keep trying until I flip your coin."
Willow's wide eyes and slightly ajar mouth hung lamely, as if her brain had temporarily shut down. For a moment, he considered pushing it further, but then, the thought of a shallow grave and the very real and painful consequences stopped him.
A shame.
So, reluctantly, he righted himself and let go of the chair, watching it softly settle back onto the carpet. He looked down at it and the unmoving woman whose lovely ass was on it for a moment, then straightened, his grin widening as if the past few moments had never happened.
"So, let's both do our best, yeah?" he said, grinning wide with a way too casual smile. "We've got one hell of a task ahead of us. But hey, what's a little challenge between us?"
Willow didn't respond. He didn't expect her to. Jacques wasn't the type to wait for permission, and he certainly wasn't going to stand there in the same room for too long. With a quick sidestep, he strolled past the hanger, grabbed his jacket off the hook, and shrugged it on with a practiced ease that screamed I'm too good at this.
He really was too good at this.
"Don't get too hung up on breakfast with Whitley," He said again and threw her a look over his shoulder. " What happened at breakfast wasn't anything. Just a matter of time, that's all."
He opened the door with a flourish, more dramatic than necessary, but it felt good to make a small exit. He glanced back at Willow and flashed her a grin. "Let me know when you want to repeat this little chat. I'll be right here, as usual, not running away from my problems."
"Goodnight, my dear," he added with an exaggerated bow. It was more of a show than anything, but it always worked. Always. Most of the time.
With a small chuckle to himself, Jacques strutted down the hallway, already feeling the rush of victory fill him up. He passed by a confused Ohma with her hurried footsteps. She was probably worried about Willow after what happened this morning. The poor Head Maid. Even after their supposed fight, she was a bundle of concern and a little too protective of her lady.
God bless the Head Maid; she really did care a little too much sometimes.
As Jacques walked, he silently counted down in his head. When the countdown hit the fifth second, he switched from a stroll to a jog. In the distance, he heard the sound of Willow's glass shatter.
Then, with all the grace and abandon of someone who had mastered the art of self-sabotage for shits and giggles, Jacques broke into a full sprint. His triumphant laughter followed after his glorious saunter through the hall.
He turned a corner at full speed, and just as he did, a wine bottle going at a speed Mach Five whizzed by his head, missing by bare inches.
He didn't bother to slow down.
The sounds of Willow's swearing bloody curses and the frantic voice of Ohma, calling out in worried distress, were the perfect soundtrack to Jacques's manic laugh.
Opposite to popular belief back home, Jack was a man of sheer fucking commitment, and when he decides on something he does it. He didn't forget about the little sub-item on his list.
He was definitely tapping that.
He was, after all, El Gran Don Juan.