Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You wake up. 

It isn't pleasant. 

There's a pounding in your head behind your eyes and through your skull like someone hammering in a railroad spike.  You groan.  Or, you think you do, anyways.  With ears that pop, your hearing warbles as though underwater.  There's something touching you.  Face twisting, your eyes blearily open.  The regret is instant, overbright saturated colors making your head scream in pain.  Jaw working, your ears finally pop back into relative normalcy. 

"-Can you hear me?  Hello?" 

That voice.  You know that voice.  You've heard it before. 

You try to slowly work yourself back to... yourself.  You can feel shaggy carpet under your fingers, rough and plastic.  You're definitely fully clothed, so that's nice.  At least you didn't fling yourself at some random guy to get over- 

"Sunshine?  Are you okay?" 

That voice again. 

You groan, opening your eyes slowly.  Your vision swims before steadying, the blur of blue and red becoming solid.  Your head is pounding and you grunt with the effort it takes to open your eyes.  White ceiling.  Popcorn.  Gorgeous light blue hair framing a face that would be pretty damn good looking, if not for the clown make up.  He's in pale blue pajama pants and a white sleep shirt, clearly ready for bed.  The face grins brilliantly down at you and you close your eyes again with a grimace.  Too bright.  

"Good morning!" he calls loudly. 

Instinctively, your hand slaps up over a mouth making startled noises.  You clasp your hand around soft lips.  You hope you didn't kiss this guy while you were blacked out drunk, which is what you're suspecting has happened.  You'd like to have been able to remember what happened.  Right now though, you just feel... wrong.  Like you put on your clothes backwards. 

"Not so loud," you grumble, hand sliding clumsily off his lips.  Laying there on the carpet with a clown hovering over you is not the weirdest way you've woken up.  "Where am I?" you ask, voice cloudy with cotton. 

The voice comes again, softer now, something reverent in it.  "You're in my living room.  Are you okay?  Does your head hurt?" 

Instead of answering directly, you continue to lie with your eyes closed, just cracking one barely.  The hot clown guy is staring down at you, worried, but undeniably pleased looking.  Maybe you did fuck him last night, or he at least thought you were going to.  There's no reason for him to be so pleased about a hungover bitch on his living room carpet.  The chances weren't looking good for him if you continued to feel so nauseous.  You might fuck a clown drunk, but hungover?  Your standards skyrocket.  There was, frankly, very little chance. 

"Sunshine?" he asks. 

"Am I dead yet?" you ask bluntly. 

His eyes widen with worry, his pleased expression draining away.  "No?  At least, I don't think so". 

Groaning, you bring your arm up over your eyes sluggishly.  "Ugh...  Okay, fine, damn it.". 

Slowly, you work your way up into a sitting position.  "Why the fuck am I in your living room?" you ask, voice rasping.  You hiccup, palm slapping over your mouth as you vomit a little into your mouth.  You force yourself to swallow the bile back down, unwilling to puke on a hot stranger's carpet. 

"Just take it easy," the clown soothes.  There's a hand on your back and you want it  off.   You shrug the hand away and fix him with a one-eyed glare, head still pounding railroad spikes.  Shrugging your shoulder until his hand falls off you look around the room, taking in pale blue walls with soft tan carpet.  It's a modest, but old fashioned room.  There's a faded yellow corduroy couch, a wooden coffee table, there's a wall of built-in shelves with novels and VHS tapes filling them, knick-knacks speckling them.  There's a large, dark purple reading chair in the corner with a lamp, and doors leading presumably to the rest of the house, and right in front of you is an old box television.  It's definitely old, has to be, but it looks fairly well kept and almost new, with a VCR wired up under it.  It's on, but on a black screen, a tape inside popped out with the film reel seemingly exploded out of it, with the scent of melted plastic in the air.

You turn your hard gaze back on the clown.  "You're not answering me," you rasp with a cold glare, throat sour and pained with acid.  "Did we fuck?" 

The clown pulls back at that, startled.  His cheeks flush, muting his red face paint on his cheeks somewhat.  "W-What?" 

You snort.  "So, no, then".  You glance around, vision getting clearer by the second.  The nausea is abating a bit, letting you catch a breath, but the headache remains.  "Look, whoever you are, I'll just go.  Sorry for crashing on your carpet," you say, using the table to pull yourself up to stand. 

"Wait!  Please-" the clown pleads, catching your arms when you nearly topple over, a wave of dizziness hitting you.  You flinch wobbling in his steady grip.  Your teeth bare unconsciously, hissing air through your teeth.   

"I said, don't touch me!" you snap, your whole body tense as a wire and bristling with the sudden spike of rage that fills you up hotly.

He flinches, worry and hurt clouding his pretty face.  You immediately feel bad.  The poor guy is just trying to help your sorry ass off his carpet and all you're doing is bitching at him for catching you when you fall.  His hands hover over your shoulders as you straighten your leather jacket.  "I... don't like being touched," you say, with less hostility this time. 

The clown smiles a little wobbly thing, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges.  "That's alright.  I'm sorry, I just didn't want you to fall," he says softly.  His lashes are long and dark like a doe's. 

Now you really feel bad.  Your insides kind of melt a little with his big doe eyes looking at you all sweet-like, so you let him lead you to the couch and give you a glass of water.  You're taking little sips, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye as he sits down next to you, a good foot of distance between you.  He's giving you a cautious smile, and you feel similarly.  He doesn't look like he'd drug you but you don't know jack shit about this clown. 

You set the barely touched glass down, licking your chapped lips.  "So...  Stop me if you've heard this one before, but, 'Who's this clown?'" 

He tilts his head like a puppy.  "I beg your pardon?" 

You grimace.  "What's your name, dude, you still haven't told me who you are". 

Some sister of hurt flashes across his face but the clown hides it with a large smile.  He seems happy enough.  Your guts churn like it's full of centipedes.  "I'm sorry, I never introduced myself!  My name is Jack!  Folks around here call me Sunny Day Jack!" He says energetically.  "And you, friend?  What's your name?" 

You blink.  Yeah, this guy is nuts, or at least so deep in his clown persona he forgot he was human.  Not to say clowns aren't human, of course. 

You tell him your name and he nods, saying it once to taste its flavor.  You look around, frowning.  You bring your arms up, stretching.  Every joint you have seems to pop at once, lending you a bit of relaxation.  The pops in your neck when your head turns are especially delightful.  Opening your eyes, you take in Jack's mortified features.  You nearly laugh but bite your tongue and relax back against the couch.  "So... how did I get here?  I didn't break into your house, did I?" 

Jack does laugh at that and shakes his head, hands folding politely in his lap.  "No, I don't think you broke in.". 

"Why?  You got really good locks or something?"

Jack smiles, something smug crawling over his face holding hands with a vague sense of amusement that gives you the impulse to hit him with your car.  "I don't lock my door". 

Your brows raise, then you immediately regret it when a spike of pain shooting through your skull.  "That's a good way to get murdered.  You already got a stranger in your house, randomly.  That's probably how this shit happened". 

The clown just smiles at you.  "You're not a stranger, though.  I know your name now!" 

For some reason all of his chipper attitude bothers you.  He's looking at you with starry eyes like a kid who finally got the puppy they begged their parents for.  You look away, taking one last sip of water before standing back up.  "Well, I'll get out of your hair.  Sorry for the trouble," you mumble, taking a couple cautious steps toward a door.  "Just tell me where the door is and I'll be on my way". 

That seems to alarm him.  "Oh no, you can't go out now!  Wait until morning, the trains and the buses don't run so late.  And it's dark out!" 

You frown.  "What fucking time is it?"  Uncertainty brews in your gut. 

Jack the clown looks at his watch, though not without a little bit of a disapproving look at how much you've been swearing.  "It's 3:44am". 

That can't be right.  You feel almost sure that it was close to the time you had to go to work at... some point.  You...  You'd been trying to sober up, hadn't you?  Mind aching, you tried to shuffle through your memories but they slipped away like smoke.  You'd gotten sopping drunk, of that you're sure... did you go out?  You must have at some point.  You close your eyes, rubbing your brow.  You can't remember leaving your house... You'd started drinking at home, of that you're sure.  The last clear memory you'd had was pulling out that obnoxiously expensive scotch Ian bought when you'd still been together as a pride gift to himself, and pouring yourself a drink.  After that... 

After that... 

Your mouth tastes like metallic electricity. 

You open your bleary eyes, feeling some impending sense of happening.  Your eyes dart down to where Jack's hand hovers over yours at your side.  Looking up to his face, you meet his gaze with a glare.  He gives you an apologetic smile and neatly pulls his hand back to his lap.  See?  I'm not doing what I know bothers you, just like you told me.  I am not an enemy, he seems to say, looking into your eyes with earnest comradery. 

"You can stay the night," he says gently.  "I can drive you to the bus stop or the train station in the morning". 

There's a firmness in his voice you usually hear from overly affectionate grandmothers that feel like everyone is their grandkid.  The overwhelming desire to be polite and go above and beyond to make some random person feel special.  You wish you had the luxury. 

"I really couldn't," you say firmly, not exactly excited to be out on the street at 3am, but what are you supposed to do?  You can't stay here, imposing on this overly friendly clown man.  If he's got bad intentions, you shouldn't be around him.  If he's got good intentions, then he shouldn't be around you.  It's a no win scenario for anyone here.

"I insist!" He says with a big smile, eyes big and hopeful.  "I have a guest room with a bed that's much more comfortable than the floor.  I'd be the shame of the town if I shoved you out into the cold!" He says with firm hospitality. 

"Look, that's really nice of you, but I don't fucking know you, no offense.  I'd really rather get home".  Your voice is cold and strained.

You both stare at each other a moment, his face worried and put down while you feel your headache coming back.  Bad becomes worse and your vision swims, guts churning in protest. 

"Fuck," you say faintly. 

"Sunshine?" 

"Where's the fucking trash?!" You gurgle with urgency.  Jack seems to recognize something in your face and pales, helping you through a door into a bathroom.  Focusing hard to keep yourself restrained, you stumble with your mouth drooling as destiny crawls up your throat with acidic fingers.  You make for the toilet like it's the last one in the world, falling to your knees with a crack you barely feel.  Falling forward, you retch. 

That expensive scotch didn't taste that great the first time, but it tasted even worse a second time around.  You must have been trying to sober up at some point too, because that's definitely a BLT and coffee you're tasting too. 

When you come back to yourself, there's a hand in your hair, pulling it back and out of the danger zone of your mouth.  You cough, picking your head up a moment, wheezing.  A faint reflection of yourself stares back at you, mostly just an outline in the white of the porcelain lid. 

"Shhh...  That's it, Sunshine, you're okay... Let it all out..." the clown says soothingly.  "I'm just holding your hair, okay?  Can I rub your back?" 

Fuck it.  You're weak.  You crumple into his hands like a wet paper towel with a miserable nod, hungover and soggy like a stray cat caught in the rain.  Through the leather of your jacket you feel the vague shape of a hand rub your back comfortingly.  Acid stings your throat raw as you take gulping breaths.  Quickly, your vision starts to swim again and you lean down in desperate prayer, breathing in the smell of cold, stale water.  Jack's large hand adjusts, gathering your hair back in his hand.  Your face numbs as you purge again, thankfully mostly liquid this time.  Hands clutching the edge of the toilet, you can't help but want to cry.  You don't. 

Finally, the waves cease for a moment, nausea abating.  You fall backward into a sit, leaning your head against the cool tile of the wall, panting with effort.  Jack's hands leave you and you can feel him watching.  For a moment, all is quiet until you hear him murmur your name.  One of your eyes cracks open as you breathe heavily, a glass of water held in front of your face.  You take it with weak, grateful hands and sip, no longer bothering with the notion of him drugging you.  If he wanted you out cold, he'd have bashed your head against the tile while you were bent over and he had a hand in your hair.   

"Thanks," you mutter, closing your eyes and trying to count your breaths back, taking in the cool water.   

"You aren't well," Jack says with that sweet, insistent tone again.  "Please.  I can't stop you if you want to leave but... I really think it would be best if you rested for tonight, Sunshine.  Going out on your own when you're in such bad shape will only make things worse.  Relying on your friends is how you make it through difficult situations, especially when they want to help you".  

Looks like you're staying, at least for a couple hours. 

"Fine," you grunt, somewhat fed up with his overly sweet preaching.  He smiles down at you, looking very much like the cat that got the canary.

Eventually, Jack helps you into a stand, holding your elbow with care as he leads you to a guest room, painted a buttery, pale yellow.  There's a quilt atop a queen bed with natural wood furniture; a bedside table, dresser, and a desk in the corner with a lamp on it.  There's a couple windows, one framed by a shrub of some kind.  It's too dark to see much else, but you think you see a street lamp outside.  You fall on top of it, not bothering to get under.  You don't want to bother with them now.  Jack allows it and comes by a moment later with a small trash can for in case you feel nauseous again. 

"Sleep well, Sunshine.  Things will seem better in the morning; you'll see," he says encouragingly, his figure a silhouette in the light of the outside room.  It disappears with the light, his hand a shadow that closes the door. 

Closing your eyes, you pass out.  At least, you think you do, a couple times anyways, but every time you wake it feels like you've only blinked before the need to vomit again rears its ugly head.  You take a drink of water every time, only to vomit it up who knows how long later.  You pray to a different god every time for you to never drink again. 

Time doesn't seem real until once you blink your eyes and you can see a little better.  Pale light has started to filter through the sheer curtains, revealing flowers embroidered in them.  Stomach a little more settled, but still painful with all the vomiting, you sit up, slamming back the last little bit of water.  Glad to be sober, you slowly shuffle out of bed.  Maybe you can slip out before your clownish host wakes back up.  Guilt gnaws at your gut at how unfriendly you'd been to him when you'd first woken up; the guy had been nothing but kind to you, letting you stay despite the carnage you'd left in his bathroom.  Whatever his motives may have been, you owed him.  The best repayment you could think of was getting out of his hair, and maybe cleaning his bathroom a bit. 

Using a cleaning wipe, you give his counter and toilet a once over clean, washing your hands after.  It's not a deep clean, but it's at least a little nicer than it was before, so you're sure he'll appreciate it.  After helping yourself to a bit of mouthwash, you slowly navigate the house.  Steps socked and silent, shoes missing.  You say a little prayer that they're by the door, or you'll find them under an open window somewhere.  Still with no recognition of the house you supposedly broke into, you creep down hallways of color. 

You freeze, spotting a shadowy figure moving at the end of a hallway.  You open your mouth to call out, then pause.  Slowly, you raise your right hand.  The figure raises its left.  Mirror.  A funhouse mirror, you realize with exasperation as you get closer.  What a fucking weirdo.  Who the hell would buy one of these things?  It's not a fucking Ray Bradbury story, Jesus.  You can respect a commit to the bit, but this is a bit too much for you.  You creep past it, embarrassed and irritated with your fear instinct and continue your search of the house.  Finally, you make your way into the kitchen with old fashioned appliances.  Pastel fridge that was popular in the 70s and 80s, old stove, and a clock that looks like a cat with clown makeup too that tells you that it is now almost 5am.  That leads into a dining room that leads to a mudroom that leads to, at last, what looks like a front and back door. 

Alas, no shoes of yours did you find. 

Well, you know how to avoid broken glass for the most part, and at least you've still got your socks.  It'll be a cold walk home in the winter, but at least it's something. 

You slowly turn the door handle of the front door, opening it quietly to reveal a suburb. 

A suburb? 

You lived in an apartment.  In the city . 

A warm breeze brushed your hair from your face, flowers blooming in planters by the front door and in hanging baskets that dangle from the porch roof. 

Petunias. 

A perennial that grows in warm months. 

There were birds chirping, birds that should have flown south for the winter or hibernating.  It should have been silent, save for cars. 

Your stomach twists like a snake, and this time it's not with hungover nausea.  Doubt creeps in as you fumble with your jacket's zipper pocket, pulling out your phone.  Pressing the button to turn it on, you reveal your wallpaper and more importantly, your phone's clock. 

4:21 in the afternoon.  Nine whole hours of difference. 

It was impossible.  Your phone had to be broken, or got set to the wrong time accidentally.  Maybe you turned your location off, drunkenly trying to "hack" your phone so you could play a eroge for free or something as long as it registered you in a different country; it wouldn't have been the first time you'd done that.  But you had no service, no bars, not even SOS.  There was exactly nothing .  Even if you were in the middle of the fucking desert you should have had something .  Opening the phone with shaking fingers, you stand on the porch with the door open behind you, frantically trying to open your map application. 

The map is blank.   

All you get is a blank, black grid with your little blue dot and an infinitely spinning wheel of doom.  You try your rideshare app too and get something similar; an error code.  Your battery is half empty. 

Ice starts to settle in your stomach as you look up, staring out at the waking world as the sun slowly crawls over the horizon, lighting up the sky with pale orange, yellows, and blues.  Clouds stained pink drift across the sky with ease as a pair of cardinals flirt in a small hedge out front. The houses seem clean, with manicured lawns with ornaments that haven't been stolen or trashed, even a pink lawn flamingo in one.  There's no trash on the side of the road, no dead animals, no pollutive smell.  The trees are green and healthy, flowers blooming in the sun as it starts to warm the earth with morning.

Where the fuck were you? 

Chapter Text

You don't sleep a wink after your near escape. 

Trudging back to bed, you lay on top of the covers, fully clothed and feeling vulnerable as a rabbit in a trap. 

Nothing about the outside looked right.  You didn't recognize any of the houses when you walked out.  Usually at least your phone would have been able to tell you where you were, but with the lack of service you couldn't do shit. 

After stewing in the room for a while, you finally decide you can at least make yourself useful by making some coffee for your host.  Slowly, you sneak into the kitchen you'd found the other day and get to work on some coffee.  You try to look through the least amount of cabinets possible until you find some pre-ground beans.  Thank god the clown is a fan of convenience because there's no way you could have ground them quietly.  The coffee machine seems to be some kind of refurbished thing from about thirty or forty years ago, but it's still in really good condition, if a bit ridiculous with painted on smiles and clown face paint.  It still brews at least, although maybe you should worry this guy uses lead paint.  Either way, the coffee brews and after that rough of a night, you welcome caffeine with open arms and thirsty lips.  Considering how much you'd been vomiting though, maybe you should have been drinking water.  You needed a smoke. 

You look up when you hear footsteps approaching, pausing in the doorway.  The clown- Jack, you remind yourself- looks almost startled to see you.  Then, his face breaks out in a big smile, lighting up at the sight of you.  It's like the sun breaking the clouds after a long rain.   

"Good morning, Sunshine!" he says cheerfully, ruffling his bedhead ridden hair as if to tame it.  "Sleep okay?" 

"No," you say bluntly.  "I feel like shit, and I'm sure I look like it too". 

His smile fades a little, brows furrowing in worry.  "I'm sorry to hear that...  Do you at least feel a little better?  You look better than you did last night, at the very least," he says gently, looking you over carefully. 

You roll your eyes, trying not to show how badly your hands are shaking as you clutch your mug of coffee.  "Look, I'm just going to cut to the chase, okay?  Where the fuck am I?" you ask, voice gruff with the abuse your throat took. 

Jack looks startled before smiling with confusion.  There's something tempered in it though that sets your teeth on edge.  Now that you're sober and less sick, your eyes can track him a little easier, following movements and patterns.  He's familiar, somehow.  You've met him.  You swear to God you have, but you can't place him, and his name isn't familiar.  "You don't know where you are?  You're in Cloudytown, friend". 

You blink, staring at Jack hard as you pour him coffee.  He sort of squirms, looking anxious as you try to remember any kind of town that would resemble this one nearby.  Did you drunkenly get on a flight or something?  A train?  It doesn't make any sense at all.  Not the time change, not the altered season or even your phone not working.  The architecture outside was undoubtedly North American, but you hadn't the slightest of ideas where you were.  The name Cloudytown didn't ring any bells and as you pass a mug to Jack, your frown only deepens. 

You look up, catching his concerned look.  He's got his hands closed around his mug with a little clown face on it, tucking it away until it almost looks like his hands are steaming.  You sip from your own mug trying to steady yourself; it's the plainest one you could find, a bright cherry thing that was probably more for soup if it's larger size was anything to go by.  "Where... is Cloudytown?" you try again, watching him carefully.  "I'm still in the States, right?" 

Jack continues to stare.  "Yes, of course," he says, looking you over carefully.  "I don't mean to pry but... you seem a little nervous.  Did something happen?" 

Your lips thin, pressing together as you watch him from the counter as he sits down at the table.  "Look, just...  What state are we in right now, okay?  What day is it?" 

The clown's dark brows draw together as his worry seems to deepen.  "Are you al-" 

"Yes, I'm fucking fine, just tell me when and where the fuck I am!" You snap, cutting him off as your voice raises.  Something cold is sizzling, bubbling up in your throat and your grasp on it is hanging thinly. 

Jack flinches a little at your outburst.  "We're in Cloudytown, like I said, a-and that's in Michigan.  The lower peninsula..." he says slowly, watching your expression.  You'd feel bad in any other situation, but you're secretly grateful for the delicate touch he's giving you right now.  You feel delicate.  Very fucking delicate.  "I think today is... Tuesday?  No, Monday.  Monday the eighth of August". 

Fucking August?!   That made even less sense.  At least a drunken breaking and entering sounded in character for you, but you weren't such an alcoholic that you'd go on a seven month bender and somehow end up in Michigan from New York.  Had you been in a coma?  What the hell happened?  Was last night really seven months ago?  It didn't feel like any time at all had passed.  You crossed like four states and it's suddenly August.  You don't remember the last seven months of your life, and everything is wrong .  Where did you go?  Did you eat?  Sleep?  Did you fuck anyone without a condom while you were blitzed?  Oh god, what if you're pregnant somehow?  What if you caught something?  You're fairly responsible when you're sober, but when you drink you turn into a whole other animal.  Did you hurt anyone?  Did you kill someone?  Did- 

A newspaper is set down with a quiet noise next to your mug.  "Here, take a look," the clown says, but his words are lost on you as you take a look at the date: 

CLOUDYTOWN GAZZETTE 

AUGUST 8TH, 1983 

That's not fucking possible. 

It just.  Isn't.  

At least it wasn't a bender, your mind cooks up hysterically as you stare down at the newspaper with icy disbelief flooding your stomach.  Your body is numb, mind circling thoughts around and around like a spinning drain. 

This had to be a dream. 

Very carefully, you stand up and smoothly walk to the coffee maker and take the half-empty pot out. 

You vaguely hear Jack calling you but it's sunk beneath the ocean waves that crash around your thoughts. 

At least you had the sense to walk over to the sink before dumping the boiling hot coffee over your hand. 

The pain shocks you out of it even as your lungs seize in a repressed scream of pain.  Air sucks into them as your body prepares to scream, vision snapping crystal clear through the pain.  Gripping the carafe handle tightly, you set it carefully to the side with a shaking hand. 

"Sunshine!" Jack yells, tone high and fearful.  "Oh, oh my gosh, are you okay?!  Why did you-  Oh dear, here let me-"  His hands flutter over the sink, pushing the flower faucet over your hand and turning the cold water all the way up.  Pain races up your back like lightning, your fingers making claws as your other comes to clutch it at the wrist.  You close your eyes, every joint in your body locked.  Why didn't you just pinch yourself like a normal fucking person?  Why did you have to check if the coffee would burn you?  You curse yourself, your brain able to catch up with the thoughts running through your mind and order them better. 

It was August. 

You were in Michigan, more than five hundred miles from where you were. 

And somehow, it was 1983. 

"Sunshine, why did you do that?!" Jack asks, his worried voice loud in your ear.  You open your eyes, turning to look at your clownish acquaintance and feel a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in your gut.  It comes out shaky and warped by pain and disbelief.  His dark eyes turn on you, round with his own confusion. 

"Because," you begin with your voice surprisingly void of the emotion you feel so full of, "Somehow I'm forty fucking years in the past". 

"Sorry," you mutter, slathering burn cream on your hand that's sure to scar at least a little.  "I probably scared the shit out of you". 

Jack looks at you like you've grown four heads and two of them started making out.  He's holding the first aid kit open for you, occupying his hands so he doesn't try to touch you again.  So far it seems to be working okay.  "I'm perfectly fine, it's you that I'm worried about!  I'm just sorry you were so scared that you-" 

"I wasn't scared," you snap, interrupting him with a sharp look. 

You can't hold his pitying look.  His dark eyes seem to stare right through you.  "Sunshine.  There's nothing wrong with being-" 

"I said I wasn't scared ," you reiterate, less bite and more push, forcing yourself to look him dead in the eyes.  "It's just... kind of unbelievable, you know?  I thought I was dreaming." 

"Why didn't you just pinch yourself?!" he asks, like you're a fucking dumb ass. 

"Because I'm a fucking dumb ass, alright?!  Shit!" you snap, your fingernail scraping your sensitive skin on your wrist on accident as your temper flares.  Gritting your teeth, you force your breaths slower.  When you're a little calmer, you open your eyes again.

You both stand there silently staring at each other.  His face is long and worried, giving you these anxious, sad looks like you're a street dog chewing on your leg. 

Lips drawn into a tight, thin line, you put the burn cream back inside and pull out the bandages, carefully wrapping your hand and fingers.  Your hand feels a bit better now, but it's still smarting under the cool of the balm.  Tearing the medical tape with your teeth you slap it on to secure it with one handed difficulty.  You let out a sigh, uninjured thumb rubbing against the medical cloth.  Maybe Jack was right and he would have done a better job with both his hands available to help, but the thought of someone trying to help you, let alone touch you, felt sinister right now.

You're forty years in the past. 

You don't want to believe it, but there's no way that Jack could have set this up.  There's no reason for him to; even if you could swear he looks familiar, you don't fucking know him and the season doesn't lie.  It's definitely summer, and according to the newspaper, towards the end of it.  The only one you could see maybe being able to attempt something like this would be Shaun, and he wouldn't have done clowns of all things as his central aesthetic design.  They're not even creepy clowns, and none of this reeks of his design choices so it can't be him. 

Which means you really are in the past. 

It's a hard pill to swallow, so you sit with it for a while, Jack setting you up on the couch where you can now take a look and see a sliding glass door off to the side that opens up to a lovely backyard with some patio furniture and a fire pit.  Jack sort of lays a blanket over your shoulders awkwardly, but it feels too odd overtop your jacket and cumbersome, so you let it fall into a wrinkle around your hips as you hold your cup of coffee.  Jack had put a couple ice cubes in it, nervous to let you back around hot liquids, so now it was turning cold. 

"Are you... okay?" Jack asks slowly, tone soft as a kitten's first fur. 

You don't look away from your coffee for a moment.  "Not fucking really," you say dully.  "It's just..." Not possible, not real, not-  You set the mug down on the coffee table and put your head in your hands, groaning.  "Why is my life like this?" You grumble under your breath. 

The couch sinks a little next to you as you feel Jack sit down.  You glare at him out of the corner of your eye, watching his outstretched hand falter a moment.  He was about to pat your shoulder it looks like, but he immediately stops and sheepishly changes its path to rubbing behind his neck.  He gives you a small, encouraging smile.  "Please don't be upset.  I'm sure if we just take a deep breath and calm ourselves down, we can think about this rationally.  There's got to be some sort of very reasonable explanation!" he says very reasonably. 

You give him a withered look.  "There's a very reasonable explanation why I'm forty years in the past and over five hundred miles from where I was last night when I was hammered?" you deadpan. 

His smile gets a little sad.  You push down the feeling of guilt that crawls up your throat.  "Well... maybe not reasonable, but I bet there is a reason.  I know someone who can help at the very least!  She's a scientist, so maybe she'll figure something out!"  Jack seems to brighten at this thought.  "She'll be at her laboratory soon, so why don't we head over now?  Maybe she got there early today". 

Doubt crawls in like a dying carcass.  You don't think his friend will know much about this, but it's worth a fucking shot.  It's not like you have any connections here, or any ideas better than hitch-hiking back to New York where you don't have an apartment anymore .   

Jack ends up accepting your shrug of half-hearted agreement with a smile. 

Chapter Text

The shoes he offers you are ugly, red and yellow with a design like it had been made out of puffy paint by the McDonald's mascots.  They're a size too big, which you suppose is better than too small, but still.  You hope Shaun never sees you like this.  He'd never let you live it down. 

He leads you out to a truck only a few years older than the year you find yourself currently in.  It's somewhat invigorating to see such a gorgeous vintage car in nearly new condition, despite the circumstances.  Riding in it feels like a dream come true and it's a pleasant enough distraction.  You weren't much of a car person per say, but you definitely had a fondness for classic cars that was coming out passively as you tried to concentrate on that rather than your sense of impending doom.  Jack seemed to be picking up on it and smiled at you.  You didn't return it but gave him a nod that made his grin widen.  

Driving was... strange.  The houses were older fashioned for sure, some having that wacky 70s architecture experimentalism going on, but a common theme was bold primary colors or softer pastels.  Some even seemed to be themed, a building here and there shaped like whatever it was advertising: an ice cream parlor shaped like an ice cream cone (you tried not to look too hard at that one, remembering your shift in the morning), a planetarium shaped like Saturn, and other odd marvels.  You tapped your foot, listening to the radio that garbled at too low a volume to really understand.  Catching glimpses of people walking was equally strange.  People smiled and waved, some calling out a greeting to Jack with him returning it with ease.  They're all dressed as oddly as Jack, matching the architecture with oversaturated reds, blues, and yellows.  All of them, if not most, seem to also have some kind of face paint on too like there's a clown convention going on.  You swear you even saw a little kid with a rainbow propellor hat running with a pinwheel, all smiles like he was in an old sitcom or something.  You would have laughed if you weren't so nauseous.

"You're taking this in stride," you note, his demeanor calm and casual despite the oddness of what's going on. 

"So are you," he shoots back, giving you a glance with a small smile. 

"I scream on the inside". 

"Ah.  I see". 

Conversation dies with your bland responses.  You shift in your seat, watching the saturated world drift by.  Unease and uncertainty churns in your gut, writhing like snakes as your mind whirrs with possibilities.  There's so many questions you have that are unanswered, but hopefully this friend of Jack's can help sort them out.  Your heart sinks, thinking about how you were supposed to let Shaun in to room with you.  The poor guy was probably going to think you died, or worse, ran off and left him high and dry.  Or maybe he would know something was wrong and would come looking for you.  He'd find nothing, if you truly were in the past.  He'd be forty years too late, any evidence of you would be gone. 

Or maybe he wouldn't really care.  The thought was more sickening than you would admit.

"We're here," Jack says cheerfully, shutting the truck's engine off.  You carefully step out, looking up at the tall, white building in front of you.  All it reads is LAB in all capital letters.  The building is odd for the surrounding silly architecture, reading as plain and white, like an office building in modern times.  It's tall and square, but abnormally clean looking.  Now that you think about it, you hadn't seen much trash on the road, if at all.  "Don't worry; Dr. Erlenmeyer is one of the smartest people I know," he explains as you jog to catch up with his long strides.  He slows down, waiting for you to catch up as you walk into the building together.  "If anyone can figure this out, she can!" 

Stomach turning in anxiety you nod, sticking close to the clown.  If Jack is irritated by your clinginess, he doesn't mention it.  You walk through the building, mostly a sterile white to match the outer walls.  You relax a little, the familiar structure of it bringing you a bit of ease.  There weren't any computers around, just large filing cabinets and a box TV in the corner of the lobby playing some weird cartoon with smiling animals.  Jack gives you a smile and a nod, walking a little faster than you to get close to the receptionist.  You return it with a tight press of your lips, never quite able to give a full smile back yourself.  You turn, looking out the large windows that overlook the side garden, standing off to the side as Jack checks in with the front desk.  Catching a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye, you turn, watching as Jack gestures to you.  The receptionist, an equally clownish woman with a generous figure, acid green hair, and a chunky necklace peers curiously at you.  Jack, meanwhile, gives you a friendly wave that you return awkwardly, shifting in place as they talk.  The woman shoots you sidelong glances of interest, but ultimately smiles and nods along to whatever Jack is saying, handing him a pair of cards and waving goodbye as he leaves. 

"Okay," he says with a heavy breath, approaching you, handing one of the cards off to you.  Fingers wrapping around the glossy paper sticker that reads VISITOR PASS you stick it to your shirt over a vomit stain.  "Jackie phoned up and the Doc is in.  We should be able to just go up and see her!" 

Nodding silently, you follow, letting Jack lead the way to the elevator.  Stepping inside, it's awkwardly quiet.  Jack isn't saying anything, and you aren't about to start talking, mind busy trying to keep calm and think through the situation.  Suddenly, you blink and come back to yourself as the elevator pings, passing a floor.  Frowning, you look up, head cocked. 

"What's wrong?" Jack asks, looking over curiously. 

Your face twists in displeasure.  "Elevator music sucks," you say vaguely.  It's jazzy, but somehow also circus-y?  You seriously don't remember the eighties having this much clown iconography; granted you weren't alive then, but still, there should have been something to indicate it.  Jack chuckles, smiling and shaking his head; quietly accepting your answer. 

Thankfully you don't have to endure the odd but boring music long when you finally ping up to the fourth floor.  Jack leads you to a door, knocking once before cracking it open.  The place is open when you walk in, all sorts of half-finished machines and parts, chemical flasks, astronomy equipment, tools, labeled tanks of rats, and mathematical scribblings litter every table and wall.  It was the most generic scientist lab you'd ever seen, with no real specialization available for recognition, completely bizarre in its cartoonishly ordinary appearance. 

A tall, lean figure turns from one of the tanks, revealing a dark-skinned woman with curly blue hair pulled back by a pair of safety goggles.  She blinks in surprise but offers Jack and you a small smile.  "Hello again, Mr. Day.  What brings you here?  Stacie says you have a science emergency?" she asks in a smooth, even tone with curiosity plain in her eyes.  Her cheeks dimple with a smile, highlighting the blue circles of clown paint on them.  You want to scream.  What is with all the fucking CLOWNS?!  

"Yes indeed-y!" Jack chirps enthusiastically, oblivious to your mental torture, "This is my new friend."  Jack introduces you to the scientist, turning to you.  "This is Dr. Erlenmeyer!" 

"Right, and what kind of scientist are you?" You ask cautiously, thoughts crashing loudly in your head like waves. 

"The kind that studies science?" She says slowly, answering like it's the most obvious thing in the world and she doesn't understand your question.  You want to scream. 

Jack cuts in, giving her an apologetic look.  "Doc, we've got a big issue!  We were hoping you could help, maybe with using your scientific methods?" 

Dr. Erlenmeyer's brow quirks, interest peaking even more.  "Oh?  What sort of an issue is this?  If there's a problem, then science can help". 

Jack turns to you but your mind is blank aside from screaming, face empty of all emotion as you desperately try to get a grapple on your emotions.  Numbly, you listen as the room silences, both of them looking at you.  You want to grab that beaker off the desk and smash it.  You want to throw the chair out the window.  Just something to release this feeling boiling up inside you at how fucking insane you feel right now.  Nothing's even wrong, they're just talking, if rather oddly as though you're on Sesame Street.  Their speech patterns are odd, scripted things with far too genuine emotion behind them to be real.  You needed distance.  You were used to distance.

Finally you pull yourself together.  It felt like a year had passed, but it seems like it had only been a few seconds, both of the clowns patiently watching you.  Jack watches with a slight worry to his brow, softened by a hopeful smile, but the scientist is watching you with open interest, the rat peeking out of her pocket with equal curiosity.  Jesus fucking Christ , even the rat seems to have face paint, with a little purple patch around his eye and a couple patches on its back.  The hilarity of the situation mingles with your hysteria as you swallow in preparation of speaking.  "I, uh, I'm not supposed to be here," you say dumbly. 

Dr. Erlenmeyer quirks a blue brow, her dark eyes studying you.  "Meaning...?" 

You grimace, trying to turn words over in your head before sighing.  "This is going to sound... so fucking insane-" her brows shoot up at your swear but she stays silent, listening as your words rush out of you all at once.  "-Yesterday I was in New York and the year was 2024, and everything here just looks wrong somehow?  I don't know how to explain, but I swear, I'm not crazy, I've been tested before, and nothing looks normal, the fucking buildings don't even look right, and I'm kind of freaking out-" 

"Shhh," Dr. Erlenmeyer whispers, putting a gloved finger up to your lips, careful not to touch you with her gloved hands.  "Follow me".  She leads you carefully over to a slightly singed futon and you sit obediently when she gestures.  In the desk nearby, the doctor or scientist or whatever fishes around in the desk, pulling out a couple different devices.  "These are just for diagnostics, they don't hurt," she says soothingly, pulling out some little sticky circles with wires attached. 

"That's exactly what you'd say if it would hurt me," you mutter under your breath.  Your jacket is shucked off, the little clamp attached to your finger and little patches of sticky adhesives stuck to you.  Thankfully, she doesn't seem interested in making you remove your shirt only once sticking one to your collar, avoiding your quick hands that swipe instinctively after her hands. 

"Sorry," you say apologetically, "Instinct". 

"No worries," she says agreeably, but from the way she's watching the machine the wires are hooked up to, you wonder if she even heard you.  She returns a moment later and yanks a hair from your head without asking, tossing it into a phial, which then goes into the big machine in a little aperture on the panel.  "Tell me... what do you remember happening?  How did you get here from New York, in 2024?" 

You shift uncomfortably, watching as she hooks the machine up to an even larger one against the wall, full of dials and switches, like the ancient computers of yore.  The monitor spits out reels of numbers, mathematic equations with letters that you don't bother trying to understand, calculations running on the screen too quick to focus on. 

Instead, you frown, trying to remember.  "I... got home.  I definitely got drunk..."  You wince, a dull throb forming in your temples as you strain to remember.  You'd been thinking about how fucking mad you were with your ex...  You vaguely remember screaming along to your playlist you use when you're crying in the shower, but after that, the night is still a blur of color, sound, and nausea.  Maybe you turned on the TV?  You shake your head, rubbing a spot where one of the monitor patches sits over.  "I'm sorry, I really don't remember". 

"Interesting... Tell me, what is the future of 2024 like?  Do we have flying cars yet?" She asks patiently, eyes flicking between the large machine and the smaller one as she chews a pen, leaving dark blue lipstick marks. 

"Uh... no?  I don't think we ever will.  I mean, can you imagine the car accidents?" You say incredulously with a laugh.  Assuming she's joking or poking fun at you, you continue.  "Uh, future sucks, honestly.  You should just assume everything is worse, really". 

Jack shoots you a bewildered look, worry clouding his usually cheerful features.  Your skin crawls under his concern, shifting in place.  He gives you what you're sure for him is an encouraging smile but something like pity is washing over his face and it makes your stomach sicker. 

"I see, I see..." Dr. Erlenmeyer murmurs, watching the paper spit from the large machine, picking up the spat out reel and skimming it at Mach speed the way only a scientist can. 

"What is it?" Jack asks worriedly. 

The scientist looks up at you curiously, conclusion already brewing in her dark eyes.  "And you said the buildings look strange?  How so?" 

"Like... like I'm in some kind of cartoon!" Bursts from your lips.  "None of this looks right, all the buildings are just off, the cars, shit, even all the people look weird!" you say, anxiety bubbling. 

"Can you extrapolate?" she asks patiently. 

You grit your teeth, Jack watching you with his hands up like he wants to reach for you but doesn't know how to bridge the gap of four feet, ending up looking like a forlorn, worried puppy.  "Look, it's-  This is going to sound weird to you maybe, but I don't give a shit.  You're all wearing face paint, and your fucking outfits, and-  Everyone's a fucking clown!" 

Both Jack and the doctor seem to flinch in surprise, Dr. Erlenmeyer leaning in curiously.  "Yes?" She says as if to ask What else would we be?  

You wave your arms a little, gesturing in your anxiety as your habit of speaking with your hands rears its head.  "People don't dress like that!" 

"In the future, you mean," she clarifies, eyes narrowing. 

You wave your hand as if brushing her off.  "I mean, they do, but only if they are a clown, and it's a job!  You guys are dressing like you're a separate fucking species or culture!"  Your words are going a little frantic, but it feels good to relieve your stress finally.  You know you must sound insane, but God, you need some sense. 

"Do you know what's happened here, Doc?" Jack asks, worry hanging in his words like a storm cloud. 

There's a long silence where you and Jack simply stare at the scientist as she pours over the paper spat from the big machine, comparing it to the numbers on the littler one.  Slowly, looking up, Dr. Erlenmeyer says slowly, "I have a theory... but I can only prove so much of it true". 

"Fucking hell, tell me!" You snap, frustration flaring. 

Jack gives you a gentle look, a soft, "Hey," bubbling from his lips. 

You swallow your angry words back, taking a breath at his careful expression.  You sigh, turning to Dr. Erlenmeyer again.  "Just... tell me," you finish lamely. 

She watches you seriously, studying you.  "I would like to say first that I believe you when you say you are from the future," she says with stark honesty that takes you back a little.  There's relief, but also anxiety building again, and the stone of grief coming to lay it's home in you as well.  "I do not think you are crazy.  However, I believe there may be more to this than you think."  The scientist pauses again, looking thoughtful a moment before she spills her words.  "I believe you may have not only traveled through time, but also space." 

Jack blinks a moment, seemingly in shock, before asking slowly, "But what does that mean exactly, Doc?" 

"It means that I'm fucked," you snap grimly as ice solidifies in your veins. 

Dr. Erlenmeyer shoots you a look before continuing.  "It means that your friend is from another dimension.  A world, from the sound of it, much worse than our own.  A future that will hopefully never come to pass in our timeline.  Just the little diagnostic work I've run on your brain is so compelling," the doctor rambles, words getting excited and jumbled in your head.  "Your make-up is so different, yet so incredibly similar to ours!  It's amazing!" 

"But... How? " you ask slowly.  "Assuming I even fucking believe you".  

But it fits .  You don't want to believe it's true but it explains so much.  The strange way everyone seems to act and move unnaturally as if in a cartoon or reality show.  It's so impossible, and yet, you've heard the theory before.  You may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but multi-dimensional possibilities and alternate timelines were fairly common theory.

"Well, it could have been anything, really," she says carelessly, like it isn't your whole fucking life in her hands.  "Possibly you just tripped and fell into a wormhole". 

"I tripped and fell into another dimension?" you deadpan, emotions other than frustration and grief numbing with disbelief. 

Dr. Erlenmeyer shrugs, and the rat in her pocket seems to follow suit, mimicking the gesture.  "It's theoretically possible!  If the right conditions are met and you're in just the right place at just the right time...  Well, anything is possible!" She says, waving her hand.   

"Oh, got it.  Alternate dimension, in the past, slipped through a wormhole.  Ok," you say, mind screaming even as you say the words.  You don't even feel them slip from your lips, hearing them distantly.  You bend, hands covering your face as you gather yourself.  "Yeah, this may as well fucking happen to me.  Fucking hell."  You look up, eyes dry and tired.  You're far too hungover to be going through this.  "Is there any way you can send me back?" 

Jack gives you an alarmed look, mouth opening to say something.  Whatever it is he's about to say, his jaw snaps shut as Dr. Erlenmeyer speaks again, tone void of anything other than curiosity and polite apology.  "Unfortunately, that sort of technology is decades, if not at least a century away.  The odds of another wormhole opening up to take you back are astronomically out of favor.  Even if by some chance you did get another wormhole spontaneously opening up to bring you out of this world, it's much more likely to further displace you.  It could take you to the Cretaceous period!  Or Victorian England!  The far future of the year 4000!  Or perhaps just an hour later and an inch to the left.  The possibilities are an infinite to one chance".  Excitement seems to grow in her voice as she speaks, but the words fall on deaf ears. 

You were never going home again.  

You didn't have a good life.  You were scraping by, working at a shitty job you hated, with your ex calling constantly and leaving drunk, sobbing voicemails.  Meals were cheap and too high in salt and fat when you could afford them over rent, and you felt as though you were constantly running late for life.  Your brother barely talked to you, it wasn't like you had any friends other than Shaun who had scarcely spoken to you since college other than to ask for the favor of rooming in return for rent-sharing, and maybe your boss.  It was yours, though, and even though much of it was circumstance, you had chosen it. 

Nobody was going to miss you.  You'd be lucky if you even got a missing person's report opened.   Hell, maybe when the universe swallowed and spat you out it erased all memory of you back home; would your boss even know there was someone supposed to cover your shift in the morning?  Would Shaun remember he was supposed to move in with you?

Would he remember that he was leaving you voicemails, drunk and sobbing, begging for you not to throw away the decades you'd known each other?

Your stomach turned as you stood, yanking patches and clips off your body.  Vaguely, there's the sound of talking stirring the air around you but you can't hear it.  You shake your head, gathering up the sticky patches in your hands and throwing the wires carelessly to the floor as you stumble for the door, frantically pulling it open.  There's footsteps behind you, beside you, and a voice calling your name but you can't think, can't talk, can't listen.  You just make for the stairs and start walking, stumbling down them with a harsh grip on the rail. 

When you've finally reached the bottom floor you walk right out and fumble for your box of cigarettes.  It takes you a few tries with your fingers shaking to light but when it finally sparks, you slide down the wall of the building to sit on the concrete.  It's the door to the garden, you slowly realize, watching bees and butterflies flutter around, pollinating plants from forty years ago that may not exist in your dimension.  Nicotine cools your flaming nerves, smoke swimming in your lungs as your panic slows to a stop, settling firmly in numb grief. 

What are you going to do ? 

Your hand comes up to your face, wiping sweat from your brow.  Tears prick the edges of your eyes with some kind of emotion but you quickly rub them away until it's like they never existed. 

"It's okay to cry if you need to," a gentle voice sounds from beside you in your ear. 

You shriek, nearly falling to the side, away from the voice.  It's Jack, shifted slightly away from you with his arm up as if he's afraid you'd smack him.  "When did you get here?!" you squeak, voice high with shock. 

He blinks at you, expression turning to concern.  He settles back down, smiling softly at you.  "I've been here the whole time". 

You shake your head, settling back against the wall.  The stone wall.  The stone wall you can feel on the back of your arms. 

Your jacket.   

You left your fucking jacket. 

Jack seems to notice your fear. He smiles, passing you, blessedly, your leather.  You sigh, shooting him a grateful look.  "I picked it up when you started to leave.  I thought you'd want it". 

You take a drag of the cigarette, burned down to next to nothing, holding it in your lips as you slide it back on.  The weight is comforting and helps to settle you, protected once again.  "Thanks". 

It's quiet again, the silence between the two of you stretching.  It's not awkward, but the revelation of what has happened to you is lurking between the two of you that you don't want to touch.   

"What is that?" he asks suddenly. 

You turn, giving him a quizzical look.  He gestures to your mouth, pointing at his own.  "This?" you ask, pulling the cigarette from your lips.  To your utter disappointment, he nods and you sigh, long and loud, turning into a groan of protest.  "Are you kidding?  There's no smokes here either!  Son of a bitch ," you groan with feeling, complaining as you check your box.  Of course.  You've only got six left.  You won't last a day here. 

"But what is it?" he asks curiously again. 

You turn, shooting him a look.  "It's like... it's a leaf that gets dried and covered in toxic chemicals.  It slowly gives you a disease that makes you die," you say blandly. 

His expression is so appalled it's comical.  "And you inhale it?  Why?!" he asks, voice raising in disbelief. 

Shrugging, you turn back to the garden.  "It calms me down," you say quietly.  "And it feels good". 

Jack doesn't say anything, looking down at the box and looking up at you, worriedly.  He turns slowly, watching the flowers with you.  Then, "It's going to be okay, you know," he says softly.  "You can stay with me...  If you want to?" 

You blink, tears gathering again.  You look away from him, off to the far side where the road shows cars flying down the asphalt.  "You don't even know me.  I'm not your problem.  I'll just get a hotel or some shit.  I'll be fine".  Your cards won't work here, but you've been unexpectedly on the street with nobody but yourself to rely on enough times to keep emergency cash and the essentials on you at all times.  You'll be just fine, as much as it doesn't feel like it will. 

Jack shifts closer to you, fabric brushing against the pavement.  "You don't need to do this by yourself.  Let me help you.  Please".   

You can't believe he's begging you to let him help.  You grit your teeth, biting words just behind them, dancing like demons on your tongue, desperate to bite down and tear through the naïve softness.  Maybe he's not naïve for this world, though.  Maybe he's kind because this world could afford it.  Maybe there's no one here that isn't good, maybe you're the only sick thing and you've been dropped in like a science experiment to see how far you could spread your venom.  Dropped into this universe like a rabid dog, curious to see how many good people you could bite and infect before they inevitably get put down or abandoned. 

"We all need help sometimes.  We all need to cry; and that's okay, Sunshine," Jack continues, his tone gentle and buttery.  The oily sweetness turns your stomach, twisting in a virulent slurry of emotion.   

It's not okay, you want to snarl at him, because it isn't.  Just the idea of foisting your problems, especially one as big as this, on another person is intolerable. 

"Can I hold your hand?"  Jack's soft voice cutting through your thoughts.  Your hand pulls back, curling into your chest, a muscle memory reaction.  Turning to face Jack isn't an option, but you wouldn't even if you could; you're sure the dejection is as plain on his face as it is in the silence that follows. 

"I'm sorry," his voice cutting through your fog of shame quietly.  "I'm not very good at helping, am I?" 

You shake your head, turning your face away.  His softness leaves you anxious and angry, frustrated by the instinct to comfort him instead of figuring your own shit out.  "You're fine".  The words drip from your lips like rain, quiet and wet sounding.  Grinding your teeth, the words you yearn to say flutter like butterflies behind them. 

You just want to go home.  

You hear Jack shift next to you, so you sniff, trying to wipe your eyes discreetly before turning to him.  The afternoon sun catches in his hair, a gentle summer breeze tousling it.  He smiles at you, and it's been a while since someone has looked at you like that.  Maybe that's why when he softly says, "Come home with me," with a pure, broken lilt that it's all you can do to reply with a nod. 

"Just for tonight," you eventually say, back in the truck with him begrudgingly.  "I'll figure something out later". 

Jack just smiles and keeps his eyes on the road. 

Chapter Text

"Sunshine, I know it's not the cleanest in here, but you really don't need to do this.  I can take care of that," Jack nearly pleads as you huff, pushing the couch out of the way so you can vacuum behind it.  With Jack not letting you do anything else around the house, you force yourself into cleaning, glad for your few years of experience. 

You sigh, frustration boiling up a little.  "I already told you: I'm just trying to keep my mind busy". 

"We could do something fun!" Jack says desperately, making you grit your teeth.  "We could go to the park if you want, or maybe go bowling, to take your mind off-" 

"I don't need to do something fun, I need to do something manageable !" you snap. 

"I understand, but-" 

His voice is drowned out by the roar of the vacuum as you turn it on.  Glaring, you aggressively push the vacuum over the deep impressions the couch has left, sucking up dust. 

Clearly, he doesn't understand because if he had, you wouldn't have had this exact conversation at least a dozen or more times over the past few days.  Every time you try to do the dishes, try to get some yard work done, or even just wipe the counters or dust, Jack seems to appear out of nowhere to gently nudge you out of the way with a small smile claiming that he can do it, telling you to just walk off and relax.  The first few times you allowed him, the hot anger distracting you long enough from the pit of anxiety in your gut a relief, but now you were getting sick of it. 

Now you're picking fights that Jack keeps backing down from and it's pissing you off because instead of either of you really saying what's on your mind, you just end up snapping at him and he seemingly keeps trying to ineffectively distract you.  Even Jack seems to be getting frustrated, but instead of turning it on you like you expect, he just seems to wallow in it, giving you sad, worried looks like he expects you to just lie down let him help you. 

He has to be doing it on purpose.  There's no way he isn't guilt tripping you, trying to tug on your heart strings with his pathetic little pitying looks like you're a fearful stray dog he's trying to rehabilitate.   You aren't sure how much longer it will be until you snap. 

Turns out, you don't have to wait long, because soon Jack is trying to gently pry some cleaning supplies out of your hands to keep you from wiping all the mirrors and windows down. 

"Sunshine, that's really not necessary-" Jack tries to plead again, just like he's done a million times before noon. 

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, because- fucking... let go!   I already told you I just need to do something!" you snap back, trying to break Jack's grip.  You dig your fingers in, successfully tugging the bottle of cleaning fluid away only to have it regrasped by yellow gloved hands from a slightly different angle.  You're nearly at the point of wrestling, about to put a foot up to try and get a better angle to wedge the bottle from his grasp again before the top pops and splashes blue across your pants. 

Silence permeates the air.  Your jaw works furiously as you stare down at the wet chemicals splashed across your pants.  It seems to have mostly landed on you, with a small bit on the carpet and a moderate splash on the hem of your old faded shirt.  You can't see what expression Jack is making, eyes unable to stop staring down at the splashed chemicals, already starting to sting a little.  You barely feel it through the white hot haze of rage that threatens to swallow you whole.

"Sunshine-" 

You don't hear much more than that because his voice seems to trigger you into action.  A thousand vitriolic words you don't mean are behind your teeth and you keep them there by holding your breath and shoving the spray top into Jack's hands.  All that escapes you is a pissed off whispered warning of, "Don't follow me".  It isn't until you're halfway down the block and your vision starts to darken that you remember to breathe.  A split moment later is when you remember you don't have any shoes either.   

Eventually the fire burns itself out of you until all that remains is the cooling embers of guilt.  You can't go back now though; you'd already told him not to come, and if you turn around and come back it's just going to make you look more pathetic.  Instead, you keep walking, cursing yourself. 

The houses turn to businesses as residential fades to commerce.  Unsure where exactly you are or how far you've walked in your socked feet, you just sort of keep walking despite the odd, pitying looks you receive.  Looking for any place to step out of the main view of the general public and generally feeling embarrassed, you manage to spy what you think is a diner or bakery of some sort. 

The chime on the door jingles cheerfully, the man behind the counter looking less so.  He has a bored, detached look on his face that immediately puts you at ease and a familiarly stupid outfit.  It's fairly cutesy inside like the rest of this world has been, yet the atmosphere feels familiar and calm inside.  Cafés are the same everywhere, all with bored baristas behind the counter wiping mugs, wearing stupid outfits.  You know the feeling. 

"Welcome," the man says tonelessly.  Nodding, you make your way inside slowly, looking over the baked goods behind the glass.  You already know what you want from the moment you walked in, the pastries catching your eye, but there's a process to these kinds of things.  "What can I get for you?" he asks, sounding like he'd rather do anything else. 

"Can I get a coffee with room for milk and one of those?" you ask, voice quiet so as not to disturb the reverence of the bakery's silence.  Any sound felt too loud, piercing the veil of calm that permeated the bakery harshly, and you found yourself unwilling to puncture the peace. 

"For here, or to-go?" 

"Here". 

The man behind the counter nods without really looking at you, seamlessly pulling free the desired pastry from the zoo of baked goods behind the glass, handing it to you on a cheap ceramic plate that's soon followed by a steaming mug of coffee.  It's the same sort of mug you only see in hometown diners: the brown concave kind with thick walls and smooth all around, but don't hold any more coffee than regular mugs.  You wrap your fingers around the mug, relishing in the warmth.  Having something hot and familiar in your hands feels comforting.  The creamer you pour in muddles and fogs, turning the coffee a tender brown.   

"Your total is fifty cents". 

You almost drop the coffee.  Fifty-fucking-cents.  God damn inflation.  Your Panic Money stash is going to last you forever.   Thankfully, your spare cash in your wallet will most likely be enough; you think you left a five in there a few weeks back.  Memory has served you, you find as you reach in and pull it out to hand off.  When you get the change back you look at the jar full of copper and silver coins on the counter labeled accurately TIPS .  Twenty percent was always the usual, although you think it's gone up in recent (for you) years.  That would make it ten cents as a tip.  One of the quarters would be more than adequate; a fifty percent tip is really good, but just the thought of putting only a quarter in as a tip makes your stomach churn, just thinking about people that would just drop a handful of nearly worthless coins in your own tip jar when you'd done your time working shit jobs.  You end up shoving a dollar in and it makes the baker's eyebrows lift incredulously.  Fuck it.  You can afford this now. 

Returning the nod, you step back to take a seat in an empty chair against the wall so you can see all of the room.  The coffee is familiarly average and you wallow in the mediocre flavor with reverie.  Taking a bite of the pastry, you almost moan out loud.  Bright, tart berry jam of some sort bursts on your tastebuds, followed by creamy cheese and flaky pastry.  "Do you guys make these in house?" you ask, nipping at chips of icing collecting on the napkin. 

The baker nods behind the counter, back to rubbing the mug with his towel.  The thing must be spotless by now as he watches you with intent.  "I make them myself.  They're fresh from this morning," he says coolly. 

Your eyebrows raise as you offer him an appreciative look.  "Good, 'cause they're fuckin' incredible, my guy". 

It doesn't quite wring a smile out of him, but the man behind the counter's face gets less severe and even a little friendly despite the serious energy.  "Thanks," he says shortly but with feeling. 

Unspoken comradery blooms between you two and you give him a small smile.  This is familiar.  This is something you know: the quiet, unnamed bond between two strangers that know nothing about each other that you can dwell in one another's lives to escape the tragedy of your own. 

"What happened to your shoes, if you don't mind me asking?" 

You look down at your socked feet.  You can feel the checkerboard tile through one of them on the ball of your foot.  Gray fabric now stained with black and brown, you tap your toe against the floor, contemplating your answer.  "Forgot 'em at home," you say, which is true enough.  They were at home.  Just forty years in the future by a door to an apartment in a building that wasn't even in blueprints yet.  He makes a noise of acknowledgement.  "Awfully quiet," you casually mention.  Where is everyone? goes unsaid. 

"We're busier in the mornings and after four," he replies halfway, hanging the mug on a rack on the back of the wall.  A moment later he's gone and returned from the back, pushing a steel cart table with his hip until he's back behind the counter near you, kneading dough with fervent dedication. 

"What's that going to be?" 

"Cherry pistachio bread". 

"Nice". 

"It takes a little under an hour". 

"Mind if I wait?" 

He shrugs but then gives you a smile you return. 

"Is this your place?" 

"I own it," he confirms, kneading the bread.  "Since I got out of school". 

"Must be tough," you offer. 

"Not really.  It's a small town.  I know everyone, and they all know me".  Who are you? he seems to ask. 

Hearing the implication, you say as casually as you can, "Must be nice.  I only just got in a couple days ago". 

"Visiting family?" 

"Nah.  Just moved in.  I kind of left in a hurry because my new roommate was acting like a dickhead.  Maybe I was too," you sigh. 

The baker's brow furrows, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.  "I'm sorry.  That sounds like a lot to deal with when you've just moved in," he says sympathetically. 

You grimace, not wanting to vent too much to the guy or say something off.  Barista therapy is a finite resource not to be abused.  "Yeah.  He just... doesn't get it," you say blandly, struggling to find the right words.  "It's been kind of a tough time for me right now, and I was trying to do something productive to take my mind off shit that's been bothering me.  He keeps interrupting, trying to get me to do something fun, and won't let me work it out of my system like I need to". 

The baker kneads the bread thoughtfully, rolling the dough before interspersing it with cherries and pistachios.  "It sounds like he's trying to help". 

You groan.  "I know he is, but it's the opposite of what I need right now.  I just need to spin my wheels a bit and do something productive and manageable since shit's so fucked for me right now".  The coffee burns your tongue, but it's grounding. 

"Does having fun not help you relax?" 

You grimace.  "It does, but not when I have a huge problem like I do now.  He just keeps trying to make me feel better and I just snap at him like a jerk and he gets all mopey like a kicked puppy.  Then we both end up feeling even worse, and the problem still stands".  Groaning, you lean back in the chair, rubbing your eyes tiredly.  "It's exhausting". 

The baker seats the loaf of bread on a steel pan, shaping it and forming little designs in the floured dough with cuts, nuts, and berries.  "Why not fix the problem, then?  Or at least talk to him?" 

Sighing, you admit, "It's not that simple.  There's no way to fix this, and I think I'm just going to have to fucking deal with it.  All that aside... I don't really want to hurt his feelings".   You probably had anyways, you realize with a wince.

"You're working on manageable issues to avoid dealing with an unmanageable one," he concludes.  Your lips tighten into a thin line and nod as he sets the loaf in the oven.  "Why not find a middle ground?  Surely there's something fun and productive that you can both do". 

You shrug, unsure how to explain your complicated feelings on the matter. 

His eyes flick pointedly to your socked feet.  "Maybe you could start with going out to get some shoes?" 

You roll your eyes.  "You're hilarious.  I think it's more like...  I've been independent for a while now, and something tells me he's used to getting his way, and is the type to feel responsible for looking after others.  And he's being way too nice to someone he just met.  I think it's just a personality clash". 

Rory nods, allowing the subject to drop as your words drain from you.  You both end up dissolving into a comfortable quiet.  The air slowly fills with the sweet, round scent of sugar and baking bread.  The sun roves across the floor through the windows, stretching into orange and giving the room a warm, sleepy touch.  Deciding to stay a while longer, you relax in your little corner, watching as customers come and go, none of them noticing you sitting silently in the corner.  The baker seems to recognize you need a bit of quiet time, and neglects to point you out to them, carrying on familiar conversation of friends and family.  Soon, it gets quiet again, busy work turning to affable stillness. 

"So, what's your name?" the baker asks suddenly, leaning over the counter to look at you. 

You give him a small smirk.  "Why do you need to know my name?" 

He shrugs, leaning over onto his crossed arms on the high display counter, tilting his head as he speaks.  "It's a small town, like I said.  We're bound to run into each other again.  May as well get used to each other". 

It's more than that, you think; this guy is trying to befriend you.  Maybe he's not being quite as pushy as your new roommate, but he's still offering it.  The proverbial olive branch of a tentative let's-see-where-this-goes friendship is being extended.  The thought makes you a bit queasy; making friends somehow felt like giving up.  Almost a betrayal of your old life.  Accepting friends here and putting down roots felt like accepting that you were giving up on ever leaving again.  You don't know that you're ready to accept that yet.  Still, all the same you give up your name without a fuss in spite of the guilty feeling that gnaws at the back of your mind.  You aren't going to be able to go home.  You know that.  You still can't accept it yet. 

The baker nods, shifting so he leans his chin on his fist.  "Nice to meet you.  I'm-" 

"RORY!" 

Both of you jump as the door slams open with panicked ferocity, a familiar voice resounding loudly around the bakery.  "I need your help!  My-"  Jack cuts off.  The relief on his face is palpable, his entire body sagging a bit as he sees you.  "Sunshine!  Oh thank the stars-  I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I-"  Jack stops short as you instinctively glare, eyes narrowing and your frame tensing up as he rushes in, disturbing the peace you'd found in your little alcove.  He flinches a moment, relief leaving his face empty as he catches the look of irritation you're sure has slid onto your face.  Mild disgust fills you quickly, your forgotten rage bubbling up inside your lungs at the sight of him.  It dies just as quickly as it appeared, like sparks from a fire being doused.  The way he looks at you is painful and familiar.  It is worry and fear chasing each other like dogs; the worry for doing all you can, and the fear that it is not enough. 

"Jack is your roommate?" the baker- Rory- says incredulously, standing up straight.  His eyes shift between the two of you curiously. 

You grimace, shifting in place where you sit.  Guilt swells as you look down at the half eaten slice of cherry-pistachio bread that you'd been busy destroying while Jack had probably been running around looking for you if his windswept, harried look is anything to go by. 

Jack on the other hand looks between the two of you with something close to but not quite suspicion.  "You two know each other?" 

You snort.  "Hardly.  We just met". 

For some reason Jack seems to relax when he hears that, and the relief comes back to him.  His hands straighten his jacket up, fingers brushing through his hair until it's back to its usual amount of fluffiness.  "Well, I'm glad that you two are becoming friends!"  The cheery comment makes your stomach twist in guilt, thinking about Shaun back in New York, imagining him knocking on your door with no answer to ever come. You look away and slam back more coffee.

"Since when were you looking for a roommate?" Rory asks curiously as he comes out from behind the counter, flipping the opening up to come hug Jack. 

Jack chuckles a little awkwardly as they break, both of you glancing at one another from the corner of your eyes.  He doesn't look uneasy, just unsure how to explain the situation.  "It just all happened at once... they needed some help, and it's been a little too quiet at home since Jane moved out.  Why not?" 

Something about that rings a bell in your head.  It isn't a lie, but there's something about it that comes off as not quite the full truth. 

The thought is forgotten when Jack starts wringing his gloved hands nervously, slowly speaking as if you are a suspicious stray that might run away again the second he gets too close.  "Well, either way, we should be getting home.  I'm glad I found you, I was so worried!  I'm so sorry, I just-" 

"We'll talk about it later.  Let's just..."  

Go home.   

"...Get out of here," you finish lamely. 

As you both get up to leave, Rory steps closer, making you freeze.  "Mind if we talk for a moment before you go?" he asks, reaching for you. 

You tense, already flinching back when the door swings shut again, Jack's shadow flitting away as he circles round.  He's not touching you, but he's not maintaining his distance exactly either, close enough for you to smell something sweet on him like apple shampoo.  The look on his face isn't hard, but it is firm as he gently body-blocks Rory's reaching hand.  "She doesn't like being touched," he warns. Your brow sort of furrows as something soft simmers in your chest, fragile as soap bubbles. 

Rory for his part is casually apologetic, the offending hand drawing back to tuck into his apron's pocket inoffensively.  His expression contrite, he gives a soft, "Sorry.  Do you mind if we...?" 

Jack turns his head to look at you, not getting out of his half-block of Rory, allowing him to peer around his body.  Nodding slowly, you give a more confident, "Yeah, sure.  I'll be out in a sec, alright?" 

He gives you an indecipherable look that makes your stomach twist but a moment later it's gone with a big, encouraging smile. 

Jack leaves, the bell of the door filling the silence between you two.  Rory idly brushes flour off his hands onto his bright magenta apron.  "So," you say flatly, trying to move this along. 

"So," Rory agrees, looking up at you.  "How do you know Jack?" 

You feel the way your face goes blank.  "What did you need to say?" 

He blinks before his face goes a little colder.  "He's a good guy, you know". 

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slowly respond with, "Okay...?" 

Rory sighs before continuing.  "I've known Jack all my life, you know.  You really couldn't ask for someone better to help you out.  You're right; he can be kind of spoiled.  Typical baby of the family, right?" 

You squint at him.  "Should you really be spilling your best friend's business to a complete stranger?" 

He shakes his head and then it's the first time you see him smile, looking past you out the door to Jack.  "He won't mind.  He likes you". 

You don't quite know what to do with that. 

He's quiet a moment, looking off to the side before turning back to you.  "He's really a kind person, you know?  He doesn't have to know anything about you for him to want to help.  He's just like that".  His eyes reconnect with yours a moment, smile disappearing, replaced with a serious expression.  "Just give him a chance, okay?  Don't hurt my best friend". 

Your jaw clenches under the weight of his words.  Unsure of what to say, you just turn around and grab the door by the handle.  "Bye, Rory.  It was nice to meet you". 

Outside, Jack hands you the Ronald McDonald Fruity Death Stompers and you roll your eyes, secretly grateful Jack had the forethought to grab the spare shoes.  The further you get from the bakery, the more you feel like you can relax, finally away from the sudden serious energy Rory had ambushed you with.  The two of you are walking side by side down the pavement, watching butterflies float by on the cool summer breeze and listening to cars pass.  Contemplating Rory's words, your thoughts muddle. 

Maybe that's what's been bothering you since you came: the reason you felt a niggling feeling deep in your bones that you couldn't trust him.  He had a similarly spoiled attitude that your ex started to slip into.  It was the kind of attitude you get when you realize you're so well liked with so many resources that you can get away with murder if you pout and whimper like a puppy.  You'd found it endearing.  Until you didn't, anyways.   There was a kind of desperation to Jack when it came to you that didn't quite measure to your ex's, especially after you'd left.  He had chased after you with all the howling wet sobbing of a man who'd had the world and only noticed after he'd lost it.  Jack looked at you like someone who'd always gotten exactly what he wanted and was starting to come to the realization that he might not get it, no matter how hard he tried.  In the beginning you'd been wondering if he was just a naturally clingy person with abandonment issues, but after seeing him interact with Rory, you were wondering if that wasn’t the complete reason.  Certainly he was close to the baker, that much was obvious just from a glance.  The way they hugged and touched with ease, the way they spoke; all of it was drenched in a familiarity that you can't find anywhere but in the closest friendships.  Not to look into a puddle like it was the ocean, but Jack held onto Rory like he knew he wasn't going anywhere.  Jack clung to you like he was afraid you would disappear into thin air.   

The recognition left you uncertain. 

"Sunshine?" 

You start, looking over at Jack who's looking down at you curiously, an amused smile on his face.  "Sorry, did you say something?" 

He laughs a little at your recovery.  "I was just saying that I'm glad to see you're making friends," he repeats. 

Blinking, you shake your head a little in denial.  "Oh, uh, we aren't friends," you say, looking down at the pavement being eaten up by the ridiculous shoes. 

"You don't like him?"  The subtle jealousy in his voice is abandoned for something like complicated rejection. 

You shrug, feeling a little anxious at the pressure.  "No, it's not that.  We've only just met today.  He seems like a nice guy and all, I just don't know him that well".  A stray piece of gravel rolls, kicked by your steps. 

Jack relaxes a little next to you.  "Do you not make friends easily?" he asks curiously.  You can only shrug in return.  "Don't worry.  Everyone here in town is super nice.  I'm sure you'll have lots of friends in no time". 

It's meant to be encouraging, you're sure, but the thought of constantly having to maintain a social network, let alone build a completely new one without any prior history feels exhausting.  "I'd rather just have a couple friends I'm close with than a lot of them," you admit. 

That makes Jack grin, face lighting up genuinely for what feels like the first time.  "I think I'm starting to pick up on that.  Don't worry; I'm sure you two will be friends before you know it.  And of course I'll be your friend, too". 

You snort.  "Is that a threat?" you ask dryly. 

Jack laughs openly, delighted.  "It's a promise!" 

Walking home is an easier affair, though longer than you remember when you'd run out of the house last time.  The guilt comes back full force the moment that Jack's butter yellow house comes into view.  You're back in the Clown House and it's far too quiet.  Sneaking glances at Jack gives you a queasy feeling and you only break when your clownish roommate opens his mouth to say something you interrupt.  "I'm sorry I was such a bitch," you blurt out all at once. 

Jack startles and turns to you, far away across the room.  "What?"  He seems surprised you would speak at all. 

Breathing deepening a moment, you let out a small sigh.  "I'm sorry I acted like a bitch.  I'm sorry I am a bitch.  I just get really... pissed off sometimes and the only way I can fucking deal with it is just fucking off for a while," you ramble, fingers flexing into fists in your jacket pocket.  "I just didn't want to yell at you or do some mean shit I'd regret later". 

Jack's soulful puppy-dog eyes soften, looking down at you with reverence.  "Sunshine, it's okay.  You're... you're not like that.  I forgive you.  I'm sorry too..."  Jack rubs his arm, regret plain on his face.  His smile has dropped to some odd expression with an ache to it.  "I wanted to try to help you feel more at home here, but instead I ended up pushing you away.  That wasn't my intention.  I hope you can forgive me too".   

You blink, somewhat surprised by his articulation.  Excuses were what you were used to, what you expected.  Brush offs and blaming it on you exaggerating.  An apology followed by a clear example of what he felt he did wrong?  You hadn't expected that.  "No, yeah, of course.  It's..."  You struggle for words, looking around the brightly decorated room, the swirl of primary colors making you wince.  "…It's just been kind of hard, you know?" 

Jack nods, sympathy clear on his face.  His hand tightens where he's holding his arm.  "I can't even imagine how hard things must be for you.  That's why I wanted to help; I thought doing something fun might help take your mind off things". 

Nodding, you hesitantly lay your hand on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly with your thumb.  Jack looks up, surprised and marveling at the touch.  His eyes flick back and forth between your hand and your face, awe soaking his face.  "I know.  You had good intentions, and I knew that.  That's why I ran off," you say quietly.  "Like I said, I was just frustrated.  I can't focus on doing anything fun when I've got shit going on that's all..."  You wave your other hand with exasperation.  Sighing, you continue, "It's just all fucked up right now and I just need to go through the motions for a bit, okay?  Just let me do it.  I'll wear myself out eventually, probably sleep for like, a week straight, and then you can drag me off to do something fun". 

Jack's eyes widen hopefully and a small smile begins.  His eyes are dark, even in the bright natural light of the day.  He nods agreeably.  "Alright.  I just feel a bit guilty watching you do all my chores.  Maybe we could do them together?" 

It's not exactly ideal; you specifically liked doing them because you could run your body on auto-pilot and let your mind drift, running over familiar thoughts and patterns to relax you like you had figured out years ago.  When someone tried to talk to you during that, interrupting your train of thought, it caused more irritation than released it.  Your hesitation seemed to land a blow to Jack's confidence and he wilts a little.  "Yeah, sure," you say quickly, mentally kicking yourself.  Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you start again slowly.  "If you want to help that's fine, it's just I don't usually like to talk". 

Jack nods agreeably.  "Okay.  Whatever you need, Sunshine, I'm here for you.  I mean it, okay?" 

You swallow, then nod.  He seems sincere, but still, your gut is twisted up.  Why was he being so nice?  Why was he accommodating you?  What is he getting out of having some random person drop into his life and burden him with their issues? 

Maybe he was just being nice and you were just paranoid.  Your trust issues could be a factor.   

It's not long until you get restless again.  You're at the sink soon enough, washing dirty dishes out of the sink.   You run the bowl in your hands under the hot water, letting it wash away the residue clinging to the bowl.  Soon enough, it's clean and you no longer feel food clinging to the ceramic when you run your fingers along the inside.  As you go to hand it off to the drying rack, another hand, this time bare of the usual yellow gloves, comes and takes it gently from your hand.  You startle, looking up to find Jack leaning into your personal space a bit to take the clean bowl from you.  He has a towel in his hand.  His eyes flick down to you, smiling, but he doesn't say a word.  Silently, you offer it up to him.  He nods, taking it from you before setting to work next to you, drying the bowl with a soft, red kitchen towel.  You watch him a moment before going back to your busy work. 

It's a little odd and uncomfortably familiar having someone at your side helping you clean up, but soon the rhythm starts to set in and you're comfortably moving in silent unison.  Relief and gratitude swirls in your chest, the tension slowly leaving you as you watch the trays of dirty dishes get smaller and smaller.  Soon enough, your mind drifts into a distracted ease.  The fingers of your mind tap over keys and prose, lines and dialogue of music and poetry, movies and books that you can remember that stand out best in your mind.   

"What's that song?" Jack asks quietly from your side. 

Your voice stalls in your throat, song dying.  You hadn't even realized you'd been humming.  "It hasn't been written yet".  Soap sloshes onto your shirt as Jack looks away from you.  Looking at him from the side of your eye, you watch as his smile shrinks, turning almost wistful as he dries the dish slowly.  You look down at your hands, chapped by the harsh soap.  Insides squirming, you carefully say.  "It's by a band called Wolf People .  They make like... psychedelic rock". 

A grin splits his face, so large and vibrant at the little bit you've offered.  "Nice!" he chirps, like he's heard of a band that doesn't yet exist.  "That's very neat!" 

A ghost of a laugh breathes past your lips as you hand him the newly cleaned dish.  "Yeah.  They're, uh, going to be really good". 

Jack takes the dish in his hands with gentle enthusiasm, looking pleased with himself. 

"Sunshine?" 

"Yeah?" 

"What's psychedelic rock?" 

Chapter Text

Your pants and a little edge of your shirt end up staining pale white, bleached out under the cleaning chemicals.  Unfortunately, the skin under them also ends up with a chemical burn, skin red with tiny blisters that you change the bandages on once or twice a day when you think of it.  After dunking your pants in neutralizing hydrogen peroxide so the chemicals don't eat your jeans any further, you find you don't mind the look.  It does however bring up the fact that you are going to need clothes since it looks like you won't be going anywhere for a while.  Shoes are also going to be needed, especially because you're still wearing the Fruity Pebbles Nightmare Bozo Deathwalkers.  The trip is done in silence, just walking out the front door one day and returning later with black leather work boots that are sure to give you blisters while you break them in.  They're a little cartoony, and you'd had to go to a worker's section to find anything black, but you'll be damned if you spend one more hour in fucking clown shoes.  Besides, they were a steal at only twenty dollars.  For real leather.  God damn, you like these eighties prices. 

Jack doesn't say much more than a simple but genuine, "I like your boots!" 

That's good enough for you, and you appreciate him not making a big deal out of it after your blow out. 

Unfortunately, Jack has somewhat figured out your pattern to sneaking out of the house when he's not looking, and you're not interested in putting more effort into it than you already have.  This leads to the two of you going to the mall at the nearby Sun City where you don't really find any clothes that suit you. 

"I'm sorry you didn't find anything you liked..." he says, frowning down at the bag full of some plain essentials.  Only some fresh undergarments and a couple packs of plain shirts were inside.  You'd managed to find some in black, white, and gray, the only shades that had been safe from some awful oversaturated color or pattern.  Perhaps you were being too picky; there had been a few lighter colors that weren't so awful.  It's not like you really had anything against pastels or lighter colors in general, but the fashion trends of the 80s and clown culture were not mixing well in your opinion. 

"It's fine.  I've always been a one-jacket kind of person anyways," you dismiss, sipping your ginger ale.  Your stomach still hadn't gotten quite back to normal, and had been somewhat upset since the morning.  "I just need a pair of jeans and maybe an interview outfit so I can get a job and I'll be fine for a while".  Everything had been incredibly cheap and easy on your emergency cash, and keeping a mental tab of your total had been putting you at ease.  At this rate you'd be able to get something nice for an interview to wear. 

"I just wish you'd let me pay for at least some of it," Jack says with a small laugh, a guilty look crossing his face.  His smile is sheepish, fiddling with one of his crinkle cut fries.  "I feel somewhat responsible". 

Waving your hand, you give him a mild look.  "I have money and I'm not helpless," you state firmly.  "Besides, it's not like it's your fault I fucking fell through the dimensional wall like walking on wet drywall.  You heard Dr. E, it could've happened to anyone.  Hell, you're lucky you didn't get a serial killer.  Or a jet engine crashing through your roof". 

Jack lets out an uneasy laugh, giving you a smile.  "Yeah, I suppose you're right...  Still..." he says, but it seems like he's done because he doesn't continue after, letting the unfinished sentence linger in the air. 

Shrugging, you steal a fry.  "I don't usually shop in malls...  Probably why I didn't find much I like.  The internet ends up getting more accessible, and a lot of shops start doing online stores you can buy things from.  It's more convenient to find exactly what you want," you say offhandedly, volunteering some information about the future freely.

"Like a mail order?" he asks curiously, watching you steal his fries with amusement. 

"Yeah, basically.  I usually buy from secondhand stores anyways if I go in-person". 

"How come?" 

"Easier on my wallet," you respond with a shrug, munching as you look out over the food court.  Off to the side was a little child's play area with even a small carousel children and couples would ride together.  "Besides, I've found a lot of cool stuff that way". 

You do end up finding a good interview suit: a dark navy one that fits you better than the old one stuffed in the back of your closet at your old apartment.  It's the most expensive thing you've gotten so far, but it's still low cost for the quality.  The emergency money you'd had on you barely had a dent in it, but you don't doubt you'll find a job soon, even if it's something shitty like before. 

Jack does take you to a secondhand store with some hesitation, looking a little cautiously around the store, picking through items with some disinterest.  Surprisingly, you find more than a few things you want for near literally nickels and dimes.  You end up walking away with an extra bag full of fairly normal clothes, including some thicker sweaters for the impending fall and winter to wear under your jacket. 

"Did you get everything you wanted?" Jack asks as you walk out the door, the bell ringing as you both leave. 

"Yeah, it's about what I expected," you say, tossing the bags in the backseat.  "Thanks for driving". 

"Of course!  I'm glad we could get out of the house for a change," he says, smiling.  "Thank you for letting me come with you".  Jack gives you an earnest look from inside.  "I know you like to do things yourself, so it means a lot that you let me tag along". 

You find yourself nodding.  "Yeah, no worries".  Which it hadn't been.  Jack had been quiet, giving you space through the trip, only asking simple questions and letting you lead the conversation without prying too much.  "It's not like it's a big... deal..." you trail off slowly, your hand on the hood of the truck as you look over it to the other side of the street.

"...Sunshine?" Jack calls from inside.  "Are you alright?" 

Across the road is a shop with a bright blue sign that reads HAMMERHEAD RECORDS hanging above stands like it's been waiting for you to notice, bright cyan shark art painted on the windows. 

"Sunshine?" 

You blink.  "Huh?  Sorry...  Uh, hey, mind if we stop across the street?" you ask as you settle heavily in the seat. 

Jack nods, glancing at you in the rearview mirror as he backs out of parking.  "Was there something you wanted to see?" 

Nodding, you direct him to the record store.  At the sight of it, Jack noticeably brightens and sends you a smile.  When you get inside you see a bored pair of teenagers gossiping together.  They break mid-sentence to give you both a throwaway, "Welcome in!" Before immediately going back to talking shit.  It makes you miss your runners when you'd been a line cook. 

Without asking for directions, you slowly walk through the aisles, catching sight of tape decks and cassettes, accompanied by a much larger section of vinyl records.  Apprehension mingled with relief fills you, cool like menthol in your veins.  Jack follows behind you a respectable distance before breaking off to his own section, gesturing silently so you'll know where he is.  You give him a small nod and go back to your business, keeping him in your periphery.  Everything is separated in typical genre and alphabetic fashion, the wooden bins painted with little art pieces to reflect the genre of music they hold.  The walls have a smooth cyan with monochrome blue murals done in spray paint of sharks, headphones, and music.  To much of your own excitement, there's headphones with the stands with samples of songs on the smaller disks.  Trying to start with what you know you like, you look around, skimming for artists you know.   

With each look through bands you don't recognize, your heart starts to sink.  Bands you knew should have had at least an album out were missing, and bands you never heard of were filling all of the slots.  Your stomach knotted tightly, you flick through them quickly, trying to find anything even remotely familiar.  Bands from one, five, even ten or twenty years from the 80s were gone too.  They didn't even have The Beatles, and as much as you couldn't fucking stand The Beatles, it made your heart drop with realization.  You weren't going to be able to find anything you knew, because those bands didn't exist.  It didn't matter that it was the right time frame for them to be popular, didn't matter if you were in the 80s.  It wasn't your 80s. 

None of the glam metal or shock rock you and your brother had bonded over.  No Poison, no Alice Cooper, no AC/DC, no Twisted Sister.  Even Dolly was missing. 

Get over here, kid.  I want to show you something that'll blow your fucking mind. 

You swallow to and fail to loosen the lump in your throat.  Memories of you and your brother laying on the floor listening to screaming guitars and howls of rage felt like ghosts.  The echoes of relief, phantoms of a smile on your mother's lips when you'd play her albums for her felt even more distant than before.  Everything felt distant.  It had only been a few days, hardly even a week and already your life back in your world felt like a lifetime ago.  It felt sort of like you had died, almost.  Like your whole life and everyone in it had been a dream you'd woken up from.  

Feeling nauseous, you pulled a pair of foam muffed headphones over your ears with shaking hands and click the play button for an album for a band you suspected was light rock. 

You move around like that for a while.  Jack sends you a couple inquisitive looks, clearly looking to see if you're ready but you firmly shake your head.  His expression drops from the please look he'd had on when you first entered to worry, brows drawing together.  He shoots you an encouraging smile, holding up a yellow album with a band of clowns all wearing frilly red shirts.  He grins and gives you a thumbs up, indicating your approval.  Your lips lift in a shadow of a smile, touched by how hard he continuously tries to help cheer you up. 

Looking back down, your smile drops again and you close your eyes, trying to dig into the meat of the song.  You'd moved on a couple times, sampling music from each of the different selections.  Nothing really struck your fancy; there was nothing rough and angry.  Not really, anyways.  No one screamed about how they were going to kick their landlord's shit in, no spitting rage and spite, wishing death on another.  No one growling about the lip service justice of the government, backing the cops in their brutality.  The closest you'd come was some songs about hating your parents and getting your heart broke, or someone they loved dying.  Some things never change you suppose. 

The closest you'd found to something of your tastes was a shock rock album you'd dug out, a sad clown on the cover with a black and purple polka-dot snake coming out his throat like a tongue, and a second album by a band called Unicorn Bath that you were beginning to suspect was math or prog rock.  The song you'd heard by them was all instrumental and upon seeing the second album cover of theirs, discovered it was a band of mimes dressed in shitty medieval armor.  You weren't sure what they were saying with their notes, but it sounded intense and you were sure that a live show by them would be nothing short of batshit. 

A hand is waved in front of your face and you startle, pulling down the headphones with your spare hand.  Jack smiles from next to you.  "Find anything good?" he asks, looking down at the records in your hands. 

"Do you have a record player?" 

"Sure do!" 

"Mind if I use it?" 

"Sure don't!"  You can feel Jack smiling at you.  "Do you see anything you like?" he inquires again, leaning over your shoulder a little. 

The closeness makes you stiffen, but at least he doesn't touch you.  He's very loud about that, though not verbally.  Gloved yellow hands are tucked neatly away, folded behind his back as one hand holds onto his closed hand. 

See? he seems to be saying with his body, Look, I'm not touching you.  I could be touching you right now, but I'm not!  Don't you trust me? 

"Honestly, I don't recognize anything," you admit, some disappointment leaking into your tone.  Tapping your finger against the thick paper, you say quietly, "I was hoping there would be something familiar here...  There were some really good bands from the 80s, in my world". 

Jack's smile turns into a sympathetic frown.  "I'm sorry, Sunshine... I wish there was something I could do to help". 

You shake your head dismissively, and force a pained smile of your own.  "It's alright.  It just means I'll have to find a new favorite".  It sounds like you're trying to convince yourself.  Trying new music isn't out of the ordinary, but without your nostalgic albums to come back to, you feel lost. 

You leave the building with the two albums, and Jack ends up getting what you think is some kind of light rock ballad artist.  When you get home, you forgo the habit of doing random chores around the house in favor of lying down on the carpet.  Flat on your back and staring at the ceiling as Jack puts one your new albums on, a bittersweet taste fills your mouth.  You could still do this at least. 

"You know, the couch is perfectly fine," Jack says, crouching down to look at you properly. 

"Don't sass me, boy," you say, raising a finger to haphazardly point.  "I know what I'm doing.  I'm a professional". 

Jack chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners.  "Oh, well, pardon my intrusion.  I wouldn't want to interrupt your expertise". 

It's hard to feel bad wearing fresh clothes, holding a new album, freshly showered using soap that you'd chosen for yourself.  Even just brushing your teeth helped you feel more human, more real.  Like this wasn't some unbearable nightmare and more like it was a manageable fuckup; like you'd gotten three feet of snow covering your driveway instead of twenty.  Jack seemed to notice when you started giving small smiles instead of the tight grimaces you'd been making since you fell out of the sky.  You'd even felt good enough to help Jack out making breakfast for dinner to his delight.  The quiet was easier now, Jack more used to your brand of subdued silence by now.  Still, you feel eyes on you often.  When you turn to look though, Jack has almost always turned away.  The few times you catch him staring he either flushes slightly and turns away with a soft smile, or a look of some kind of pity or longing.  You aren't exactly sure where this guilt comes from in you; there's no reason to feel guilty about having your life stripped from you. 

Still, your stomach flips when you feel eyes on you. 

There's more synth than you would have thought; moog and bass heavy with drums and guitar with other instruments swinging in.  Each song is so unique but flows right into the other with no space between songs.  The hum of synth pulls each end into the other's beginning, the change in measures keeping things interesting.  When the last song of the A side starts you pick up a trickle of chimes following thematic progressions.  Excitement bursts bright and tangerine in your chest at the realization this was something you could sink your teeth into.  Maybe there was a deeper or coherent story you could figure out, or a canon you could follow?  Maybe a forum somewhere?  You'd just have to look it up- 

Oh.  Right.  No internet.  At least not like that; you weren't even sure if forum pages were a thing yet. 

"What's wrong?" Jack asks from up on the couch. 

"Nothing," you say immediately.  The lie rolls off your tongue before you can even think about it and the guilt immediately comes back. 

He must see your face turn sour and guilty because he gives you a gentle, disbelieving look.  "Sunshine..." 

You grimace, sighing.  "I was just thinking about how I have a ton of music on my phone that I won't be able to listen to anymore.  It just...  It kinda hurt," you admit. 

Jack frowns sympathetically down at you and leans forward.  "Why can't you listen to it?" 

Pulling out your phone, you offer it up to him.  Your phone had run out of power on what you suspect was the first day.  Truthfully, after checking the map that first morning, you hadn't pulled your phone out since, and by then when you moved to turn it on, it flashed it's little lightning bold and low battery symbols.  You wouldn't have the last time you look at the little pictures of you and your brother, or memories of you and Shaun at college parties or working on his short films.  There wouldn't be any song sharing with Jack, no showing him what life looked like in your world.  You couldn't even remember when the last time you had done any of those things, the mundanity of looking at a picture of your friends and family, of pulling up a song had long since blurred out of your mind.   

Jack takes the little alien square from your hand, looking it over curiously.  He presses the buttons, but of course, the screen never lights.  Jack turns it over, rubbing his finger over the logo and fingers at your customized case.  Jack looks up at you questioningly.  "It's out of battery," you explain. 

"I have batteries!" Jack says with a smile.  "What kind does it take?"  He flips the phone so the back faces him and he frowns studiously. 

A small smile lifts the corners of your mouth ruefully.  You're touched by the sentiment in spite of yourself.  "Not like that.  There's a rechargeable battery inside.  You're supposed to plug it into an outlet like a lamp, then disconnect it when it's charged.  I don't have the charger anymore, though.  It's probably still on my bedside table back home". 

Jack regards you sympathetically.  "I'm sorry, Sunshine.  It must be hard to lose something like that.  At least you found some new music to enjoy?" he says, lilting the words at the end as if to sound encouraging. 

Your throat tightens and you nod, unable to speak any further.  To your own mortification, tears are pricking your eyes at the corners, but you swallow the lump in your throat and blink the tears away.   By the time you manage to get your shit together and look Jack in the eye again, his face is a mask of pity.  Behind it though, there's a distant, considering gleam in his eyes you aren't sure you trust.  "Do you... think I could borrow it?  Your phone I mean," he asks suddenly. 

Warily, you look at him from the corner of your eye, fingers clutching your phone.  It's smooth and cool in your hand, never to warm up again.  "Why do you want it?" you ask.  "What are you going to do with it?" 

Jacks eyes regard you carefully.  "Can you trust me?" 

Your eyes narrow.  "I can if you tell me why you want it". 

He only continues to watch you, looking pathetic and somehow pitying you at the same time.  "I promise I won't break it, and I'll give it back as soon as I'm done, but it could take a while.  Please?  Please trust me".  His tone was insistent, with complete surety. 

You give your phone a wistful look.  The ache to keep one of the few solid reminders of the world you were born into was palpable.  Just yesterday you had almost thrown everything you had on you when you came through the wormhole into the trash, including your phone.  The anger and grief swallowing you whole had surprised you when you stood hovering above the open can in the bathroom, startling you out of it.  You'd nearly cried then, but instead pushed yourself into cleaning the bathroom for the second time that day.  There wasn't any reason to keep it; it wasn't like your jacket, which could keep you warm wherever you were.  It wasn't like your money, which could still be tendered here (most people just assumed the printed date was a misprint).  It was useless, completely and utterly, and you knew that every time you looked at it, you'd remember that you had no one to call, even if you could get it to turn on. 

You had to let go, as much as it pained you. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod stiffly.  "Fine," you snap, tone rigid. 

Jack blinks at your tone, brows drawing together with concern as you practically fling the futuristic technology into his lap.  He glances between it and you, as if you've just flung a fish on his lab.  His eyes are round with hurt, but why, you can't say you know.  "You can keep it if you want.  I don't need it if you don't want to-"  

"It's fine," you say, cutting him off.  "It's not like I can use it anymore". 

You stumble out of the room not too long afterward, unable to keep your thoughts from circling the drain.  The moment you get in, you take a long look at the room.  You look at the butter yellow paint, the old fashioned wood furniture, the desk, the bed, the quilt and curtain.  Before, the room had felt comfortable, if different; like a motel you'd been staying at, or a guest room a friend lent you.  Now, it felt positively alien.  The bed felt like the tongue of a monster, the furniture like teeth.   From the moment you sit down on the bed, tears suddenly flood your eyes, vision blurring immediately.  You gasp, wiping your eyes with your palm, but still you feel them drip down and land on your new jeans.  Gasping, hiccupping, you try to grab a hold of yourself but find yourself grasping at nothing.  Fumbling, you suddenly stand and grab your towel before hurriedly walking to the bathroom around the corner.  Thankfully, you don't run into Jack.  You don't know why, but suddenly, you desperately want a shower. 

Crashing into the bathroom, you shut the door with moderate force.  You get in before the water even heats up, frigid and burning your skin cold.  The tears come faster now, the crash of water covering your quiet sobs as you slowly melt down to sit on the floor.  Knees up to your chest, you bend over and cry.  It's the first time you had done so since you got to this place, the shock of finding yourself in a new world finally wearing thin enough for real grief to rear its head.  You shake your head, pushing your eyes into your knees hard enough to cause sparks to fly in your vision.   

You stay there long after the water heats and cools again before stumbling out in a soggy daze, towel wrapped around you.  You catch a glimpse of Jack, or rather he catches a glimpse of you, but you think your weak smile and shower-wet demeanor covers the tears well enough.   

You don't sleep a wink that night.  Every time you think you've finished crying another sob wedges itself up and out of your lungs.  Thankfully, you can muffle your screams of grief with pillows that quickly grow soggy with tears.  You feel too hot, yet also freezing, unable to keep yourself from shaking as you tuck under the covers.  You must fall asleep eventually, because eventually you wake and it's halfway through the afternoon.   

Later the next day, there's a knock on the door. 

You look up curiously from your nature magazine.  It was something you'd picked up on a whim while you were at the mall at one of the checkouts.  "Are you expecting company?" You ask slowly, unsure if you should answer the door to a house that isn't yours. 

Jack shakes his head, confusion muddling his expression as he stands.  You watch him leave to answer the door, muscles stiff with anxiety.  Should you leave?  Hide in your room like your ex did as a moody teenager when people came over?  The answer comes in the form of a hearty greeting, words muddled by walls.  Jack leans in through the archway a moment later, smiling.  "Sunshine, it's for you!" 

That's bizarre.  Rory is the only one you can think of that personally knows of your existence. 

Cautiously, you follow Jack into the entryway to greet your guest.  Before you stands a short, plump man in a burgundy suit with a paisley waistcoat and a top hat.  On his lapel is a large, golden brooch encrusted with dark red jewels.  He takes his hat off politely as he steps in, revealing a large bald cap of skin framed by a horseshoe of short, silver hair.  When he catches sight of you, a wide, pleasant grin splits his genial face.  "Ah!  And there she is!  You must be our visitor!" The man cheers, taking a step towards you, extending his hand politely.  "It's so good to finally meet you!" 

You take his hand in yours reluctantly, looking between him and Jack for some clue as to who this is. 

The man takes the cue and introduces himself.  "Ah yes, we haven't met yet!  My name is Ian Berrie.  I'm the mayor of this little town". 

"Nice to meet you," you say slowly, shaking his hand.  That tells you who he is, but what's the mayor doing here?  Unless... 

"Dr. Erlenmeyer updated me on what happened to you... I am so sorry, my dear," the man says, patting your hand.  You want to rip it from his hands.  Instead, you offer a small, somewhat fake smile. 

"Thanks.  It's been tough, but I'll be fine," you say, not really feeling it.  Your tone indicates otherwise, sounding confident as ever. 

The kindly man grins back and pats your shoulder.  He's officially far too touchy for your tastes to have as a friend, not to mention a politician.  Thankfully, you're released a moment later.  "Yes, well... I just wanted to let you know that we've had an associate of mine at the DMV aware of your situation and they're willing to get you the needed documents, including any certification or college diplomas you may have had in the past". 

You blink.  "That's... very generous.  Thank you". 

"Not at all, not at all!  We're very proud to have the world's first time traveler here in our midst of our humble little town," he replies genially.  "Do you have a list?" 

"Oh," you say with a start, looking around frantically for some paper and a pen.   

Jack heads you off with a small smile, getting a pad of paper off the fridge and giving you the attached pen.  You take it with a nod and scribble down your meager successes and mostly useless achievements; high school and college degrees, with a request for a driver's license.  You go to hand it to the mayor but then pull it back and hastily scribble for a birth certificate as well, listing your age.  The mayor takes a look and nods to himself, smiling at you under his mustache.  "Quite the accomplished young lady!" He says with a chuckle.  "We're glad to have you with us.  Is there anything at all I can do to make you more comfortable while you adjust?" 

"Do you know any place hiring?" You ask bluntly, ignoring the way Jack's mouth opens to reply.  Irritation crawls in your gut, though you must be hiding it well if the bewildered look from Jack at your customer service smile is anything to go by. 

Mayor Berrie smiles right back, looking delighted to be of help.  Ridiculous.  "I would be more than happy to pass along your contact to a few of my associates!  Here, take my card and use me as a reference when you decide to start applying.  Most everyone around here knows me, so I'm sure I can help get your foot in the door when the time comes". 

"Well, I'd appreciate that a lot, sir.  Thank you," you politely say, offering your hand to his for shaking again.  "Was there anything else, Mayor?" 

The mayor shakes his head.  His thick, nubby fingers pull an old pocket watch from his waistcoat and he clicks his tongue at the time.  This guy may be more of a time traveler than you.  "No, no, that's about it.  But should you ever need anything, please, please, do not hesitate to call that number I've given you.  I must say goodbye for now".  He takes your hand in his and gives it (hopefully) one last hearty shake.  "And please, my friends call me Ian". 

There was that word again.   

Friends. 

You shivered a unconsciously, but the man didn't seem to notice.  "I don't think I can do tha-" 

"Well!" He states loudly, straighten his coat smartly.  "I'm off!  Take care, friends!" 

You and Jack watch as the man walks out, getting into an old-timey raspberry fuchsia car, driving off.  The two of you stand there, watching him drive away a moment before you break the moment by heading back in. 

"You didn't like him," Jack notes aloud, closing the door behind him. 

"I don't trust him," you correct, putting the kettle on.  "Want any?" 

"Yes please, but what's the difference?" He asks, sitting down at the table. 

Shrugging, you cross your arms and lean back against the counter as you wait for it to boil.  "I don't trust all politicians as a rule.  I don't trust most people".  A bluebird flits in front of the window, landing on the edge and peering inside.  Birdwatching really does go both ways, you muse. 

"Do you trust me?" 

The question doesn't come out of nowhere.  Just by the heaviness to his tone you can tell this is something he's been thinking about for some time.  Turning to look at him, his expression is indescribable, his eyes burning holes into you. 

Instinct has a 'No' bubbling up but it gets caught in your throat.  He's helped you quite a bit so far; gone above and beyond for you actually.  Thanks to him, you have a place to stay.  He's fed you, helped you get around (although the town is surprisingly walkable), and is letting you stay rent free with no impending date that would change.  Not only that, but he's treated you with kindness.  Probably more kindness than you deserved, given how pissy you'd been since getting dropped into this world.  It would be more accurate to say yes, but still something held you back from deep in your gut.  It was the same gut feeling that had told you to check the news the day those pictures of your ex got leaked, the same one that had told you for weeks to check his phone, ask more questions, to follow him that you had pushed down and later regret not following. 
 
"Sunshine?" 

You blinks and the partial truth rolls off your tongue easily.  "I trust you enough". 

Jack frowns.  "You hesitated". 

"I had to think about it". 

"If you had to think about it, you don't trust me". 

To your surprise, his tone is almost cold.  It's strange, but you don't feel like this is weird for him.  Jack's been nothing but kind to you, been even close to sweet, but you realize with a start why you don't trust him.  His words are empty calories, sugar hearts with pantomimes of strawberries but nothing real. He's not being honest; It's the obvious reason but not the only.

The kettle whistles its alarm between you. 

"I trust that you've been good to me here," you say, taking the kettle off the heat to pour your tea into your mugs.  "And I trust that you want to keep building that trust," you say back.  This comes easier. 

Jack is silent as you make your way to him, setting the hot tea in front of him.  As you go to draw your hand back, his own reaches out, fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist in an instant.  You freeze, watching him suspiciously.  His hand is warm, dry despite the humid summer air.  You ache to shake his hand off, instinct strangled so you don't just slap his hand off your wrist.  Both of you are stiff, and your eyes make your way to his. 

Jack's eyes really are dark.  Even in the moderately bright sun coming through the window, they remain a deep black.  You can't even see the pupil.  The way you want to pull away, to break his fingers off your wrist.  The way he's looking at you makes you feel like a truck about to mow down a deer on a dark country road at night, or maybe it makes you feel like the deer.  It reminds you of that first night, where you were laying on the floor with a stranger leaning over you in the dark. 

"Jack," you hear yourself say, mouth moving around his name as it falls out of your mouth with a warning attached. 

Jack seems to awaken out of some sort of stupor, because his whole face changes.  It's like the guy you met the first night and the one you've been getting to know over the past week are two different people.  His face turns open and apologetic, releasing you at once.  You leave your hand hanging there a moment before slowly drawing back, giving him a quiet, narrow look. 

"I'm so sorry sunshine," he babbles, brows drawing together in the picture of worry.  His face is open, sweet, but you feel disquieted after seeing his expression so cold and empty a moment before.  "I don't know why-  I'm sorry.  Of course, I don't mean to push you.  I was just curious, I guess.  Still, that was no reason to touch you without permission.  I'm sorry". 

He does look genuinely sorry.  You remain disquieted.  "It's...  Yeah, just don't do it again". 

Jack's expression falls even more.  "Yeah...  Yeah, of course.  I'll be more mindful from now on". 

You look down at him, somewhat disturbed.  "You..." 

His head tilts curiously, expression eager.  "Me?" 

"...Nevermind".  Shaking your head you take your tea, which has now oversteeped,  and walk to the backyard.  You need to think.  Jack is left behind. 

Chapter Text

"School is going to be starting up next week.  Will you be alright at home by yourself?" 

Carefully, you take the porkchops off the heat and cover them with foil to rest while you cook the green beans in the same dish.  "I can more than fend for myself.  I did live alone for several years, Jack". 

It wasn't a lie; you'd fended for yourself many times in elementary school after your brother had started picking up more shifts, and then in high school when he'd barely been in house more than to sleep and eat.  Even then, more often than not he was at a boyfriend or another's, knowing you knew how to take care of yourself well enough.  You hadn't forgotten how in the decade you'd spent with your ex. 

"Besides, I'll be looking for a job.  I'll have plenty of time," you remind him. 

Jack frowns as you bring the two plates to the table.  Cooking had been split between the two of you in an unspoken agreement that happened naturally when two people lived in a house for a month.  Jack got up earlier than you in the morning, often just before sunrise so he could watch.  He was unsurprisingly competent, able to handle simple things like oatmeal as well as more complicated recipes like muffins.  Not long after, you'd gotten homesick one night and made the orange chicken you would make for yourself when you worked as a line cook at a Chinese restaurant in college.  Jack had liked it and been even more enthralled with the idea of a younger you working shitty jobs to fund your college life.  Since then, you had slowly been taking over dinner, each of you cleaning up after the other. 

That first bite of inauthentic Asian food had awoken something hungry and homesick in you.  It didn't taste exactly the same; most of the oranges here were sweeter than you were used to, and there weren't exactly specialty or ethnic stores around that you could buy from, so you made do with what you had.  Still, you'd marveled at the empty plate when you realized that food was something you could bring with you into this world.  Jack himself had been eager to try things from your world as well; many of them were here, with varied ingredients.  You can remember when Jack had brought home a 'pinkmelon', something like a honeydew only the brightest pink inside you'd ever seen, with a flavor reminiscent of sweet tarts and cran-apple juice and a soft texture.  He'd brought you almost immediately to Rory's bakery for a cake made with the melon (a local staple when they were in season) with buttercream.  You'd annihilated half of it like you were being paid for it.  Rory had nearly smiled you think when he saw your guilty, but sated look.

"You know you don't have to get a job if you don't want to.  I know this all happened really fast and you're still adjusting," Jack says with a small frown.  "I just don't want you to have to worry about work when you're struggling". 

You frown back.  "I'm not struggling, and I'm fine.  I want to work.  I need something to do". 

"Why not start up a hobby of some kind?  Or you could do something you used to do...  You don't have to take up a job so soon". 

Narrowing your eyes, you sit down.  "Jack," you say meaningfully, his name clipped short by your teeth and tongue. 

Jack winces and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking delicately.  "I know you'll be fine...  I just can't help but worry when I'm not here with you.  I don't want you to overwork yourself in avoidance". 

Swallowing your food, you take your time to answer as you try to keep your hackles from prickling.  "What would I be avoiding?" you ask, voice low. 

Jack looks up at you sadly and says nothing.  He doesn't need to.  You both know what he's thinking, and you both know he's right. 

The newspaper with circles in the job ads were silent too; they'd already said everything they need too. 

The following Monday you wake up to a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh coffee still hot in the carafe with a little note of encouragement from Jack.  It was more than you could eat, and you were left with a full belly and a feeling of determination.  You felt good; better than you had since you dropped out of the sky a month ago.  Maybe it was because you were finally getting a handle on things and would be settling in in a more permanent way.  Feeling so untethered from everything was really exhausting mentally in a way you should have expected.  Still, you couldn't keep the anxiety that swelled in your gut, writhing like snakes. 

It turns out you didn't have much to worry about.  Getting hired in the eighties is a lot easier than you thought, at least in this world.  You had hit five places by two in the afternoon before stopping for lunch at the local diner, who also then offered you a job. 

"We get minimum wage, and the tips don't hurt," your waitress had said offhandedly, setting your plate down. 

Considering minimum wage was rolling around four whole dollars, you didn't want to know what constituted a good tip.  Managing your money was going to be interesting.  All things considered, you could live off your panic money for a bit if you wanted, considering Jack wasn't charging you rent.  It had taken a while to get used to, and the idea still made you uneasy.  Without any real agreement, the guy could kick you out at any time.  Granted you didn't think he would, but the fact that he could left you unstable in ways that made you seek to fix it in any way possible.  Not to mention, your old habit of stockpiling cash for no reason was starting to act up with all your (somewhat) careless spending.  It was a habit that had driven your ex crazy, especially after he started bringing home more than you did.  There hadn't been a reason for you to be as stingy as you were, and he'd even paid for the therapy to help you manage, what you now realized, was a kind of financial insecurity.  Forgetting how it felt to be hungry, really hungry, always made you clutch the cash close.  Now that you were spending with no income again, that hole in your stomach was starting to open up again.

Hence, job hunting.   

To your surprise, by that night you had heard back from all but two to offer you a position.  The job market was certainly easier to deal with. 

"Why not try to get a job in your fields?" Jack had suggested after dinner.  "You have degrees.  You should use them". 

You had opened your mouth to rebuke the idea when your jaw snapped shut with a pause.  The gossip that kept you from being hired didn't exist here.  You were a nobody once again, out of the public eye and disassociated with a scandal that left you constantly watched by invasive paparazzi. 

It did beg the question though: should you tell Jack?  He was still watching you think about a question you'd almost forgotten, patiently watching the gears turn in your head.  There really wasn't any reason to; as much as it pained you to be reminded, your past life didn't really mean anything here.  You were nobody.  You were nobody to no one.  You'd been given a birth certificate for a hospital you had never been to, a driver's license for a road you'd never driven on before today, and degrees for colleges you'd never set foot in.

"It's just temporary until I find something more permanent," you say decisively. 

Jack nods, smiling.  "Why not take on temp work then?  The Cloudytown Worker's Office is always happy to take on new members". 

"Is that like a temp agency?" you ask, getting up to help dry the dishes. 

He passes one to you with a smile.  "Exactly!  You still have to register with them and get cleared to do certain tasks, but it's good, fun work most of the time!  If you want, you can even pay for an ad space if you'd rather do something specific". 

Noding you dry the dishes as he hands them to you.  Doing a bunch of highly varied jobs would help you network.  As much as you disliked wandering around and kissing ass, you'd need it in a world where you had next to nothing.  "Maybe I'll do that then," you say aloud, telling yourself more than you were telling him. 

The worker's office is a surprisingly big building.   Tawny stone and mostly square, with clear additions made to the building as it's grown.  It's busy at eight in the morning with people bustling and taking papers off a wall-wide corkboard.  There were a few fast moving lines at a far side desk where people seemed to be taking more official jobs, running off with papers designating their workplace.   Unsure where to start, you headed to the front desk where a sweet-faced young man got you set up with a worker's ID badge and scheduled your skill exams.  There would be two today, two tomorrow, and three the day after next.  After that, you were free to take any jobs you passed the exams for. 

The first two don't take long at all.  For the first you're mostly doing administrative duties, something you didn't have much experience with, being shown what to do by the person running your assessment.  You managed through with shaky knowledge, but you get the feeling she's not fully approving.  The next is easier, with your assessment with the plumbing office being a guy with a mustache pointing at a sink who's faucet has come completely off and only saying, "Fix it," and gesturing to the geyser gushing from the pipes.  This is something you know how to do.  By the end of the test you're drenched from the waist down, but at least you have a faucet that gives you clear water and doesn't even leak.  The man with the mustache is less friendly than the woman before, telling you to, "Get out, you passed," which you don't think he was supposed to tell you.  Still: you at least had a job there. 

When you get home, you feel a small sense of purpose and accomplishment, relieved with the small feeling of purpose in your chest.  It's a small flower bud, settled there and getting ready to bloom.  Finding something small to do felt like a step in the right direction.  The thought of getting to use one of your degrees felt exciting; you hadn't bothered to find a job in your field before, always taking on mediocre work or trades you were certified in.  Maybe you could even start a band again, or do some solo work.  It had been too long since you'd had hands on an instrument; granted maybe your music would be too forward for the time being.  Remembering the raunchy, explicit lyrics you'd written in high school, you nearly chuckled at the thought of the innocent townsfolk's faces.

"You seem happy.  The meeting with the Worker's Office went well then?" he asks over your shared dinner of butter chicken.  You'd even been in such a good mood you made some naan, something you hadn't done since you worked at the old Indian restaurant back in New York. 

"Yup, and I got my tests set up to fill the rest of the week.  Feels good to have something to do and not just to hang about the house thinking about..."  You trailed off, a kind of empty feeling filling your stomach with a pit again. 

Jack gave you a sympathetic look.  "I know.  I'm really sorry," he says softly. 

"It's fine," you reply quickly, even though it really wasn't.  The two of you watched half an episode of a cop show, before you ducked out, claiming exhaustion.  Jack didn't fight you but he did offer a sad look of understanding.  If anything, the show made you more homesick instead of letting you escape from your melancholic thoughts.  It reminded you too much of the shows you used to watch when your brother began to let you stay up late.  That night, you lay in bed wondering how he was and if he was looking for you. 

Sleep was uneasy. 

Tomorrow was your last two tests and you were starting to get a bit anxious. 

Your last two tests would be for automotive mechanics and electrical support, two things you'd been fairly confident in acing before you started to really think about it.  The thought had occurred to you when you started up the Unicorn Bath album again: if the music was different, and major events like wars and depressions were altered or gone altogether, then what about the mechanics?  The cars here looked strange and rounded, with none of the brands you were familiar with.  That already meant things were switched around, in different places, and at worst, configured completely differently. 

Impulse had led you to reach to your pocket for your phone to look up engine models, blueprints, manuals, anything.  A bare hand in your empty pocket reminded you not only that your phone didn't work so you couldn't look anything up, but you'd also given it to Jack for him to do God knows what with it.  A little grit of grief caught in your stomach, small, but forming a pearl. 

Where were you supposed to figure this shit out now? 

The realization hit you a moment later, and you mentally kicked yourself for not thinking of it sooner. 

The library was pretty far from the house.  You'd stopped by Rory's bakery first for a quick snack and some directions, gearing up for a long research session with some coffee and slice of his signature rainberry pie.  You had no idea what a 'rainberry' was, but the flavor and texture was something like a raspberry with blue spots, turning the pie filling a somewhat deep violet color. 

"Do your best," Rory had said softly, nudging the little plate of pie and coffee toward you from across the counter.  He had a quiet look of approval on his face.  While Rory still hadn't smiled (at least not when you'd drop in once in a while for a break after being stuck at home), you got the feeling he wasn't unhappy.  Even now with a little frown on his face, he seemed almost satisfied.  Almost content, you think, looking a little closer.   Comfortable.  "We're rooting for you". 

"Who's we?" you ask, curious smile threatening to curl your lips. 

"Jack and I.  Obviously". 

You breathe a little laugh, amused.  "Obviously," you agree.  The little taste of encouragement from him eases your nerves just a bit.  "Thanks man".  Hand in jacket, you pull out your usual couple of bills to drop in his hand and tip jar. 

To your surprise, he shakes his head, his hand pushing your hand back and curling your fingers over the money.  "On the house today". 

"What?"  Your shoulders do a little jump in surprise, brows lifting.  "Nah man, I can pay," you say, trying to push the money into his hands. 

They don't budge, and your palms end up sliding awkwardly against each other in the weirdest handshake you've ever had.  The cotton-paper blend makes an odd hiss as the two of you each try to get the other to take the bills.  "You've already more than paid for ten of each in tips alone," he says firmly, giving a sidelong glance at the tip jar.  Usually, yours is the only bill in there, clear glass filled with copper and silver coins.  Even now, there's no paper lingering.  "It's for good luck, so you pass your tests.  If you don't take it on the house, then I'm eating it". 

You're touched.  You didn't think you would be, but the gentle insistence on helping you out after admitting anxiety makes you feel a little gooey inside. 

"Alright," you laugh.  The smile on your face feels like relief; smiles have been few and far between for you since coming here.  "You win.  Thank you, man, that's really nice of you". 

To your surprise, Rory's cheeks turn a little pink and he scratches the underside of his chin, looking off to the side.  "You're welcome.  Anything for a friend, right?" 

His soft tone melts the tension in your chest, leaving you with a gentle feeling as you fold the paper back up and slip it back in your wallet.  It feels natural; the anxiety you felt from the last time Jack had referred to Rory as your friend feeling far in the past. 

"Yeah," you say softly, smiling a little.  "Yeah, anything for a friend". 

This time, instead of your usual idle bullshitting, you end up speaking a little more openly and sit on the counter while he works next to you.  It's a nice change of pace, with you walking a bit on eggshells with even Jack.  It turns into friendly negging when you find out that Rory doesn't listen to music.  At all. 

"What do you listen to when you're busy baking all day?" you ask, huffing in disbelief as you eat your pie.  It's sweet, with a full berry flavor.  The crust is perfectly flaky, golden and one of the best pie crusts you've ever had. 

"I don't.  I just think," he shoots back, rolling the dough for buns in his hands. 

"You raw-dog your thoughts?  With no musical lube?  Couldn't be me". 

Rory scrunches his nose, looking disgusted for all the amusement it brings.  "Why are you afraid to be alone with your own thoughts?" 

"Why would you deprive yourself from such a beautiful expression of the inner self?" 

The conversation goes nowhere, which ultimately feels more fulfilling than if it had.  By the end, you're in a much better mood and on your way to the library with a surprisingly well drawn map from Rory. 

"Jack and I's mutual friend Cloudy-Belle Sue works there, but she can be a little shy with new people, so be nice," he tells you, a stern look on his face as he draws the map. 

Snickering at his side-eye, you snap back, "I promise I won't bite too hard". 

The library ends up being one of the nicest government buildings in the entire town.  It's small, but prominent.  Like most of the other buildings around, it's got its own thematics.  This one seems to be either weather related, or just cloud themed.  The outside has stonework clouds painted white, or maybe just white stone?  Pastels run this domain, with blue and pink blocks of color interspersed with clear, pristine glass windows, with flowers neatly tended in baskets outside them.  Full and blooming purple and yellow irises with lilacs and honeysuckle bushes surround the sides.  Pansies and petunias and odd flowers you've never seen before are patched in beds and along paths to the outside of what appears to be a butterfly garden.  The bees seem to be enjoying it too, their fat little bodies bumbling around as they dance in the flowers.

Stepping inside, you're met with frosty air.  The conditioning is turned far up beyond what it should be.  Maybe librarians are all beasts from a tundra environment in every universe.  Walls are covered in murals, one wall even painted with hand prints from children if the size is anything to go by.  The chairs are large and comfortable looking, and a bit of sound erupts from a side room where kids seem to be having story time. 

Behind the counter at the front is a woman roughly your age, with smooth, dark skin and little curls of periwinkle and magenta face paint at the sides of her cheek and jaw.  Her hair is pale as the white stone of the building outside, but almost with a shine to it like opal.  Locks on the side of her head are pulled back by a large, blue ribbon tied in a bow on the back of her head.  Her pale pink sweater dress is thick and soft looking, giving her an air of comfort, amplified by the home-sewn look of an apron overtop.  Hearts are sewn in with patches of patterned fabric.  Some seem to be pockets, as out of a few you can see pencils, scissors, bookmarks, and other objects poking out.  Her eyes are turned from you and drawn down at the book she's reading, completely lost in the written world. 

Holding up Rory's map, you look between the woman and the little portrait of a second, drawn woman.  The resemblance was uncanny, and when the real woman shifted live in front of you to rest her chin on her palm with a small smile to match the drawn pose, there was no doubt in your mind that this was who you were looking for and you chuckle, amused by him drawing her so precisely.  Folding up the drawing, you walk up to the front desk. 

"Hey, uh, I'm looking for-"  You break off, the woman not looking up and totally engrossed in her book.  "Uh...  Hello?"  Still no movement.  She turns the page.  Grimacing, you lean forward and rap your knuckles next to her hand on the desk, knocking. 

The librarian jumps fantastically, eyes wide with shock and mouth dropping open to scream.  Only, it gets stuck halfway and instead she chokes.  All that comes out is a squeak. 

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" she whisper-yells.  "How long have you been standing there?!" 

There's nothing you can do but laugh, quiet and embarrassed yourself.  "Not long.  And don't worry, it happens.  Must be a good book". 

Her eyes light a bit.  "Oh yes!  It's a wonderful book about birds!  I had no idea that such simple creatures could be so marvelous...  For instance: did you know that robin's eggs are blue because of an antioxidant called biliveden that protects from sun damage and regulates heat?  They-"   She breaks off, taking in your bemused smile.  "Oh... I'm sorry.  I got carried away again".  Her cheeks flush, turning the periwinkle paint on her cheeks a light lilac purple. 

"That's alright," you laugh quietly, keeping your voice low.  "Are you Cloudy-Belle Sue?" 

She nods curiously.  "Yes, that's me.  I'm the librarian here... but I've never seen you before.  How do you know who I am?" 

"I'm a friend of Rory's," you tell her, introducing yourself.  "He said you might be able to help me out.  I'm trying to study for a certification on automotive repair for the Worker's Office, but where I'm from, the vehicles are a bit different.  I just wanted to get my ducks in a square". 

She giggles with a small nod, carefully bookmarking her page with a little crocheted flower marker.  "Certainly.  Any friend of Rory's is a friend of mine.  Let's take a look, shall we?"  Sue leads you around a corner to the stairs.  "The non-fiction informational books are usually upstairs where it's quieter, away from the kid's corner," she tells you, her ballet flats soft on the old wood steps in a way your thumping leather boots could never hope to mimic.  The walls were off white, the wood banister dark and polished with the aged marks of use.  Nearly all of the varnish had rubbed away in some places, the wood showing its age by how well it had been loved. 

"How do you know Rory?" you ask after a beat of silence, the only sound being your feet thumping. 

She tosses you a shy smile over her shoulder as she rounds the turn.  "We went to school together.  How do you know him?" 

"Met him the other day getting coffee at his shop.  Turns out we both know Jack". 

She laughs.  "Why am I not surprised?" 

Cocking your head as you both come up to the landing, you turn to her.  "What do you mean?" 

Her glitter-glossed lips pull up in a dainty little quirk.  "I only mean that Sunny Day Jack knows everyone; and I do mean everyone.  That man simply does not know the meaning of minding one's own business".  Laughter spills from her lips like ripples in a creek. 

You roll your eyes, lips lifting a bit.  "Tell me about it.  I knew the guy for like, an hour before he was trying to get me to tell him my life story". 

The two of you arrive on the upper floor with quiet giggles.  It's much more focused than the organized chaos downstairs.  The walls are the least saturated you've seen, but still a fairly bright sky blue.  She leads you through the labyrinth of books to a small section.  Sue takes books off the shelf methodically, shoving them into your hands with surety. 

"You'll need this one: this is a general guide...  This one is finer details of this company, and this company, and this one...  This one is for the modern home mechanic, so it could be useful, this is repair techniques, this is for learning to diagnose the problem, this one is for sport cars, this one-  Oh!"   Sue finally turns and looks at you, clutching the stack with some effort.  "Sorry, that's probably too many..." She says, blushing. 

Chuckling, you shake your head.  "It's cool," you say with a puff of breath. 

"Cool?"  Her head tilts, a small, confused smile curling her lips. 

Affection simmers in your stomach.  It's not like you to get so attached quickly, but she's exactly the type of personality that you get along with easily.  "Yeah.  It's like uh...  Groovy?" You try, but the expression on her face doesn't waver in the amount of confusion.  "I just mean that it's fine, but it can also mean something is really good or you like something if the context changes". 

Her expression brightens with understanding as she takes half the books from you.  "How interesting!  You're from out of town then?" She asks quietly whispering as she takes you to a table in the corner.  Seems not too many people are in the library this time of day, because you're both whispering to accommodate next to no one.  The upstairs is nearly silent as opposed to the few people with kids downstairs.  "Are you a foreigner?" 

"You could say something like that.  I, uh, just got in a month or so ago from New York City.  But I'm not, um, from there.  It's complicated".  Taking a seat, you look up in surprise as Sue hesitantly joins you, sitting down across the table and sorting the books out.  "It was kind of sudden...  I'm rooming with Jack right now". 

Sue's light brows raise, eyes widened as she pauses shuffling the books to stare at you.  "Really?  He's letting you stay at his house?" 

Leaning away, your eyes narrow, fingers gripping the table as suspicion sparks.  "Yeah?  Why?" 

The librarian makes a small noise of apology and embarrassment.  Her hair flows gracefully through the air like water even as she whips her head side to side like a rabbit looking for any predators.  She leans across the books, her hand at the side of her mouth, as though Jack were nearby and could hear her spill his secrets to you.  Instinctively, you leaned in too, turning your head to hear her better.  Her voice was so low you almost didn't hear the delicate words drip into the air. 

"It's only that... well...  Jack is a bit secretive, you know?  He doesn't really like when people come over all that much, so I'm surprised he'd let you stay!" 

Blinking, you absorb that little treat of information.  "Really?  That doesn't sound like him.  The guy has barely let me leave the house.  When I first got in, he let me stay the night because I was sick and kind of didn't have a place to go," you tell her, your own voice hushing.  Sue looks like if she could lean any closer than she would, but the table is pressing into her hips and if you weren't on the other side with your hands on it, she might have been pushing it into you.  "After that, I said I'd leave and get a room at a motel or something, but he kind of pushed me into staying with him so I could get my bearings". 

Sue had held her hand up to her ear to hear you better, but after listening, she'd placed it over her lips in a nearly cartoonish impression of shock.  Her nails were delicately manicured, painted a powder blue and white, with little gems on the ring finger.  She doesn't say anything, only stares a few moments longer before you see her draw some kind of conclusion and her other hand comes up to join the other.  Sparkles of excitement and apprehension light her face up. 

"What?" you ask, tone insistent, almost desperate to be on the same page.  "What is it?" 

"Are you maybe..."  Sue pauses again, really studying your face. 

"Am I...?" you encourage, nodding so that she'll get to the point already. 

"...His girlfriend?" she finally whispers, a word hissed between her teeth and more of a secret than the others. 

You can't help it.  You laugh. 

Sue seems startled at first, then frantically begins shushing you, waving her hands as if you were a campfire she were starting.  Her cheeks are turning lilac again with her blush under the face paint.  "Shhh!  Stop it!  Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!  I shouldn't have asked!"  Her hands come up and cover her face.

Shaking your head, you wave a hand lackadaisically.  Covering your mouth with your hand, you try and settle the laughter, bubbling up from deep in your chest as amusement simmers.  "It's fine, you just caught me off guard!" you whisper, giggles slipping between your lips.  "I'm definitely not his girlfriend!" 

"Oh..."  She seemed almost disappointed, her fingers curling closed at her mouth.  "I wonder why he would let you stay with him then?  It's just a little out of character for him," she says, tipping her head to the other side thoughtfully.  You bite your lip to keep from laughing again as you imagine a small white dog with purple cheeks, curiously tilting her head and perking its ears.  "He's always helping everyone out, but he's actually kind of private and doesn't like when people are in his space or business unless he's close with them". 

Shrugging your shoulders, you flip open one of the books to look through the diagram.  It seems most of the cars here were solar and steam powered.  That was pretty cool, but it meant you were going to have to start from scratch when it came to cars.  Dammit.  Maybe you should just cancel your test.  They did offer lessons, so maybe you could take some at the very least?  You were going to need your own car eventually.  "Who knows?  He never tells me why when I ask.  Just feeds me some horseshit about being a good person and it being the right thing to do". 

Sue nods with consideration before straightening up, planting the bottom of her fist in her other flat palm like she's just had an idea.  "Maybe he has a crush on you!" 

You can't keep from snickering again.  Then you stop, and really think about it.  Then started laughing again for a different reason. 

"Hey!  Come on, quit laughing!  I'm being really serious here!" She begs, palms pressed to the table like she's asking a banker for a loan. 

"I think you read too many romance books, Cloudy" you tease, closing the book.  Clearly, you weren't going to be able to get by with starting over just with some books.  Asking for mechanic lessons was going to be the first thing on the list of things to do.  "Besides, doesn't he already have a girlfriend?" 

She actually looks shocked.  "No?  Jack's never had a girlfriend". 

That makes you pause.  You slowly look up, brow wrinkled.  "Okay, boyfriend then?  Partner?" 

Still, Sue shakes her head.  "He hasn't had a relationship as long as I've known him, and we've known each other since we were little". 

Surprise blooms.  "Really?  Never?" You press. 

But she shakes her head still.  "Never ever.  He never mentioned any crushes either when we were growing up". 

"Maybe he's an ace in the hole?" you muse aloud. 

"A what in a where?" 

"You know...  Like he's not interested in love or sex?" You explain, rolling your wrist. 

Cloudy Belle shakes her head again, flushing.  "I don't think that's quite it..." she says with a frown. 

"Could he maybe have had one in secret?" you press.

"Oh, that's possible...  Rory might know?  He tells him more than anyone what's going on," she says with a slow, considering nod.  Then shakes her head.  "But still... that doesn't seem like him.  Maybe he would keep it a secret for a little while, but I think he'd want to do something big for his sweetheart after a while.  We'd know after a couple weeks, I would think".

Maybe he's just pent up then, you think to yourself snickering.  Oh good God, you did not want to know what constituted for porn in this Ronald McDonald Sesame Street Hellscape.  Probably just holding hands.  Maybe kissing after marriage if they're being really spicy. 

"Why do you ask?" 
 

"Huh?" you ask eloquently, flipping through the books without real interest. 

"Why did you ask if he had a girlfriend?" Cloudy Belle repeats. 

You pause.  "I guess I just assumed?  I mean, he's a good looking guy, he's nice, seems respected in the community, he has a lot of friends.  Most people like that get snatched up fast". 

She seems to accept this, then a moment later gets a shy but mischievous look on her face.  "Do you have a crush on him then?" 

A startled laugh leaves you.  "I love this delusion you're creating.  I want to live there".  You gently flick her hand and he takes it back quickly off the table, using one of the books to defend herself. 

She laughs with you, defending against her flicks.  "Come on, it was a serious question!" she insists between giggles, teasing you. 

"And I think you're seriously losing every marble you ever had". 

"I'm home!" Jack's voice sounds from the entry way in the dining room. 

"Welcome back!" you call back, from your spot in the big, purple reading chair. 

"So how did studying go?" Jack asks, fabric shuffling from the other room as you read, warm and comfortable. 

"Fine!  Well, not so good actually, but it's okay." 

Footsteps closer.  "Really?  What happened that made it not so-"  Footsteps stopping. 

Looking up, your brow furrows as you see Jack halted in the archway.  The light from the windows shining bright behind him makes it hard to see his face, but a suggestion of his features shows shadows of something.  "...What?  What's wrong?" 

Jack stands there a moment longer before he shakes his head.  His laugh quivers a little and seems almost wet.  "Sorry it's just... I thought you were..." 

Folding your book closed on a scrap of paper to mark your page, you straightened.  Sliding your legs back down in a proper sitting position, you stand up, leaving the book on the chair.  The closer you get, the better you can see the look on his face, but it doesn't help you distinguish the emotions swirling across his normally gentle face.  You can definitely tell he's distressed at the very least.  "Jack?  Are you okay?  What's wrong?" you ask, tentatively stretching out your hand and pressing just your fingertips on his bare arm delicately.   

His skin is smooth and warm, flinching under your fingertips.  "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone in that chair?"  Jack lets out a laugh that shakes uneasily.  "I don't really sit in it," he says softly.  He's smiling, but there's a kind of familiar pain on his face you recognize. 

You feel your expression droop.  "Who's chair was that?" you ask quietly, meeting his eyes with quiet steadiness. 

A small silence.  "My dad's," he says softly as he looks away; wistful and sad enough that you know exactly why that chair isn't used. 

"Shit".  Your hand creeps up to touch the back of his shoulder, palm pressing there in a firmer touch of reassurance.  "I'm sorry, I didn't know.  I won't sit in it anymore".  The earnestness comes from your mouth quiet but fierce. 

Instead of thanks, Jack shakes his head and looks at you with the renewed determination of a scar long healed and smiles.  "No, it's okay.  It's nice to see it used again".  He leans into your hand and you give his shoulder a squeeze. 

"Why don't you use it, then?" you ask curiously. 

"It just..."  Jack pauses, seemingly unsure about how to finish his sentence.  "It just felt like it was too big". 

A sympathetic noise escapes your throat and you give his shoulder one last comforting squeeze before you release him.  "...Well, your old man had good taste at least.  Is this a classic here?" you ask, gesturing to the book.  You'd picked it up to read purely out of boredom, but it turned out to be a rather interesting detective book, most likely part of a series, reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes. Jack nods idly and looks off into the distance.  No, not off to the distance.  Eyes following his gaze, they land on a picture frame.  You'd never noticed it before, or maybe you had just never bothered to look it over.  Walking over, you take it in your hand.  "Is this him?" you ask, pointing.  Jack comes up behind you in quiet, heavy steps, so you hold the frame carefully in your hand for him to see.   

There's four people in the picture.  The only one you recognize is Jack, who's small, clearly a toddler in the photograph, and has all the crushing worry on his face that toddler's with no real responsibilities seem to always wear.  His thumb is stuck in his mouth, turned toward the camera, but looking slightly to the left of it.  He's wearing a small, yellow hoodie with a little giraffe on the pocket.  His hair is still blue, but a slightly lighter shade at a nearly pale sky blue rather than the deeper color he has now.  Little Jack sits in the arms of a man he bears great resemblance to.  You can see him in the curve of his brow, the height he has and the wide shoulders.  The loose curls and waviness of his hair reflected in Jack's own clearly, although his father's was a dark violet.  His skin is a bit darker than Jack's deep olive color: a blushing brown like the cattails behind them along a lake bed.  There were a few slight differences you could pick out in his eye shape and maybe his nose, but that was where the differences ended.  Flicking your eyes between the picture and the Jack looking over your shoulder, you could see him as a spitting image of his father. 

You feel Jack come up from behind and lean over your shoulder to take a look.  Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you catch him smiling, the curve of his lips cradling bittersweet, fond nostalgia.  "Yeah.  That's my Papa," he replies fondly, pride bursting like bubbles off his tongue.   

"I can see the family resemblance," you comment, moving the frame so it's easier for the two of you to see.  Jack's hair brushes yours.  Strawberry shampoo.   "You've both got the same smug look of superiority". 

Jack laugh suddenly.  It's a harsh bark, louder than he intended, with a look of surprised mirth on his face as he backs up, turning to look at you.  "My smug look of what?!" He asks, slightly breathless with laughter. 

Unable to keep yourself from snickering, you follow suit, leaning back to face him.  "You know exactly what I'm talking about!  It's right there!"  Pointing to his dad, you nudge the picture closer. 

His eyes crinkle when he laughs, pausing a moment to look, then starts laughing even harder.  "I don't see it.  That's just his face!  He's happy!" 

"Happy to think he's better than everyone, maybe.  I bet he was super judgmental". 

"You're so mean!  Stop it!" Jack protests between giggles. 

"You aren't denying it!" you tease, and Jack just laughs a little harder.  "Alright, alright, alright.  I'll chill," you appease shaking your head, warmth blooming in your gut.  "Okay, who're these two?" 

Jack looks down fondly.  "That's my Mama," he says, pointing delicately to a taller woman with cherry red hair tied back in a ponytail.  She had a wide grin that crinkled her nose, juxtaposed to the man next to her side's calm little smile.  She was white as a sheet, like her entire body was coated in the whiteface grease paint clowns used to use in the old days.  It was easy to see where Jack got his endless energy; just by looking at her, you could see she was struggling to stand still, her hands somewhat blurred from movement.  The younger girl, but older than little Jack, is similarly blurry.  Her hair is blonde with an equally bright red chunk of bangs.  The blonde majority was tied back in a pony tail with a big, purple ribbon with blue polka dots.  Her arms are up in a bright motion smear of a victory pose.  "And that's my big sister, Jane". 

"I didn't know you had a sister".  You'd assumed he'd been an only child, with no evidence of another person in the house. 

"Oh yes, she lives in town.  She has a joke shop she runs there".  Jack smiles a little brighter looking at his sister. 

"That's cool that she stayed close by.  You can see her whenever you want".  A thorn of envy pricks your stomach. 

I just can't keep doing it, kid. 

"Are you two close?" you ask, pushing through. 

"Not as much as we used to be," explains Jack as you both examine the family picture.  "But we're still pretty close.  We get along well, but we're busier as adults and don't get to meet up as much.  Besides, things just haven't been the same since..."  Jack trails off. 

You nod sympathetically.  "I get it.  It was the same when my mom passed.  My brother and I had a hard time being in the same room when it was just us.  It's really hard.  I don't think we could even look at each other without just, like, bursting into tears".  Pausing, you contemplate in the quiet.  A puff of air escapes you, and with it, an exhausted whisper of a sentence.  "It's fucked up". 

Jack's face drops into cool relief then smiles, if a little tiredly.  "Yeah, that's exactly how it is.  Was?  I'm... sorry about your mom, Sunshine". 

"I'm sorry about yours too," you return, unsure how to take his apology.  "Both of them". 

Jack smiles at you a moment, and you return it.  It suddenly occurs to you that you don't actually know that much about Jack.  Sue was right about him being secretive: he didn't offer much information, and you'd been so overwhelmed with your new situation that you'd never bothered to ask.  The realization made you feel selfish and embarrassed.  This man had let you into his house without a second thought and you hadn't even considered to ask him about himself at all. 

"So," Jack begins, backing away to hang his jacket on one of the chairs.  You set the photograph back down on the table with care.  "You never told me what happened?" 

"Oh, right!"  You startle out of your somber thoughts.  "It's kind of good news bad news.  The good news is that I got to meet your friend the librarian". 

"Aw, you got to see Cloudy-Belle Sue?  How is she?  What did you think?" Jack calls, coming back into the living room to sit on the couch. 

Following his lead, you carefully sit back on the dark purple armchair.  From the corner of your eye you see Jack smile.  It's small and soft.  Afraid to see something you could break, you don't look at him and instead open the book up.  "She's doing fine, and she's a sweetheart.  I think her and I will get along real well.  She invited me to do a girls' night with her and another friend". 

Jack nods agreeably.  "She's probably talking about Jane.  I'm glad you two get along!"  

"Yeah.  Bad news is that your cars are too different from the ones in my world; I'm going to have to start over from scratch and there's no way that I'll pass the test".  You settle into the chair, spreading out comfortably with one leg slung over the chair arm, leaning your back against the other so you get better lighting from the window to read.  "Anyways, how was your day?" 

Jack blinks at you.  He's quiet, and you look up, catching an odd look on his face as he watches you settle into the chair comfortably. But then he smiles again, fonder this time.  "It went well.  I have a really good group of kids this year I think!" 

"That's good; any standouts?" 

As Jack begins to rattle on about his students, you realize that this is nice.  Comfortable.  You can't remember when you'd asked him how his day was; it was usually the other way around, Jack pestering you for any emotion you felt at all, making you retreat further and further into your shell.  Were you sad?  Were you hungry?  Did you feel nauseous?  Did you want some water?  Did it hurt?  Why did you do that?  What do you want to do?  Things usually felt like an interrogation with him, done by the saddest puppy dog in the world.  It was painful; strained by emotions running high and your need to rapidly reestablish yourself.  Now, with some of the stress of getting your roots in being relieved with new connections and to process of a job being secured well underway, you had started allowing yourself to process all the shit you put on hold. 

Like the fact that you're starting to like being here. 

You knew you would eventually, since you're stuck here for the indefinite future and possibly forever, but it hits you from out of nowhere all the same.   

Smiling at Jack's words, full of fondness for his students, you feel a pang in your chest that hurts just a little bit less.  You listen to him talk about his day.  His day sounded nice.

Later that day when you'd settled down for bed, you stare at the ceiling and think about the new friends you'd made.  Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to sit in the comfort; you were allowed to have friends here.  You could let yourself care about them.  Rory was a good guy, probably.  He seemed nice, straightforward.  Sue... she seemed a good person too, if a little bit of a daydreamer.  Just in the little interaction you'd had with her, you could tell she had the tendency to see things how they could be rather than look at how they really were.

As you began to drift off, your mind slipped away from the pale colors of Sue's opal and Rory's orange and pink to another, bluer shade.  The way Jack looked at you in that chair the second time around that he'd seen it had stuck in the back of your mind.  He looked at you like you belonged there.  Perhaps even more than that, like he wanted you there.  Like he'd ask if you wanted anything so you didn't have to get up and leave the big, purple reading chair that once belonged to someone close to him.

Your last thought as you drifted off was that Cloudy-Belle Sue had Jack pegged without even seeing the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't looking.

Chapter Text

Jack forgot his lunch. 

It was only leftover lasagna; hardly anything worth writing home about.  Maybe you had forgotten to tell him you put it aside for him, or maybe he had known and just left it.  He could probably just get something from the cafeteria.  It wasn't as though he'd starve.  Or maybe he could just come home and get it.  It wasn't like he lived far from the school.  The man walked every day to work.  Still, you couldn't shake the curiosity in your chest.  You'd never seen him at work.  Maybe now was the time to give it a shot.  Finding a schoolhouse shouldn’t be too difficult.  Jack walked there every day, except the first few preparation days, where you helped him load large boxes full of school supplies and decorations into the truck to take to the building. 

Indeed, it didn't take you too long to find it.  Pretty quickly, you heard the sound of an old school bell ringing.  You followed it, and fairly quick, found yourself at the school.  It was of a decent size: not very big, but also not too small.  It was concrete and painted the primary colors like most of the buildings in town.  Dark and light blue striped the front entrance while the left side was yellow and the right solid red.  Little flags hung all over the building, billowing in the wind cheerfully.  White painted clouds edged the very bottom and tops of the stone structure of the school, one large one in the very center of the pain building.  In the center hung a large mechanical clock.  Above it, the bottom of a sun was painted in orange and yellow, and above that, an old fashioned brass bell hung.  More than likely, it was the same one that had called you to the building.

Stepping inside, cool air rushed to greet you.  The floor was some kind of stone, set into a ramp with benches on either side and painted into a rainbow road.  A sign stand right in the middle of the hall read: 

ALL VISITORS:  

PLEASE CHECK IN WITH THE FRONT DESK!   

<- 

THANK YOU! 

These days, you weren't typically one to argue with signs or disobey.  You followed the arrow into a cool pastel pink office space.  The shelves and cabinets were metal painted red, and unchipped anywhere you could see.  Cute magnets of hearts and school supplies were posting notes and reminders all over.  A tall counter sat at the  

"Can I help you, hon?" a nasal voice chirped from behind the counter. 

You sort of jump, blinking down at the woman who'd somehow escaped your sight in looking around.  Her hair was short, and a dark cherry-cola red and little orange rings lit up her cheeks.  Bright yellow cat-eye glasses with white rhinestones sat perched on the end of her nose as she peers up at you from over them.  She was plump in a comforting way you could remember your high school librarian being, with a gold wedding band on her left hand.  Her thin lips were lined with a dark pink-fuchsia lip stain, and were parted slightly.  Skin sagging with age, you still found her beautiful.  Kindness welled up and overflowed off her being with an energy you couldn't name, only knew. 

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," you apologize.  "I have... a delivery?  For Jack?  Sunny Day Jack?  He forgot his lunch".  As if to prove yourself earnest, you hold up the Tupperware full of tomato-y cheese-y goodness. 

The woman's eyes sharpen with her smile, narrowing behind her glasses with a smile.  "Oh, let me get you a visitor's badge so you can take it to him, Sweetie!" 

Suddenly losing your confidence under the cold, hungry look of a gossipy receptionist, you found yourself blurting, "I can just leave it here, it's not a big deal right?"  Suddenly, the idea of seeing Jack at work no longer appealed to you and left your stomach cold. 

The woman ignored you, shuffling her papers.  "No, no, it's completely fine!  Here, I'll let him know you're coming," she tells you, passing you a visitor's sticker nametag and an orange permanent marker.  Feeling childishly obstinate, you drew a little sun in the blank margin, unwilling to let this woman or anyone else know your name. 

"Um, actually-" 

"Jack?" she interrupts you, smiling wide.  You did not like that smile.  Rhonda no longer seemed beautiful.

"Yes, Rhonda?" 

"Your girlfriend is here to drop off your lunch," she simpers. 

Brow furrowing, you flinch back.  "Uh, I'm not-" 

"Oh, great!  Great timing; send her back!" 

"Will do!" 

Blinking, you watch as Rhonda hangs up and turns to you.  "He's in room 212.  Just head down the hall, take a right, and then another right.  He's the second door on the left," she tells you with a big smile.  Two of Rhonda's teeth are slightly more yellow than the others, but it's nothing compared to the mouthful of rotted smoker's teeth your old elementary school receptionist had.  Maybe she'd been as decisive and vicious as Rhonda too.  Maybe it was a prerequisite for being a receptionist anywhere. 

"Hi, I'm here for the job listing?" 

"I see you've got references and experience, but how much of a passive aggressive cunt can you be?" 

"Very!" 

"You're hired!" 

You take the lunch back off the counter and slap the visitor sticker onto your chest, mostly hidden by your jacket.  Stumbling past murals on cement bricks and following the cyan stripe as the rainbow road splits.  The stripe leads you past rows of lockers (none of them dented and all freshly painted.  The school was really nice.  While it felt as uncanny as the rest of the buildings, you found yourself strangely jealous of the school.  None of the kids probably ever went without lunch if they couldn't pay, here.  There was probably supplies for all the kids that couldn't afford notebooks and pencils, probably even nice ones with whatever this world's Superman or Spider-Man, or popular cartoon characters on it.  And those cool pencils that changed color when you rubbed them.  You used to steal those out of your teacher's desk because you were never good enough to get one as a kid (you hadn't started to put the work in until you had a Come-to-Jesus in the fifth grade or so). 

The door in front of you reads 212 in round, easy to read lettering on the outer plaque, but suddenly you're doubting your ability to remember numbers.  Was it 212, or 121?  Maybe it was 221 or 112?  You should have written this down.  You know how terrible you are with numbers and letters and memorizing them is the biggest chore and headache ever. 

Oh, wait, that's Jack you can see in the window.  For some reason that knot of doubt in your gut doesn't loosen.  Well, it's not too late to just walk out through the door and just pretend this never happened and let Jack go hungry-  Nope, never mind, he saw you.  Fuck.

Jack grins bright and wide from the sliver of window from an orange wood desk at the front of the classroom.  He waves his hand in a 'come-on-in!' sort of movement.  A weak smile crosses your face, probably not even splitting very far and you push the door open as quietly as you can. 

"Hey, J," you call quietly.  "You, uh, forgot this back at the house".  The plastic container of lasagna is raised slightly in punctuation. 

Perhaps sensing your hesitation to enter, Jack gets up from the desk, coming quickly to the door.  Suddenly, you feel very small and insignificant in this too-nice building.  Everything feels so pristine, even though there's a few messier areas.  Everything feels new, and if not, well taken care of, leaving you feeling out of place as you are neither. 

"Hey," Jack says, like you are something he wants to take care of; like you could be one of his neatly shelved binders, or collected homework in bins.  "Thank you, yes, I'm so glad you were able to drop this off!  I completely forgot," he says with a grin.  Maybe it's just you, but the little off curl to his lips rings a bell in the back of your mind.  One that tells you maybe he didn't forget, or perhaps he really did, and for some reason was using this situation for himself.

Or you're just paranoid and looking for something to point a finger at so you can throw a punch.  Therapy had done everything but kill those instincts that were, occasionally, wrong and just triggered by mood and miniscule the movements of others.

"Come in, you should meet the kids!" He says cheerfully, an arm hovering over your shoulders but not touching as he takes the lasagna from you. 

Flinching a little, you nearly back into his arm but stop yourself and make your feet freeze on the floor.  Warily, you look out over the round, curious eyes of the kids.  They're already whispering to each other.  You don't know why you feel so deeply all of a sudden that you don't want to be in the classroom.  "I...  Is that okay?  Would their parent's be fine with that?  I don't want to get you in trouble". 

Jack must hear the tension in your voice when you murmur that quietly to him.  Something in his face softens a little, warm and sweet like fluffy cake.  "Sunshine, it's fine.  They're bound to meet you around town anyhow, it's such a small place.  Besides, they want to get to know you!" 

That last bit struck you as odd.  Looking up, your brows furrow as you stare into Jack's black eyes.  "How would they know about me?" you ask a little sharper than you intended. 

He flushes, cheeks turning pink under the red face paint.  His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck in boyish embarrassment.  "I sometimes use my friends and problems to relate to my students, for story problems or to help them understand a personal issue better to solve it.  I haven't said anything bad!  Or personal!  I promise!"  Jack seems to almost be pleading with you, whispering softly.  He's pulling the biggest, soppiest puppy-eyed look he can and it's pissing you off that it's working on you.  Heaving a great sigh, you let him bully you in with no small delight from him. 

"We have a guest today!" Jack cheers and you want to puke.  The kids are turned around in their chairs, watching you and their teacher with wide, curious eyes.  "This is my good friend, Miss Sunshine!" He cheers.  Considering you put a drawing of a sun on your name tag, you tripped and fell on your ass into that mud puddle, but you're still somehow annoyed Jack won't use your name.  Although, looking around at these kids, you aren't sure you want them calling you by your government name either.  Being called by your first name by a bunch of something-graders.  Shit.  How old were these kids?  Definitely too young to be swearing, so you'd have to watch your mouth.  God forbid one of these little shits go home and call their father a cocksucker for not letting them stay up late.  "Everyone say 'Hello'!" 

"Hello, Miss Sunshine!" The kids intone, some more enthusiastically than others, but all inquisitive. 

"Would you guys want to ask her some questions?" 

Please, God, no.  Jack, what are you doing?!  My lore is NOT kid friendly! 

"Why don't we-" 

The overhead speaker crackled on with a brassy snap.  "CODE PINK, CAFETERIA!  CODE PINK, CAFETERIA!"  It cut off again with a pop, leaving the brightly painted, metal megaphone-style speaker silent once again. 

"Oh dear," Jack says next to you.  He tugs your sleeve, gently leading you to the side slightly.  "Sunshine, I'm so sorry to ask, but would you mind watching them for a moment?  I need to take that". 

Alarm swells in your gut and before you can stop yourself, you grasp your hand around Jack's wrist in a tight hold.  "Wait!" you hiss, watching as he turns around in surprise.  He looks down at your hand around his wrist, then up at you, his eyes bright with some kind of interest.  Your hand pulls off of his like he's burned you.  Shooting the children a hesitant look, you admit under your breath, "I'm not good with kids". 

Jack smiles warmly, and slowly puts his hand on your shoulder.  Eyeing the hand with mild dislike, you ruefully turn your eyes to his again.  "It's okay!  Just, do your best.  Please.  This would really, really help me.  I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important!  I'm counting on you, okay?" he whispers back, eyes pleading. 

Passing one look from the kids to him you sigh and slap his hand off your shoulder.  "You owe me," you grumble at full volume, pointing at him near threateningly.  "I mean it.  I won't forget". 

Jack presses his palms together as though praying and smiles with relief.  "Thank you!  Okay class, Miss Sunshine is going to watch you while I go help a friend in need!  Please behave and let's keep the voices indoor!  I'll be back soon!" 

The class offers up little hands that wave and goodbyes, watching as Jack slips out of the classroom and takes off at a jog. 

Then their little faces turn to you and all you can think is what a pile of shit you've gotten yourself into. 

You aren't really sure where to take this, so you just go and sit at Jack's desk and start going through his stuff.  The kids just talk to one another, whispers and quiet voices.  Surprisingly well behaved.  Jack has gummy bears in his desk, the green ones uneaten.  You give them a try.  The flavor isn't like any kind of fruit you've ever had.  Maybe it's a purely artificial flavor, like blue raspberry?  Or it could be something exclusive to this universe.  Either way, it's not bad, though a little stale from sitting in a desk all day. 

After about five whole minutes, you got bored and so did the kids so they started asking questions.  That got old pretty fast too, especially with the subject matter and speed of them. 

"What's your favorite color?" 

"Do you like dinosaurs?" 

"Do you like pizza?" 

"Where are you from?" 

"How do you know Mr. Day?" 

"Where do you go to school?" 

"You're old". 

That one wasn't a question.  It hurt a little more than you thought it would, considering you had to think about how old you were for a second. 

"Are you married?" 

"Do you have any kids?" 

"Are you Jack's girlfriend?" 

"Okay, enough asking me questions about myself!  I'm gonna learn all y'all some sh- stuff!" you call out, taking a seat on Jack's desk. 

"'Y'all' isn't a word, and you're not supposed to sit on the desk like that, ma'am.  It's bad for it," the little girl with her brown hair tied back in a pigtail braid says.  Her hands are folded neatly in front of her, and you can see under the desk her ankles are crossed as well. 

"Okay.  What's your name?" you ask, gesturing to the little girl with your finger moving in a circle as if you were a wizard casting a spell. 

"Shelly," she says with the full confidence of someone having never questioned her name a day in her life. 

"Great.  Shelly.  Thank you for telling me about the desk, but these types of desks are made to last and carry weight.  I'm going to elect to continue sitting on it because I hate chairs, and respect that I will be responsible for any damage to it going forward.  'Y'all' might not be traditional grammar, but it's not illiterate, just informal". 

Shelly seemed to shrink into herself, casting worried glances around her at her classmates.  They didn't seem to notice or be bothered by her perceived 'mistake' but you could practically smell the test anxiety brewing. 

You smiled encouragingly, pity tight in your throat.  God, why were you so fucking abysmal with kids?  Even when you tried your best, someone's feelings got hurt.  "Anyways, I'm going to teach you how to do maybe the most important thing you'll ever do in your time here at school". 

Shelly seemed to perk up, invigorated by the possibility of new information.  A couple other kids seemed to perk up as well. 

You pause for dramatic effect.  "-And that is how to make the best Halloween costume". 

The kids looked at you blankly. 

Shit.  Did they not have Halloween here?!  You might actually die of despair if that were true. 

"You know," you insisted, trying to keep the desperation you felt out of your tone, "The one night a year at the end of October that people dress up in scary costumes and go door to door getting candy?" 

The confusion cleared.  "You mean Fright Night?" Shelly asks, confusion plain on her face.

"Okay, yes, Fright Night!"  The relief you felt wasn't held back.  Thank Christ they still had Halloween, even if it was just called something different.  It made sense, since you had yet to see any kind of religious worship here.  It were as though they were all atheist.  "I'm going to teach you how to make the best Fright Night costumes". 

A few kids cheered, but some just seemed confused.  Shelly was one of them.  "That's something you can learn in school?" one kid asked.  Shelly seemed to be paying closer attention to you.  You weren't sure if it was you just paying extra attention to her now that you had accidentally gotten her into an anxiety funk, however brief, or if she was naturally this focused in school.  Realistically, it could have been either. 

"Sure," you say with a nod.  You stood from the desk and walked to the chalkboard, taking a piece of red chalk and writing on the board.

WHAT'S SCARY? 

You turn to face the kids smiling, tapping the board with the chalk.  "I went to school to make really good Fright Night costumes". 

"There's a school for that?" Shelly asked.  Many of the kids seemed very interested in that. 

"Oh sure.  It's just called something else.  Special Effects and Cosmetics, I think.  Something like that.  I went to school to make costumes for scary movies, so that made my Halloween- I mean Fright Night costumes really good".  Looking over the kids, they each seemed at least a little interested.  "Okay.  So.  Let's go around the room and say something scary.  We'll start over here, and go up and down rows.  Go". 

"Spiders," says the first girl, with little pink bows in her hair. 

"Great start!  Spiders are a classic fear!  Lots to work with, lots of directions we can go with that!" You cheer, writing it on the board.  The girl seemed pleased to be afraid of spiders. 

"The dark". 

"Bears". 

"Strangers". 

"Crowds". 

"Spiders for me too". 

"Snakes". 

"Failing a test". 

"Hurting a friend". 

"Dying". 

"My mom and dad dying". 

"Vampires". 

"Werewolves". 

"Drowning". 

"Snakes and spiders and bats and centipedes and-" 

"Okay," you announce when the list had finally grown large and full, and every kid expressing their fears.  Clowns did not make an appearance on the list, unsurprisingly.  "We've got some really good ones we can work with.  Lots of animal fears, some fears that are more metaphysical...  Some real good variety. Good job being afraid of stuff, you guys.  Give yourself a pat on the back".  You fidgeted with the chalk, your fingers coated in a fine reddish-pink dust.  A hand raised from Shelly. You pointed with the chalk.  "Yes, Shelly?" 

"What's metaphysical mean?" 

"Great question.  Real, but you can't touch it.  Like an idea, or a feeling.  A good example is how I can be mad, that's real, but you can't touch the feeling of being mad.  Being alone is a good fear that's metaphysical. You can't touch being alone.  Make sense?" 

She nods, a determined look crossing her face as she scribbles into a butterfly notebook. 

Nodding to yourself, you look out at the kids.  You had their attention, and their interest.  "Okay, let's get into what makes a good Fright Night costume".  Switching to yellow, you moved further down the board.  "The best costumes are ones you make yourself, because you can get it just how you want it.  Now this doesn't mean you make everything from scratch; no one will fault you for buying a skirt or shoes because you don't know how to make them, but painting, doing makeup, papier-mâché, it's all going to add flavor and detail to your costume and make it that much more memorable and interesting.  It adds heart, and it adds a little piece of yourself to your costume".  Glancing behind you, you caught a glimpse of a classically dressed bully stereotype kid with a black and white skull shirt on raise his hands with a careless, smug smirk.  You pointed.  "What's your name?" 

"Dennis," he sneers, because of fucking course his name is Dennis. 

"Okay, what do you have for me, Dennis?" you ask amiably. 

"What if we suck?" he asks bluntly. 

A few kids giggle.  Shelly gives him such a look of pure loathing that it actually almost makes you laugh.  You bite your tongue, unable to hold back a smile.  "Define 'suck'.  Do you mean bad?  Ugly?" you prompt. 

"Yeah," he agrees, hand coming down to cross his arms.  He seems somewhat surprised that you're taking him seriously.  "Like what if it looks like crap?" 

"You can't say that in school!" hisses one of the boys next to him, snickering.  Dennis raises his fist, glaring at the boy. 

A noise of protest escapes your mouth, less a word and more a couple syllables that universally mean 'don't-you-dare'.  Snapping your fingers you shake your head.  Dennis looks at you glaring right back at your calm but firm look.  "Crap isn't a swear, and it's a valid question.  We're not going to critique other's words unless they ask.  And no smackin' each other".  Dennis turns his glare back at the other kid but slowly lowers his fist and sits back down.

Shelly seems sidelong apologetic, even as she asks, "What's critique mean?" 

"It means to judge, but with interest of bettering". 

More scribbling.  You like this kid.  Adorable.  Hungry to learn. 

"So," you announce, getting yourself back on track.  "So.  Even if it looks 'bad' I promise you, it's still going to look better than anything someone buys from a store".  Dennis looks at you with disbelief.  "It's true.  It's because whatever you make is going to be so much more detailed than anything any costume store can provide.  It's because you'll be going piece by piece.  Let's say, even if you do something simple, like a vampire".  Scribbling, you sketch out a rough drawing of a vampire, and those chunky vampire teeth to go with it.  "So here we have a vampire you can buy at a costume store.  They all pretty much look like this right?  Classic Victorian-Edwardian old-timey clothes with the cape and the white poet shirt, with these really silly teeth, right?" 

A few of the kids nodded.  Dennis squinted, intrigued but not sold.  Shelly was writing frantically on her page, looking up and down with enthusiasm.  Mostly good signs. 

"That's because basically all 'vampire' costumes are all based off of the Dracula movie in 1931.  This was what he looked like in that movie, and people have running the design into the ground since," you explain, using your hands to gesture.  "Now I'm not going to say it's a bad design: it's actually a very good and classic design.  The problem is with how common it is, and the lack of innovation.  Nobody wants to reinvent the wheel, but witches use brooms to fly, not sweep".   

Shelly's hand flies up.   

"That means that we should be using what we have to the max what it can do," you follow up. 

Her hand went down.  Scribbling. 

"Part of the issue, is this doesn't look good on everyone, and it doesn't give quite as much story to it.  Not to mention, it's a design based off of one specific vampire from one specific movie".  The chalk is leaving reddish pink powder on your shirt's sleeve, but you don't care.  You're on a roll.  You haven't taught a class before for this, but already, you're starting to see how much fun this could be.  Maybe it was just the Halloween costume bit, but it felt genuinely fun.  "Who knows what I'm talking about when I say 'story', when I say it has no story?"  Looking out, you call on another little girl, enthusiastically hovering in her chair as she leans forward onto her desk.  She seems to be trying with all her might to get her hand the highest.  Her pale blue hair is tied up with white ribbons, and she was afraid of spiders.  "Yep, you.  What's your name?" 

"Amanda," Amanda says shyly, all of her bravery seemingly sliding away as soon as she had the floor.  She sat back down and scrunched herself up with an embarrassed smile on her face.  "Um, it means that, like, it doesn't have a, um, you don't know where it's from?" 

"Okay, good start, we don't know where it's from.  Keep going, there's more I'm looking for," you encourage, gesturing with your hands in a circle. 

"It's um..." 

You wait patiently. 

"...I don't know," she finishes with a sheepish smile, huddled down into her chair like a scared animal. 

"That's okay!  That's a good start, that's absolutely part of what I'm looking for.  Anyone else?" you ask, looking around the room.  "You.  Name?" you call on a boy with green cargo shorts that you thought you saw had a frog in his pocket earlier, showing the boy seated in front of him. 

"My name's Nadir". 

"Hi, Nadir," you say with a smile.  "Go ahead". 

"It's like...  What happened to them?" 

"Yes!" you say with a clap, writing on the board.  "Where they're from, what happened to them; both of these things can add to their story". 

WHERE ARE THEY?    WHAT HAPPENED? 

\   / 

STORY 

"By looking at this guy," you pointed to the little chalk Dracula, "We don't get very much of his backstory, do we?"  The kids shook their head.  "Right.  We know he's a vampire, and we know he's either really old, or he's from a long time ago, based on his clothes, but what about how he became a vampire?  Where he's from?  Does he have family?  Goals?" 

The kids seemed to consider this.  Dennis particularly. 

"See, if we build a vampire up from the bottom, not only is it more fun, but we get more control, and we get a better costume overall.  For a good Hallo- Fright Night costume, you should get everything about the thing your dressing up as through the costume.  It should tell their entire story.  Let's make a vampire ourselves.  Let's start with the basics...  Let's say, he's a kid, like you, and maybe he was bit on his arm by another vampire.  So let's tear his sleeve, add some fake blood..."  You were drawing furiously, scribbling on the blackboard so quick that you were leaving a ton of chalk dust everywhere, but the kids were enthralled.  You used different colors quickly, holding the different pieces in your fingers.  "Okay, and let's give him a hoodie, that way he's protected from the sun, right?  It's also going to hide your face a bit, which will make you seem more mysterious.  And then for fangs, you can actually make some pretty decent fangs by cutting some fake nails and using denture glue to hold them on.  Since you have them, actually, why not use more fake nails and cut them into claws?  Maybe even use some black paint and facepaint to make your fingers claws.  See?" You say, stepping back to let them take a look for themselves.  "Doesn't that look more interesting?" 

They seemed to agree, each of them speaking excitedly to one another. 

"Okay, okay, okay!  Let's start spit balling ideas.  What do we want to make next?" 

It had been some time since you had made a costume.  Despite loving Halloween and religiously working on your costume the entire year before like you usually did when you had been with your ex, in the years following your breakup you had been slacking.  You'd left all of your shit with him at what had once been your shared home, including your beloved movie monsters.  Your spending, or lack thereof, habits had worsened to where it felt like you couldn't spend anything on things you enjoyed.  Logically, you had enough money, but buying stuff to make stilts and such made you feel like vomiting, let alone going out.  After a certain point you pretty much stopped leaving the house, even on your favorite night of the year.   

Now, you were in heaven.  Sharing your knowledge of costume making felt like a breath of fresh air into your lungs.  They were enthusiastic too; what kid didn't want a cool costume for Halloween?  Or Fright Night, you suppose it was called here.  You'd been in the middle of helping them make up a wolf-spider (that was to say, a wolf with extra legs and eyes, chelicera that were extra wolfish mandibles that they decided had escaped from a laboratory where it was created, with an ankle monitor to notate it) when Jack rushed back in.  Although red in the face from seemingly running back, he seemed relieved seeing you all working together on something.  It soon turned into confused worry when he saw all the doodles of bloody animals monsters on the board. 

"What are we doing in here?" He asks, walking in with a curious smile. 

Anxiety spiked.   

What are you telling them?  Is this appropriate? 

That's not what he said, you tell yourself as you try to keep a cool head.  Still, your stomach writhed like the snakes on the blackboard.  "We-" 

"Fright Night costumes!" Cheered one of the kids, showing Jack his piece then holding it up for you to see.  It was a zombie costume, but dressed in a parka with snow shoes.  "He's from Antarctica and eats polar bears!" 

"Polar bears don't live in Antarctica, Dummy," sneers one kid haughtily. 

"Yes they do!" Insists the kid, frowning challengingly at the opponent. 

"Hey, come on, let's not call names," you soothe, patting each kid on their back and leaving a chalky hand print.  You brushed them off.  "Polar bears are north pole though, not south in Antarctica.  He could be from the Arctic though, or he could eat penguins?" you confirm, offering solutions.  The kid considers this. 

"Wow, sounds exciting!" Jack says cheerily, shoulders untensing with relief.  "Looks like you all had lots of fun!  But we have a couple things to finish up before lunch, so how about we clean up a little and get ready for some math, okay?"  That got some upset, protestful noises.  "Come on!  Just one more hour and then it's lunch and recess!"  Slowly, the kids began working in synergy to clean up the spaces, each of them helping each other.  Even Dennis, when he had finished shoving all his crayons into the bottom of his bag, had begun picking up the play area and even lifting the heavier pieces. 

"You're covered in chalk".  Jack laughs softly, trotting up to you at the front. 

"Yeah," you agree, brushing your hands together in front of you and producing a pink cloud.  "The price of making spooky costumes".  Little pastel splashes coat your jeans, leaving them in a tie-dyed blur.  Honestly, it looks kind of cool, with the green, blue, and pink-red of the chalk decorating the chemical splatters.  "I'm going to have to go home and change clothes before I head to requisitions". 

Jack smiles, taking a seat in his chair and cleaning up his own desk.  "What made you think to do that?" 

Shrugging, you lean on his desk, sitting on the edge a bit.  "I don't really know what to talk to kids about.  It seemed like the safest bet". 

"Seems like you did a pretty good job to me," he retorts amicably looking up.  His smile momentarily shakes as his eyes jump to the corner of the desk where you sat to your face.  He looks like one of the kids, caught doing something he shouldn't be.  You cock your eyebrow and when his eyes leap up to yours from the desk his smile turns sheepish.  "They like you," he continues quietly. 

"Well you know me.  I've got such a sparkling personality," you reply dryly, sarcasm threaded in every syllable. 

Jack's smile slips a little, drooping into something confused and pitying.  He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a small, shy voice from below. 

"Miss Sunshine?"  You feel a little tug on your chemical splattered jeans. 

The misnomer and sweet face melts your heart so much that it doesn't occur to you to correct the kid and tell him that Sunshine isn't your actual name.  "Yes?" you implore, curious what a little kid has to ask of you now that his teacher is back and the lesson, presumably, over. 

There's a little gaggle of kids behind him, noticeably trying to act like they aren't listening.  Notebooks and colored pencils are being replaced with lunch bags from backpacks.  Little eyes flick up to...  What was his name?  Paul, maybe?  Yes, Paul; you can see it written in permanent ink on his little notebook he's got clutched to his chest, tiny doodles of dinosaurs and robots covering the cover.  Little Paul's feet shift shyly and he looks up with a charming, polite little smile before his eyes drop back down so he's smiling at your boots.  "Can you please come teach us about Fright Night costumes again sometime?" he asks quietly. 

If you're heart wasn't melting before, it sure as hell was now.  A smile split your face without a second thought.  You couldn't stop it from happening if you tried.  Then what he's just said processes and it has you turning to stare at Jack with eyes widened, face slipping into slack anxiety.  It didn't surprise you that the kid wanted a lesson all about Halloween costumes when the alternative was math and shit, but it still took you by surprise he wanted you to come back.  Your eyes jump between the kid and their teacher dumbly, gaze pleading.  Jack only smiled and gave an affirming nod in return.  Go ahead. 

Your eyes flick between the two disbelievingly.  "As long as it's okay with your teacher, it's okay with me...?" you say slowly. 

Jack nods, straightening up in his chair.  Using a gloved hand he points at a little chart hanging from the wall with some stars on it.  "If you work hard and get the last two stars, then she can come back for Star Day at the end of the month," he says, voice stern but full of warmth.   

Paul does a little bounce on his feet and a grin splits his face, wide enough you can see he's missing a tooth on the bottom row.  His peachy orange-pink eyes light up like you're the best thing since ice cream.  He immediately sprints back with an excited whisper of, "They said they'll do it!"  The kids with their books and papers out immediately gather together in a small group, little whispers and smiles decorating the words.  All of it makes your insides squirm pleasantly, warmth spilling through your veins. 

Your mouth opens, then closes a moment after when you feel Jack gently tap your hand with just his fingertips.  Turning to him, your eyes flick down to the contact, muted by his yellow gloves.  Jacks smile twitches and he gives you a sheepish smile.  "Sorry.  I just wanted to ask if you'd stay and have lunch with me?" 

There's a little bit of a hopeful curl to his lips, a quiet begging in those big, dark, puppy dog eyes of his.  Your insides squirm in conflict.  Truthfully, you wouldn't mind staying for lunch; you'd already wasted the entire morning here, what was a little longer?  On the other hand... 

"Maybe he has a crush on you?" 

Eyes flicking to the clock, you shifted on your feet.  "I... should probably get back so I can clean up for work..." You start, hesitating.

"It's only another hour until then!  Please?"  Christ on a boat, you understood why Jack was such a spoiled little shit now.  How were you supposed to say no to that face?  Had anyone ever?  You fucking doubt it.  The man looked like if you said no he'd curl up and cry, or worse, say it was fine and then curl up and cry in private.  He takes his hand back slowly.  "You haven't taken a job yet, right?" 

Leaning slightly away from him on the desk, you made a low, hesitant noise in your throat that vibrated.  "...I guess it couldn't hurt to stay a little longer," you find yourself mumbling.  You make a mental note to get used to saying no to Jack and his puppy eyes.

Jack's smile is slow and lidded.  He looks so satisfied that immediately you want to take it back.  "...So what was that about?" you ask suddenly, curious about the reason for him suddenly rushing off and out of the room. 

"Oh, there was a medical issue with one of the kids," Jack whispers quietly.  His face softens with sympathy as he uses a folder from the desk to shield his words from the kids.  You lean in a little to listen better.  "We trade off months for response, but really it's whoever is closest.  It was my day for response team and the classroom is close anyways". 

"Oh, damn.  They okay?" 

Jack nods, smiling tightly.  "Just a mild allergic reaction.  He's going to be in the nurse's office for a bit until his parents pick him up to go home". 

You nod, curiously looking out at the class settling down for another hour of learning before lunch and recess.  "Can I have like a notebook and some pens or pencils?" you ask suddenly. 

Jack nods, handing a lined notebook to you, flipping to a blank page, and nudges a mug with a flower on it to you full of pens, highlighters, and yellow standard pencils.  Unworried about getting a mixed bag, you take a fistful of utensils and boost yourself up onto the countertop towards the back of the room.  It's a bit difficult to concentrate in a room full of kids and Jack's voice, going over addition and subtraction, but you're largely focused.  Soon the busy room's noise turns to a hum in the back of your mind as you focus in on your new project. 

It hadn't crossed your mind before, but now that you'd done a mini-class on it, you had started thinking about your Halloween costume- or rather, your "Fright Night" costume.  Already your mind was whirling with ideas.  The classroom dissolved around you into nothing as you began scribbling quick sketches of blueprints and patterns for sewing, stilts, and articulation.  Something you could do quickly would be best.  Something you had made a million times before and it wouldn't matter if you didn't have all your old blueprints and notes.  It had to be something you could make in your sleep, and you knew exactly what you were going to make.  Becoming a monster was the fastest, easiest thing for you to do. 

A hand was on your shoulder. 

Muscles tensing, the world crashed back into sound and Jack's dark eyes filled your view as you turned.  A massive gasping sigh escaped you in relief as you glared, flipping the notebook closed immediately.  Jack raised his hands, releasing you with an apologetic look.  "Sorry!  You didn't respond when I called your name.  Wrapped up in something?" he asks, looking curiously down at the snapped closed notebook. 

"Yeah," you say shortly, feeling like a cat that had its fur pet in the wrong direction. 

"...Can I see it?" Jack tries. 

"No". 

"Oh". 

There was a long pause as the kids rushed around you, getting their lunch boxes ready as they talked loudly.   

"...It's not done yet," you finish begrudgingly, tapping the pen you had in one hand to the notebook cover.  "I'll give it back later.  Lunch?" 

Jack says nothing about your briskness which you're thankful for.  You let him lead you through the cafeteria where he grabs a handful of napkins and a pair of forks for the two of you, then out the door and to a few picnic tables outside.  He hands you a fork, popping open the container of leftovers and gestures for you to have a seat with a kind smile.  Following suit, you sit down with your back to the table, stretching out your legs and groaning with relief as your knees decompress after being stuck in a cramped sitting position in the child size chair. 

"Have some?" he inquires, unwrapping the other fork and placing it in the container. 

"Nah, I'll eat later, thanks". 

He gives you a reprimanding look from the corner of his eye but says nothing, taking a forkful for himself.  Deciding on a new direction, he pulls you back in with a polite, "Can I ask what you were writing if you won't let me see it?" 

Shrugging, you watch the kids on the playground.  "It's going to be my Halloween costume.  You guys call it Fright Night here?" 

Jack nods, taking a bite of leftovers.   He waits until he finishes chewing and swallowing to speak.  "Ah, yes.  Fright Night". 

"What do you guys do for it?" You ask, curious about any differences in culture between the dimensions.  "Is there history?" 

Jack shrugs and keeps eating, talking between bites.  "I think it used to be related to the harvest in the old days?  People back then were so superstitious...  If I'm remembering right, people thought monsters... or maybe animals?  They thought something would eat their crops during the last big harvest before winter came, so people would dress up as even scarier monsters to scare them off from their gardens.  It was something like that... it's been a while since I thought about it.  Sorry," he recounts, giving you an apologetic smile.  "Usually I'm trying to calm my class down from the excitement rather than talking about it". 

Turning your head to watch him, you cross your arms and let your knees spread to relax.  "That's fine.  That's really cool, actually.  I like that.  About as good as ours".  Maybe you'd be able to pepper in the Fright Night lore to your costume too.  "Ours is like, a holiday from a religion thing that got stolen from another religion who was part of an massacre.  But they believed something like the lining between the world of the dead and the world of the living were thinnest on a specific day in the fall, so people would dress up as demons and spirits to trick them so we wouldn't be harmed, or something like that". 

Jack gives you a shocked look, eyes wide.  Lasagna falls from his fork. 

"You can just assume most of our holidays involve someone dying somewhere," you explain, somewhat embarrassed of your dimension.  It definitely wasn't as friendly and peaceful as this place's. 

"That's... upsetting," he says carefully.  You can only offer him shrugs in return.  "Well... what's your costume going to be?  I'm just curious". 

"I'm still deciding," you explain, turning back to watch the kids.  The equipment is either new, or so well taken care it may as well be.  Rambling, you explain the differences between what would be fastest versus what you'd actually like to do: something big with some internal puppetry.  Something to really wow the kids, and make something truly scary.  Explaining it all makes your mind snap both in and out of focus as you switch gears.  Without looking you words become a blur of discussing types of pipes best for stilts and the little hinges, springs, and simple machines needed to make an articulated costume.  Glancing from the corner of your eye at him, you can see he's a bit lost, struggling to keep up, so instead, you slip back into discussion of what kind of monster you want to dress as. 

A fork of food is held up to your lips and unthinking, you lean in and take in your mouth.  "Than'fs," you say, distant and muffled around the mouthful.  A couple chews later your mind catches up with your mouth and you freeze.  Eyes narrowed, you slowly turn to face Jack with your arms still crossed.  He, on the other hand, is failing to hide a wide, bright grin as he bites his bottom lip.  His shoulders shake with unshed laughter, eyes crinkled at the corners.  "You fuggin' bassle..." You grumble with irritation around the mouthful, hastily swallowing.  Wrinkling your nose, you knee him in the hip, shifting slightly and keeping your arms crossed. 

Laughter spills out of him quietly now as he curls in on himself under your knee jabs.  "I'm sorry!  I didn't know you were going to just eat it!" 

"Yowa pai' im'ma aff, 'ou fucggin' piethe-a thit," you bitch, words muffled by the food.  Kneeing him again in the hip, you shake your head. 

Jack holds another forkful of leftovers up cheekily, grinning as he flinches, trying to keep the food upright.  "Do you want another bite?" he asks, lips curled like the cat that got the canary. 

"I'll give you a bite of the curb if you don't quit bein' such a cock-suckin' rat," you snap, a little  embarrassed as you finally manage to swallow your food.  Still, you feel somewhat warmed, amused yourself. 

"Excuse me?"  Jack flinches back, eyes wide and startled at your finally articulated words. 

A series of realizations occur.  The first is that your lips are curled back to show your teeth in a grin that could be confused for a snarl.  The second is that since you've come here, you haven't really heard anyone tease each other in a friendly way, never mind in the, what you are now realizing is, rather aggressive and threatening style that was so common within the people you used to talk to in your day-today life.  The third and final realization is that you finally feel comfortable enough with Jack to actually act this way.  For all the context Jack has, he's suddenly pissed you off so bad you're threatening to actually beat the shit out of him over a harmless prank. 

"Fuck.  Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean that literally," you rush, words coming like a waterfall from your mouth.  His appalled expression is enough to make your heart twist with regret.  Uncrossing your arms you reach out and pat his forearm gently with the pads of your fingertips.  "I was just barkin'.  It didn't mean anything". 

Now he seems even more confused, though no longer wary or shocked.  "What?  I don't understand". 

Words fail you.  How do you explain the sort of cultural phenomenon of being a bitch to a friend when you start to feel comfortable around them?  "I'm...  I'm not really sure how to explain it.  It's like teasing?  Only a lot meaner.  I've never really thought about it, honestly.  Sorry, I'll stop". 

"No, no, it's okay!  I want to understand," he says quickly, taking your hand in his, dropping his fork.  He swallows and holds your fingers in his cautiously like they're a broken bird's wing.  "It's common to... threaten and berate people in your world?" 

Your eyes flick between his expression and your touching fingertips.  "I mean...  When you put it like that, it makes it sound abusive".  A shaky laugh escapes you, more of a wheeze than anything.  "It's like... it's a kind of humor.  Like, my reaction and words were so over the top for such a small thing that the overcompensation is funny?  Like if I dropped a pen or something and I said, 'I'm going to shoot myself in the mouth,' I don't actually mean I'm going to commit suicide".  Jack's face does something funny when you say this, the muscles in his face twitching as though he's trying not to change his expression from pleasant.  "It's like pretending to faint on a fainting couch in old movies.  It's the exaggeration that creates the humor.   It works in reverse too, like if you did me a minor favor like you picked up my pen for me, I could say, 'I owe you my life,' or something like that.  I wasn't going to hurt you.  It doesn't mean anything". 

He tilts his head like a confused dog, putting your words together.  "I... think I understand...?  Still that just seems so... alarming that you would say something so awful so casually," he tells you delicately as you slowly take your hand back and recross your arms now that thinks are explained.   

Shrugging, you scratch the back of your hand where he's touched you and shift uncomfortably on the freshly painted wood picnic table as Jack continues his lunch.  "I can only guess how it started, but it's probably because people are more desensitized to violence". 

Jack gives you an even more alarmed look.  "What could be happening in the future that makes people so desensitized they'd say something like that?" 

"That's... a complex answer.  I'll tell you another time, maybe.  We'd be here for like... half the day if I explained everything.  It's not just one thing, you know?" 

The two of you slowly slip back into unsteady ease, Jack shooting you pitying looks now and then when he thinks you aren't looking.  It only makes you sigh, irritation and exhaustion with the conversation sinking in.  When the whistle finally blows and recess ends, Jack stands up and begins waving the kids close and into a line.  "Will I see you at home?" 

"Yeah, that works," you reply, standing up.  You take the empty lunch container out of his hands.  "See you then".  Jack shoots you an encouraging smile before his attention is stolen by the kids.  As he leads them away, he shoots you an apologetic look of worry.  He gives a small smile and waves his hand into a wave that never gets completed as one of the kids jumps up and wraps his hands around Jack's bicep, pulling him down.  His face breaks into a much more genuine grin, laughing as he straightens up and leaves the kid hanging.   

A few of the kids running back to the doors give you a wave and a cheer of, "Bye Miss Sunshine!" that you meet with a quick flash of devil horns before continuing on your way down the asphalt.  If you kept going down the road, you'd end up taking the long way home... it would probably be fine though.  It's not like Jack's place was all that far anyhow.  The man lived just down the street.  Deciding you didn't feel like turning around, you decided to cut across the sport field to get to the street across. Heading down the hill with quick steps, you realized you weren't alone.  One of the teachers, presumably the gym teacher, was walking through the grass, picking up balls, bats, and bases. 

At the sight of a new baseball field, your heart swells with nostalgia.  There were so many fond memories you'd had of yourself on a field.  Most of them had turned bittersweet as most of it you'd spent with your ex, either waving to him from the field, using your growing skills as a cleanup batter to impress him, or under the bleachers with his head between your thighs after a good win.  You'd fought like hell to get on the boys' team so you didn't have to deal with the shitty softball coach, and a couple of the boys that you played with in neighborhood pickup games had vouched for you.  The dust, chalk lines, grass, and sun brought them all back.  A deep breath brought you the smell of dust, sweat, and cut grass, filling you with a brief bout of envy.  This guy got to run around this field all day if he wanted, teaching kids the ins and outs of the field.  It was this longing that had you making a slow turn down the hill toward him, as if you were a satellite caught in the gravitational pull of a planet.   

"Need a hand?" you call, casually, using your foot to deftly juggle a kickball up and into your hands.  You grabbed a couple more balls on the way and a metal bat.  Palms sliding over the tape around the handle, you felt almost sick with nostalgia.  If there was any singular thing in this world that appealed to you, it was the sound of a bat meeting a ball.  God, why hadn't you thought of finding a local pickup team sooner?  There was bound to be one around here somewhere. 

"That'd be great, thanks!"  His voice was crisp, with a healthy snap to it like an apple.  As he straightened up, arms full of loose equipment, you could see that he was tall; maybe as tall as Jack.  Probably taller, even, with a baseball cap sat above two dark, bushy eyebrows.  His face paint, humorously, took the form of two football fight marks on his cheeks.  His nose was the most clownish one you'd seen so far: bright yellow and circular on his face.  Below which, a large blue mustache sat.  Wide shoulders were framed by a vest the same shade of seafoam green as the board.  Matching running short-short with white athletic socks, cleats, and a plain white tee were all streaked with the field's dirt.  His matching hat seemed to have been mostly spared, save one spot on the right where he seemingly grabbed with his dirty, gloved hands to adjust it and left a small circle of dirt.  A whistle hung around his neck, glinting silver in the sun.  He trots to you, sneakers kicking up dust that drifts off in the slight breeze.  "Are you a new teacher?" 

Shaking your head, you smile as you dump the balls into the bin that had been rolled out.  "Nah, I was just helping Jack out".  Looking out over the field, you smile wistfully.  "Awfully nice diamond you got here.  Hell of a lot nicer than the one they had when I was a kid". 

"You're not from these parts?" he asks curiously, taking the catcher's mask from you. 

You shake your head in response.  "Nah.  Way out of here.  Out of state, you could say". 

He nods and gives you a big grin.  "Well welcome to our humble town!"  There's a slight pause after you thank him where you fiddle with the bat before reluctantly handing it off to him.  "Do you have time to hit a couple?" he asks suddenly, taking the bat from you, hanging it by the handle from the cart edge. 

Blinking, you turn, hope simmering in your gut.  "I'd love to but...  These are all a little small for me," you say dryly, gesturing to the row of tee ball bats.  Even the longer ones for the older kids were a bit too short and you'd have to compensate for that.  It would just end in you frustrated.  "And you probably just have work, so..."  Shaking your head, you punctuate your sentence with a shrug. 

But he waves you off with a careless, gloved hand.  "Don't worry about it; I'm free until flag football practice after school.  About three hours to spare.  I've got bigger spares too, in the shed". 

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you can't keep the excitement out of your mouth.  It sizzles behind your teeth like popping candy, sugar snapping and sour-sweet. 

He grins, leading you to the shed.  A gloved hand of his unlocks it with a hand on the keys, cracking it open with a squeak.  The sigh that escapes your mouth is something like what would come from true bliss.  The dusty smell of rubber, leather, and sweat soothed your soul in a way nothing else could.  "Nah, don't worry about it.  I'd just be sitting around anyways.  It's no fun trying to play by yourself.  I'm Knackdan, by the way," he says, back to the door.  He offers a gloved hand, resting the other on his hip.  His grip nearly crushes your hand, but somehow, you don't mind it.  You give your name freely, picking through the bats until you manage to get a wooden one that's long enough, and a pair of batting gloves that are a little too tight but fit alright otherwise. 

Almost wordlessly, you two take the field: Knackdan with a big ten gallon bucket of baseballs, and you at home plate.  Scuffing your shoe in the dirt, you scrape a little rut until your shoe fits comfortably.  Instinctively, you hold your hand up as you do this, looking down with the bat dangling at your side.  Finally, you sit into a batting stance with your knees bent and the bat over your shoulder.  A nod is tossed to Kackdan who had done his own dirt scuffing.  He throws one back to you before he winds up and throws one two you. 

He's clearly holding back.  It's a decent fast ball, but you can tell he can put more behind it.  A swing wasn't planned; you had wanted to see how he threw first, but it went right into the sweet spot.  fingers tightening around the handle, you swung hard. 

CRACK! 

The ball goes far left, but lands in the outfield.  Not bad.  The next hits the dirt and rolls between first and second.  A couple times are a strike, but soon, you're hitting more than you're missing.  With every hit, you get a little more controlled, old instincts rearing their head.   

You probably should have stopped after the first bucket empties.  It had been a long time since you had played baseball, nearly as long as you'd stopped going to the batting cages; but Knackdan seemed to enjoy throwing them as much as you enjoyed hitting them.  Instead, the two of you almost scramble to collect them all, the two of you running and tossing the balls into the large white bucket streaked with dust and black marks.   

So the two of you continued, and before long, you'd found a new goal: knocking the first, giant 'O' off the seafoam green and canary yellow CLOUDYTOWN THUNDER scoreboard.  After mounting frustration you now found satisfaction, and with it, a rhythm.  Knackdan would pitch faster and faster each time, realizing soon that you were seasoned and could get good ball control.  Nothing but good hits, blessedly.  He seemed to register you needed to blow off some steam.  He was a deadeye, putting that ball into an imaginary glove square where you wanted it once he picked up on your goal. 

Pretty soon, that big, white 'O' was getting hit consistently with fewer and fewer misses, and your heart was thumping in your ears.  You'd forgotten how good it felt to take it all out on the field.  There's the wind up! You thought to yourself, drunk with excitement.  Your hands tightened their grip.  A little step forward.  CRACK!  There it flew, and BAM!  Right into the center of the white 'O'.  You raised your hand and Knackdan paused mid pitch, turning to look as you pointed at the scoreboard.  The 'O' was spinning, slow up, then quick down.  Blood pounded in your ears, your goal within your grasp.  It finally settled down again, back to the upright position.  Undeterred, you bend your knees again, shifting in the box while Knackdan shook his arms out and stretched.  Determination sang hot on your tongue, and you could see it reflected in your pitcher as well.  Knackdan was determined to get you hits, and you were determined to knock that 'O' down.   

Your lips curled subconsciously and you held up a hand as Knackdan prepared another pitch.  Acquiescing, he straightened.  Knees bent, you held the stick of ash between your legs as you quickly shucked your leather jacket and tossed it to the dirt behind you with the Tupperware and rolled up notebook.  It would just waste seconds you could be swinging your bat to take it to the bench, and it had seen worse things than a little dirt.  Straightening your sleeveless shirt, you pulled a little hair elastic off your wrist and tied your hair back.  It probably looked like shit, but you needed it out of your face if you were going to get serious about hitting that 'O' down.  Scraping your foot into the little ditch of a marker by home base and raised the bat back up, realigning.  Finally, you got back into the ready position and gave Knackdan a sharp nod.  Your pitcher in crime nodded back with a grin you could see in a curve of facial hair and the step of a pitch. 

CRACK! 

Ball met bat.  Ball sailed over the field and hit the desired letter on the board, making it spin. 

You were going to get that letter if it was the last thing you did today.  There were already little marks, slight dark spots on the mellow blue of the board.  Every swing, every ball you sent flying settled you into the groove that you and Knackdan had started.  It was the kind of thing that sent your spine straight, that made you feel like you were doing what you were meant to.  It felt like music. 

"LAST BALL!" Knackdan barks in warning as he palms the thing.  White leather whizzes towards you and with one last crack it viciously snaps into the board.  Knackdan turns to watch it soar like he has for the past several swings.  He straightens up when it hits the nail just right, sending the 'O' spinning up into the air.  Free at last, it spins arial a moment before gravity brings it back down. 

CL  UDYTOWN THUNDER, the sign now reads. 

The two of you raise your arms in the air, in your hand the bat and in Knackdan's his yellow and brown leather mitt.   

"FUCK YEAH, BITCH!" 

"NICE HIT!" 

Dropping the bat you race toward him.  He waits for you to come up before taking off with you.  It takes a little looking in the tall grass.  "Found the ball!" you call, plucking the baseball up from the dirt.  The red seams have ripped, popped open from either the force of your hit or when it slammed into the board and nail on the sign.  Either way, your ego gets a pleasant little boost, looking down at the torn up little thing. 

"I got the 'O'!" your teammate calls holding up the letter triumphantly in a fist.  You raise your fists in a victorious stance, unable to stop a wide grin from splitting your face. 

Trotting over, the two of you swap your treasures to admire.  The letter feels good in your hand, feels like a trophy of some kind. 

"You're a great hit!  What's your home league?" Knackdan asks vibrantly, offering his mitt. 

Grinning, you raise your fist and bump it with the mitt.  "I don't have one!" you tell him, taking the balls and tossing them back to the pitcher's mound. 

"WHAT?!" Knackdan yelps like a dog with its foot stepped on, dropping his armful of baseballs.  "You've got to join our team!  Our field work is good, but we could use another cleanup or pinch hitter!"  He crowds into your space as you help him pick up his dropped baseballs.  He's got a massive, excited grin on his face.  "You're new around here too, right?  It's a great way to make friends too!" 

"Oh, I mean, I'd love to but I kind of have a lot going on right now..."  It's regretful, but there's so much happening with you just starting a job, and now you have your Halloween costume project that you're going to be cramming for.  It's going to be too much for you.  You know it.  Even so, your stomach drops out, empty and longing for a sunny day and your arms to burn with hits like they did now.  You were going to feel like shit tomorrow for sure, but at least it would be the weekend. 

"No, you have to!" he insists, nudging you as the pair of you return to the bucket on the mound.  He drops a massive armful of balls back in as you pick up your tossed balls slowly, flicking them skillfully into the bucket.  "If you bat like that, it's just a waste if you don't!" 

A hesitant groan leaves your throat, humming in the air.  Knackdan watches your apologetic expression with sinking shoulders.  "...I'm sorry.  I really don't think I can take on much more right now," you tell him, apologetic but firm.  "I'd love to, but I've just got way too much going on". 

Knackdan looks down at you, his blue mustache and shoulders drooping in sadness.  Now you feel really bad.  "Well... we don't start until the spring.  If things open up, please come out!  Here, let me give you my number.  When you're ready, I'll give you the time and place".  Knackdan pulls a little grid notebook from his seafoam green vest pocket and a pencil from behind his ear, scribbling out the series of numbers and letters. 

"Oh yeah, if things open up, you won't be able to keep me off the field," you agree, leaning in to accept the paper as the school bell rings behind you.  Children start to flood from the doors toward a row of buses that had pulled up outside your notice.  How long had you been out here?  A quick glance at Knackdan's watch as he writes tells you it's already three thirty in the afternoon.  Fuck.  And you still had to pull some jobs, at least one or two or you'd have wasted the entire day goofing off.  Stomach sinking, you take the paper as Knackdan tears it off, tucking it into your bra.  "Thanks.  I'll give you a shout, maybe around November or something if things are looking good". 

He nods back to you and smiles.  "In the meantime, if you ever want to play catch or play a game of pickup, there's a group that gets together-" 

"HI COACH!" 

A small herd of children stumble their way down the hill leading to the sport fields, little Velcro shoes stomping and bulky backpacks smacking into each other.  Knackdan snaps to attention and waves them over with a grin. 

"Guess that's your que.  I'll see you later, man".  Setting off with satisfaction aching in your limbs and a letter in your hand.  Shrugging on your jacket you dust yourself off and wave goodbye as Knackdan is swarmed by his flag football team. 

Trotting back up the hill, you catch a flash of blue and yes, that is Jack again. 

"Here: Happy Birthday," you pant casually, gently tossing the 'O' to Jack with a grin.  He fumbles, but manages to catch it, trapping it between his two palms.  Jack's happy smile turns confused, as he looks the letter over. 

"Um, thank you, but it's not my birthday?" He says with a small laugh, looking up at you with his brows drawn. 

"Well, considering I probably missed the last one, consider it a late one". 

"Oh, my birthday is in June so-  Nevermind, what is this?" 

"That would be the letter 'O', sir.  Did they not teach you that in teacher school?" 

Jack gives you a bemused look.  "I mean, what is it from?" 

"The alphabet?" you reply innocently. 

He closes his eyes and sighs, still smiling.  "Where did you get it?" He asks again with a little pressure on the words.  He hesitantly hands it back to you and you take it back, flipping it in your hands. 

Chuckling, you decide to give in.  "Stole it". 

Jack blinks in surprise.  "What?!" he squawks 

"I mean, kind of, but not really," you reassure, still breathing heavily.  "Knackdan and I were playing a little two person ball, and I hit your sign so many times the 'O' flew off it.  Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you're now the Cl-udytown Thunder". 

"Oh my!" 

"Right?" You say with a grin.  "I'm out of practice, but I guess I still got it!  Anyways, long story short: mine now!  Or I guess yours, if you want it". 

Jack smiles hesitantly before taking it from your fingers.  His hands are cleaner than yours only marginally; there's marker and chalk on his hands that leave little streaks on the dirty 'O'.  Yours are streaked in black from the bat and dirt.  "I suppose it would be rude to refuse a gift," he replies, but seems quietly pleased. 

"From my paws to your pocket!" You cheer, flicking the letter at the last second so it flipped in his hands.  Jack's hands shoot out, grasping at it quickly and shooting you an amused look. 

"Ready to walk home?" He asks, sliding the letter into his backpack as the last of the buses drives off, leaving the area abandoned other than a few other teachers talking.  They shoot you a couple curious glances from the corner of their eyes, holding papers over their mouths as they whisper to each other.  You're in too good a mood to bother being mad.   

"Let's do it," you agree, stepping in pace easily next to him.  "It was kind of cool seeing you teach.  You're really good with them". 

"Oh, well, it takes a skilled hand.  But they're good kids!"  He looks pleased, smiling down at you with his eyes crinkled at the edges.  "I thought you went home.  You met Knackdan?" 

Kicking a rock down the road idly you bring your arms up over your head in a stretch before folding your hands to rest behind your head to get more oxygen into your lungs.  "Yeah.  Great arm on that guy.  Seems pretty chill". 

"Chill?" 

"I mean he's cool". 

"Sorry?" 

You sigh.  "I just mean he seems like a nice person that's relaxed". 

Jack chuckles.  "Oh, I don't know about that last part.  Knackdan is always running around doing something!  When we were in school together there were a couple times his mom had to tie him to the bed so he would rest when he was sick," he laughs.  "He's better at relaxing now, but he's like my sister in that way.  Neither of them like to sit still for very long". 

Nodding in understanding, you walk beside him down the sidewalk.  "He asked me to join his ball league". 

"Baseball or football?" 

"Baseball". 

"What did you tell him?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance. 

A shrug.  "I said I've got too much on my plate". 

Jack's shoulders relax minuscule.  "I'm glad you said that".  Stepping up to the front porch he opens the door for you, letting you in before him.  Stepping inside, you sigh in relief as the cool air conditioning hits your face.  You hadn't thought you were that sweaty, but now you're more grateful than ever that you'll be in the shower soon.  Jack hangs his vest on the coatrack by the door.  He offers to take yours and you decline as usual.  "I know it's not my business, but you just started to get settled". 

"Yeah," you agree.  "Maybe I'll give it a go in a couple months or in the spring when the season starts, which is what I told him.  Just way too much going on right now.  I'd like to do it, just, y'know.  Too much right now".  Ruffling your hair with chalky, dirty fingers, you turn to say goodbye when you pause.  Jack's shoulders are stiff again, idly pulling free his folders full of papers.  You close your eyes and tip your head back, heaving a deep sigh.  "What's wrong?" you ask flatly. 

"What?"  Jack turns, giving you a confused look. 

"What's wrong?" you insist, shoving your hands into your pockets, finger rubbing the worn side of your wallet.  "You're upset.  What did I do?  Is it still about what I said at lunch?  Look, I really am sorry about that-"

"Nothing!" Jack says, nearly yelping in response as he drops the folders to the table with a plastic slap.  "It's not that!  You didn't do anything wrong!"  He starts toward you, then stops with his hand outstretched to you. 

"But you are upset," you reply flatly.  His face is too smooth, too purposefully worried.  You may not be able to read Jack like someone you've known your whole life, but you're starting to pick up his signs.  The trouble is that either you're just not as attuned to him, or he's a startlingly good liar. 

"No, no, it's fine!" he tells you, but you give him a hard look that has him crumbling.  "I... can we talk about it later?  It's not important right now, and you still need to shower and get to work, right?" he replies with a small smile you don't believe. 

He's right.  You want to figure this out right here and now because your gut is telling you that Jack is not, in fact, going to talk about it later with you.  Ultimately, you let it go, if only because Jack is starting to look more alarmed and upset than guilty.  You sigh and raise your hands, palms up to indicate you're done with the situation.  "If you say so". 

One shower and a change of clothes later you're ready to run out the door, your hair blow-dried but still damp.  Jack is now sat at the table, homework spread out around him and being graded in the afternoon daylight.  He glances up at you and smiles before looking back down. 

"Mind if we order something?  I don't think I'm going to have the energy to cook tonight," you ask, picking up your workbag (a spare, bright yellow backpack with a couple blue patches on the bottom where it had worn through and a zipper pull made of woven plastic). 

"Sure!" Jack chirps, shuffling his papers to the side as he stamps a perfect 100%.  "Where do you want to eat out?  It can be my treat!" 

"You don't have to do that". 

"No, no, it's fine!  I'll cook for you next time too, if you like!" He insists.  "I'll take care of it, don't worry about a thing. What would you like?" 

"Doesn't matter.  Just order me something with a lot of vegetables or has a side salad.  I trust your judgement.  You've got good taste.  You know what I like," you rush.  You're out the door almost fast enough that you don't catch his pleased expression. 

You arrive back at home completely worn out.  Not one to miss out just because you started late, you practically sprinted through a few jobs to keep your completion rate high.  By the time you return home your entire body aches from the amount of cramped positions you've been put in fixing household appliances.  Jack is sat on the couch with the lights off watching what seems to be, to your tired glee, a vampire movie.  Possibly a gothic romance?  The 80s here are ahead of their time. 

"'M back," you mumble, words slurring in exhaustion as you head immediately to the bathroom for another shower.  Jack calls something back to you, probably a greeting or a question, but you can't hear him.  Hot water is calling your name much louder than him, and it feels glorious.  A short shower later and you're scrubbed clean, in a long-sleeve waffle knit shirt and a pair of faded blue sweat pants you suspect may have been Jack's at one point, that have some buttery yellow paint the same color as the guest room you're staying in.  The cuffs have to be rolled up a couple times and the waistband had to be tied extra tight. 

Pointing at a cardboard takeout box you point and ask plainly, "Mine?" 

Jack turns to look at you but you don't meet his gaze, solely focused on the food.  "Yes, that one is yours". 

Without waiting for him to finish the sentence you grab the tray and open it to find a salad with some grilled chicken.  Shuffling through the little bag on the coffee table you find a suitable dressing, slather that stuff on, and go to salad town.   

"You can sit down, if you like," Jack offers.  Without looking you can tell his brow is furrowed in worry and he's got that little unsure quirk to his lips like a smile. 

"Not yet," you mumble around mouthfuls of lettuce, watching the TV without seeing much of anything.  "If I sit down my body won't let me do anything, and I gotta eat". 

The salad is gone in seconds.  Pacing around, unwilling to let your body win just yet, you make some tea for yourself and Jack, back in moments with a hot cups of vanilla chamomile.  A slice of lemon floats in Jack's cup.  Finally, you let yourself sit on the corduroy couch and, as predicted, every bit of your flesh seems to sink into it.  You groan, curling up and wrapping your fingers around the warm mug. 

"You were gone for longer than I thought," Jack says offhandedly. 

"Yeah," you agree, shifting in place a bit.  "I wanted to catch up on lost time, so I just clustered a bunch together and did them really quick".  Water drips from your damp hair onto your nose and cheek so you wipe it off and breathe in the scent of the tea before downing it all in one go. 

You're setting the mug on the coffee table when Jack's voice comes consideringly from across the couch and says, "You look really pretty when your hair is wet". 

The compliment sends a bolt of something through you that's sharp on the tongue and curls up tight in your chest between your heart and your lungs.  Looking up, you catch Jack watching you from his spot.  He's sat properly on it, leaning a bit on the armrest and resting his head on his hand.  Dark eyes gleaming in the blue-grey of the television he smiles.  It's a soft, quiet little thing unlike his voice, which felt much louder than it actually probably was.   

"What?"  Your voice sounds deadly, something you hadn't intended. 

Jack doesn't seem put off at all.  He's still sat there, looking at you.  Admiring.  "Your hair.  It gets curlier when it's wet," he explains.  "It's pretty". 

The compliment leaves you tense.  You attempt to diffuse it with a gentle kick, lifting your leg and pushing his shoulder with your foot.  Rolling your eyes, you tell him dryly, "Do your lips hurt from kissing my ass?" 

He doesn't say anything but does flash you another smile as his hand wraps around your ankle, tugging your leg slowly down from the assault on his arm to rest on his lap.  His thumb swipes over the joint and his eyes flick back to the TV.  You sit there, frozen and tense while Jack relaxes against the couch like everything is fine. 

Everything is fine, you remind yourself.  It catches you off guard how okay you are with him touching you.  He'd done it slowly, with a loose grip.  You could have pulled away at any time.  So why didn't you?

"You can lie down, if you want," Jack offers.  He doesn't look at you, though you're staring at him. 

"Are you sure?"  Your voice comes out in a rasp.  Lying down did sound good, but that also meant laying your legs on Jack. 

He gives you a small smile and a glance.  With a small nod, he releases your ankle to pat his leg.  "Go ahead".   

Slowly, you slump down on the couch, head on a throw pillow and carefully lay your legs over Jack's lap.  You sigh as your back slowly decompresses, relaxing after being stuck uncomfortably in a few positions. 

"Can I lay my hand on you again?" he asks quietly. 

Shifting so you're on your side, you move until you're as comfortable as you can, facing the television.  The vampire looks a lot like Shaun.  He'd think that was hilarious.  "...Yeah, it's fine". 

He doesn't ask twice and lays his palm on you.  Immediately your body tenses.  Jack's hand feels like a bear's paw, palm cupped around your leg with his thumb brushing up and down the slope of your ankle.  Slowly, the sweet movement has you relaxing, muscles unknotting. 

Maybe you're just too tired after a long day of activity.  That's probably why you're letting it go.  Why you're so comfortable with him touching you right now.  It's the exhaustion catching up to you, and the touch starvation you've been struggling with since splitting up with your ex.  That's all it is. 

"Maybe he has a crush on you!" 

You can't stop the sigh that heaves its way through you.  You are so fucking tired. 

"Are you alright?" Jack asks into the dark. 

"Mm-hm," you hum softly, nestling into the pillow and watching the vampire movie through blurry, half-lidded eyes.  "Feels nice". 

Jack hums a pleased little note. 

"Tell me what I missed," you ask, eyes already closing. 

You're asleep before Jack even finishes the first sentence. 

Chapter Text

"I'm back!" you call into the dim entry to the dining room, bending down to unlace your boots. 

The quiet pad of socked feet grows closer until it stops at the entry to the living room.  "You're back late again". 

"Yeah, sorry".  Finally, your boots are off and you sigh with relief, rubbing the sole of your foot with relief.  "When I was on the way home, some kids were looking for their lost dog.  They were crying and shit.  It's not like I could leave them like that, right?" 

Jack hums his agreement, but remains silent otherwise.  Standing up, you stretch yourself out, lifting your arms above your head and breathe a sigh of relief as your back pops.  Rubbing the back of your neck to reduce some tension, you open your tired eyes to see Jack leaning in the entryway with his arms crossed.  You smile back, though he seems somewhat distant.  "What do you want for dinner?" 

"Don't worry about it".  Jack shakes his head and briefly uncrosses his arms to jut his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.  "I already made it.  I left you some". 

Guilt gnaws at your gut.  "Shit, sorry...  Am I really that late?" 

Jack shakes his head, giving you another smile.  "It's alright, it's not your responsibility to feed me".   

You frown.  "I know, but you always make breakfast, and I always make dinner.  That was the agreement, right?" 

Jack blinks and straightens, a muddle of confusion and concern washing over his features.  "What?  Dinner isn't your responsibility.  When did we agree to that?" 

"I could have sworn we did," you insist, though now you're not so sure.  When had the two of you decided that?  It had to have been early on; you'd been making dinner for the past...  Well, it had to be nearly a month at least.  When had the conversation been though?  Panic swelled in your lungs like water when you realized you couldn't remember a single conversation regarding it, even remembering the couple of times Jack had offered to help before you shooed him out.  The careful division of labor you'd constructed in your mind starts to crack, structures crumbling as foundations began to sink.  "It's just what's fair anyways".   

"Sunshine".  Jack's voice is gentle and so is his hand when he slowly lays it on your shoulder.  You flinch out of it, his gloved fingers sliding off like water.  His fingers curl and a muscle in his face twitches.  "It's completely fine.  I don't expect you to handle dinner every day.  You don't ever have to cook if you don't want to".  He wrings his hands, worry plain on his face.  "I like your cooking.  I like that we get to spend some time together after not seeing each other all day, even if it's just something small like watching a show or movie and eating dinner together, but I don't want you to feel obligated to do those things.  You should do them because you want to.  If...  If you don't want to, then we don't have to, but I'd really like it if we did". 

Gritting your teeth, you take a deep breath.  Rubbing your face with your hands, the breath leaves you in a heaving sigh.  "No, I know, it's just that-  It's like-"  Words fail you as you stumble over them like rocks, Jack watching with pure focus.  "I feel like a burden if I don't contribute," you finish lamely. 

Immediately he goes to reach for you again but stops himself just shy of grabbing your arms.  "You are not a burden.  Sunshine, you...  You have no idea..."  Jack curls back in on himself, and it seems like the way he's crossing his arms is more to keep himself from holding you rather than any kind of defensive gesture.  "You contribute in other ways!  You aren't a burden, and I don't want you to feel like you are.  You're my friend and I like taking care of you". 

You run your hand through your hair tiredly.  Oil slides against your fingers and you wince.  "I...  Look, can we maybe finish this later?  My brain is fucking dead and I feel like this isn't going anywhere.  I don't want to argue right now". 

Jack's shoulders remain tight though he smiles warmly through it.  "Of course.  I'm sorry this is so stressful for you". 

Shaking your head you pat his shoulder unsteadily as you fumble past on tired feet.  "It's fine.  Let's just put a pin in it and talk later". 

One shower and three tostadas later you are lying down on the couch with your legs over Jack's lap, his gloved palm resting delicately on your shinbone.  The lamp is on for you to read while Jack watches a nature documentary about koalas.  Your eyes skim over the words without really reading them.  You'll have to reread the chapter for sure since nothing is being absorbed by your work softened brain. 

"...I know you said you wanted to talk about it later, so I hate to bring it up, but I just wanted to get it off my chest," Jack begins quietly, in the dark.  "I miss you when you aren't here.  We don't get to spend much time together, and it feels like lately you're never here". 

Frustration brews like thunderclouds in your mind but is softened by waves of guilt.  "I'm sorry.  I'll make more of an effort.  We can do something tomorrow". 

"Really?" he says, a hopeful lift in his voice. 

"Yeah, I don't have anything going on until Friday". 

Jack turns to you, face flickering with the light of the koalas playing across his confused features. 

"...What?" 

"Sunshine... tomorrow is Friday". 

"What?  No, it's not," you protest, instinctively reaching for your phone before you want to kick yourself for forgetting that you don't have it anymore.  Sitting up, Jack's hand tightens on your shin but you pay it no mind as you turn to look at the calendar hanging in the dining room.  Squinting, you make out most of the dates are crossed off for September now.  Damn, has it really been almost two months already?  It felt like you'd been stuck in this world longer than that.  Maybe it was the return to monotony though, the slog of a job dragging you back into disconnection from days.  Indeed, the last date crossed off was the second to last Thursday, which would have been today.  Making Jack right.  Tomorrow was Friday. 

"F-u-u-u-u-u-ck," you groan, flopping back onto your back.  Resting the book on your face you let out a long, tired noise.  Pulling it down, you stare at the ceiling a moment before sitting back up a little to meet Jack's mildly amused but pitying look.  "Sorry dude, I thought it was Wednesday.  I took an extra thing from requisitions to help Rory out for baking cupcakes in the morning.  It's some little shit's birthday.  Ugh, and Saturday I'm going out with Sue for a girl's day with your sister...  We could do something later that night?" you offer. 

Jack shakes his head.  "I'm having a movie night with Rory.  You can join in if you want, but I'd like it if we had some one-on-one time, too". 

Nodding, you think hard.  "Sunday.  I am doing nothing Sunday," you state.  "What about you?" 

Jack smiles.  "Nothing for me either.  Sunday?" 

You nod again, both to yourself and to Jack.  "Sunday". 

Jack's shoulders release and he settles back into the couch.  His hand loosens on your leg, his thumb doing that thing you like again: the one where he brushes his thumb back and forth through the fabric of your sweatpants.  "Do you want to do anything in particular?" 

Forcing your sleepy mind to work, you try to plan.  "Um.  It doesn't really matter... maybe nothing super active since I feel like it's been non-stop go-go-go for a while.  Something low key?  Nothing more active than, like, a walk in the park or something". 

Jack sits there, thinking to himself.  "Do you like surprises?" 

"Uh... I would say I don't mind them?  But I don't like surprise parties," you tell him slowly. 

"Why don't I set something up then?" he suggests. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah!  I like doing stuff like this!  Besides, you don't know what's here, and I do".  The wheels are turning in Jack's head for certain.  There's something flickering behind his eyes, and there's an almost devious look on his face with a smirk to match.  It's a bit of a surprising expression; definitely one you don't remember ever seeing before, but it's almost silly. 

"Then I guess I'll see you Sunday".  You give him a smile.

Jack smiles back and swipes his thumb on your leg.  Under the faded sweatpants, goosebumps raise.  "Sunday for sure". 

Baking with Rory goes smoothly.  You're a hard worker.  For the most part, Rory seems to be a hands-off boss: he gives you the recipe cards to work off of, and tells you to leave the decorating to him.  Although the two of you struggled in the beginning, getting used to the smaller space and bumping into each other.  After you found a radio to turn on a little music however, everything began running smoothly.  In a short amount of time, the two of you are passing cupcakes between each other.  He seems suitably impressed enough that when you have all of the necessary cupcakes baked, he asks if you can get started on morning prep, trading the recipe cards our for new ones for you to take care of.  The hardest thing to get used to was the timers.  Without your phone and labeled alarms to go off when you expected, you had to use manual timers and stay near them at all times so you could listen for when they went off, keeping them labeled with masking tape. 

At the end of it all though, you have all of his prep work done for the morning.  Rory's brows are raised with incredulous surprise, but he looks out over the now fully stocked windows.  "Wow.  I didn't think we would finish things so quickly... and with a half hour to spare.  I never finish this quick". 

Looking up from washing your hands behind him you shrug.   Your eyes glaze over the numerous baked treats before looking back down to your hands, the sour scent of the antibacterial soap wafting up to your scrunched nose.  Flicking your fingers, you wipe them down with a soft towel before tossing the cloth over your shoulder.  "I worked for a bakery briefly.  And in a kitchen.  I'm used to really fast paced workplaces, so this was a cinch.  The people working at requisitions always give me weird looks when I go there for jobs". 

"Oh, do you finish them quickly?" He asks idly, rearranging cupcakes.  He nudges one to the left, pulls back, then frowns. Then he starts rearranging them again in a different pattern with different angles. 

"It doesn't feel like it.  I'm working all day, you know?  Hey, can I get a shift drink?" you ask, fingers already sneaking into the freshly ground espresso bean bag. 

Rory waves his hand to give you the go ahead and frowns deeper when he is dissatisfied with the way the cupcakes are laying out.  He tweaks a little car decoration on the top of one.  "Well, as long as you do at least two they don't really mind what you do". 

"Yeah, I guess..." you mumble, fiddling with the espresso machine before you figure it out and decide to set one up for Rory too.  "I don't know.  Maybe I'm going too slow?  Still, I mean, I'm doing like eight to ten a day, so it feels like it's a reasonable amount-" 

There's a splat behind you and a hard, plastic clatter.  You turn from the espresso as it brews to see Rory with his hands frozen and looking at you with his jaw dropped.  "Dude, what?" 

Rory blinks and looks down at the fallen cupcake.  He shakes himself, wiping up the smeared red and blue frosting from the floor and tossing the cupcake in the garbage.  Good think you and he had baked extras.  "Why are you taking so many?!" he asks, voice mostly monotone like usual but somehow incredulous. 

"It's not that many?  That's like... reasonable, I think," you argue, brows furrowing in confusion as Rory cleans up the cupcake and you steam up milk. 

"That is a lot," he retorts, icing a new cupcake with pristine attention.  "Most people only take about four or so a day". 

Your nose scrunches.  "How the hell do you guys make any money?" 

"Do you even know how much you're making?"

You pause to think.  Then, "Man, I don't fucking know, it's too early for this!  The sun isn't even up yet!" you complain, gesturing pointedly to the dark windows. 

Rory rolls his eyes and pulls a notepad from his shirt pocket, writing out figures and numbers.  Apparently, though you hadn't realized it, the worker's office paid you an additional amount based on how many jobs were completed and whether or not you were an active account.  The result combined with the amount you made from jobs was, according to Rory, enough to put a down payment on a house and pay it off in a few years; that was if you were working at the average rate of someone in Cloudytown.  Apparently, due to your unimpressed attitude at your first paycheck from still thinking in twenty-first century terms of money, had decided to double down and work the usual eight or nine hours.  Rory then had to explain, to his monotone horror, that you were working 'way too much' and needed to 'slow down before you worked into an early grave'. 

"Okay, well, that says to me I'm doing a decent job.  It's not like I'm going to live with Jack forever," you say rolling your eyes.  "It would be nice to have my own space".  That also means that you'll definitely have enough for parts when you make your Fright Night costume, you remind yourself, perking up a bit. 

"You're completely banana nut bonkers," Rory retorts, shaking his head.  Then he pauses, watching you pour the lattes.  "Wait, you want to move out?" 

You look up from Rory's coffee, carefully swirling it to make a classic heart shape with the foam.  Fuck, you messed it up a little.  Okay, maybe this one would be yours; he can have whichever one is better.  "Yeah?  Of course I do, why do you ask?" 
 
"Well..."  Rory seems to struggle for a response before it clicks. 

"He didn't," you say aloud, partially to Rory but mostly just to say it aloud to the world. 

"What?" 

"He did not tell you that I'm his girlfriend".  Your voice is flat, void of emotion as you stand there with hot coffee in one hand and a half empty cup of steamed milk. 

Rory lifts his hands in surrender, eyes wide.  "He didn't tell me that!  He never said that!" he says quickly. 

Your eyes narrow, staring him down like a wolf stalking a rabbit.  Judging by the way his resting bitch face seems to have taken a vacation for a wide-eyed look, the comparison isn't lost on him either.  "But you know something.  He told you something," you press. 

Rory's mouth opens a moment but then closes and his face melts to determination.  "I really can't tell you that". 

"It involves me.  I have a right to know, Rory".  Your brows lower, staring him down like a wolf watching a particularly juicy rabbit. 

His mouth opens a moment but both his hands go over his mouth and he shakes his head, eyes a little wide.  "…I'm sorry, Sunshine, but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone.  He's my best friend, I can't.  I really am sorry". 

To be fair, he does sound fairly apologetic.  Begrudging admiration for the loyalty Rory has for his friend threads through you, but you're still irritated.  "...It's probably not anything I don't already know," you grumble, finishing up the latte.  Now you have half a mind to give him the shittier one, but you're a better person than that. 

"What do you know about that?" He asks cautiously. 

You snort unattractively in dry humor, pouring the second mug.  "Jack might be subtle about what he wants, but he's not that slick and I'm not that stupid.  I'm not even sure he's trying to hide it, but even if he were, I can tell when a guy likes me, Rory".  It's spoken plainly as you roll your eyes. 

The baker settles a little, his hackles lowered.  "...What did you do to him?" he blurts suddenly, voice tight with concern. 

That makes you really stop what you're doing.  Setting the mugs down on the counter you look up.  "What are you talking about?  I didn't do anything to him," you tell him as confusion surges through you.  Was it about the friction between you two?  You and Jack struggled to get along, particularly at first, sure, but you got along.  It just took a little more work.  Did you do something that hurt his feelings?  Was it about last night?

"He's been acting really weird ever since you came to town, and I've never heard him talk about anyone the way he talks about you," Rory says seriously, brows furrowing as he looks down at you.  "It's like you saved him, or something.  So, what did you do?" he asks second time. 

"I saved him?  If anything, he's the one helping me out.  He barely even lets me help out around the house".  You shake your head, taking a step closer to him.  "Look: I swear I didn't do anything.  I don't know why he..."  Your voice trails off, uncertainty flecked through your voice.  "I don't know why," you finish lamely.  "Wait, weird how?  Actually, never mind.  Let's just drop the subject.  I feel weird talking about him behind his back like this with you". 

Rory nods in agreement, then freezes.  "Wait, how did you do that?" he asks suddenly, looking down at the mug. 

"Do what?  The little design?" you reply, leaning over to look down at the cup with the simple heart pattern.  One has a small fuck up on the third string of hearts, but you doubt Rory notices. 

He nods, tilting his head.  "I've never seen anything like that". 

"Really?" you ask, surprised.  He nods again so you shrug your shoulders. 

"Can you teach me?  I'll pay you," he asks, looking up to meet your gaze.  His eyes are pink, you realize with a start.  You never really noticed, or maybe the lighting was never good enough, but in the gleam of dawn beginning to rise, his eyes are a sweet, dark pink with a little blue slice in the left one, not too far off from how the rainberries he'd showed you looked when they were ripe. 

"...Sorry, what?" you ask, shaking yourself out of a daze.  His words catch up to you just as he opens his mouth again to ask.  "No, yeah, no it's fine, you don't have to pay me.  I can show you, it takes, like, two seconds". 

"I can pay," he insists. 

"I know you can, you don't have to.  I'm not taking money to show you something so easy.  It's just latte art, it's not like it's anything really cool".  Sipping your own mug you look around the barren bakery.  The two of you still had a half hour to open.  You could definitely teach Rory how to make latte art in that time.  "Here, let's just get some cups and we can practice..." 

The two of you work on one large heart first, just to get used to the movements.  He mucks up the first one good, no pattern at all other than a runny circle with a line of tan coffee.  Soon though, Rory picks it up; a lot faster than you did, though you expected that for some reason.  Pretty soon there's a little line of latte mugs with hearts and swirls lining the counter.  You're a little proud of newly budding latte artist Rory. 

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Rory asks suddenly, looking up from admiring his row of heart lattes.  "You can say no if you don't want to tell me, it's just something that's been on my mind lately, and I'm sorry if it's rude". 

You give a half turn to give him an odd look, before looking back out the window again to admire the slowly brightening sunrise.  It's mostly blocked, but you can still catch snatches of pink, orange, and yellow sherbet clouds floating above the trees and buildings outside.  "I mean... yeah, that's fine.  I'm an open book". 

"...You're not from around here, are you?" Rory asks slowly.  "And you aren't from New York City either, are you?" 

All of your blood turns to ice in your veins as your stomach opens up into a gaping maw.  "...What makes you say that?" you ask softly. 

Rory doesn't say anything, but you can feel him staring at you quietly from your side.  The couple of feet between you feels like a mile. 

"...No.  I'm not".  The confession falls out of your lips like a pebble flung into a still lake. 

"Who are you?" Rory demands, but he doesn't sound angry or distrustful.  You finally muster the courage to look at him and he just looks worried.  That really kills you for some reason.  It makes your chest tight with guilt and regret.   

"Before I go any further, I didn't mean to keep it a secret I just never thought anyone would believe me," you confess. 

"Are you in Witness Protection?" he asks, voice hushed. 

A laugh barks out of you.  "No, no, nothing like that.  I wish it were that simple.  Witness Protection would be easy to explain".  Hand scratching your scalp in an anxious gesture, you decide to bite the bullet.  "I...  I really am from New York- or, well, I'm not from-there, from-there but that is where I came here from-  Look, before I tell you, you have to promise to believe me and also: I'm not crazy". 

Rory nods very seriously, looking you in the eye so you know just how seriously he's taking this.  "Okay.  I promise I'll believe you". 

You take a deep breath.  "So, I'm from another dimension about forty years in the future.  About a month or two ago I fell out of a wormhole or something, and landed in Jack's house from... the ceiling, I guess?  Or the wall?  Maybe just thin air, I don't know, I don't remember it all that well.  It's all kind of a blur?  I was really drunk-  Wait, you guys dont have that here.  Um, that's when you're inoxicated- wait, shit, you don't have that here either, goddammit...  I was basically incapacitated.  But anyways, Jack's been letting me stay at his place until I get my bearings, but this place is really fucking different and I just-  It's a lot, okay?"  Now that you've started talking it's like you can't stop.  Like a small spring in a ship hull, it has turned into a sudden rush, a flood of words leaking from you. 

Rory stands there.  He blinks.  He breathes.  Then, "What?" 

"I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it's true.  You can ask Jack!  He was there!  And, I mean, Dr. E, the scientist in the lab with the rat in her pocket, she ran a couple tests so you can ask her too, but God, I swear I'm telling the truth!" you insist, wringing your hands as you meet Rory's gaze. 

"Let me get this straight".   Rory stands up straight, rubbing his face and smearing coffee on his nose and cheek over the face paint.  "You are from another dimension and you fell out of a wormhole into Jack's house and that's why he's letting you stay with him?" 

"...Yeah, kinda". 

"And Jack saw this happen to you?" 

"No, he-"  You stop. 

Did Jack see you?  You don't think you'd ever asked that.  He hadn't said anything about it either, but he had taken everything in stride.  Maybe the reason he believed Dr. Erlenmeyer so easily was because he saw you fall out of that wormhole.  Why didn't he tell you that then?  Why wouldn't he tell you that? 

"I... don't know," you say slowly, confusion sinking into your voice.  "Maybe?  Like I said, I don't really remember it... basically at all.  It's all kind of a blur, actually".  Your voice trails off as you try and remember that night.  You got home.  You got drunk.  You ate... something?  You can remember music playing, so you probably turned on the stereo and pissed off your neighbors.  There was something else though, something else playing in the background.  It wasn't a song, it was something else, something that makes your teeth feel like there's an electric current running through them.  What was it? 

"I believe you". 

The simple statement cuts through the murk of your memories of that night and lands on your heart.  Looking up, Rory's face is nothing but soft and understanding despite the more-or-less usual resting bitch face that he has going on.  "You do?"  It's painful how hopeful your voice is and you feel pathetic for worrying about it, but you do, and your voice cracks with it. 

"Of course," he replies gently, his brows furrowed as his face shifts back into his usually apathetic look that's really just his face.   "Why would you lie about that?  Besides: it explains a  lot .  Like why you don't have a facade".

"...Are you calling me fake?  Or are you calling me not-fake?"

"No? I mean you don't have a facade".  Rory touches a finger to each of his pink cheek swirls.  "These?" 

You furrow your brow, looking down from his eyes to his cheeks.  The little pinks swirls were settled in the hollow of his jaw under his cheekbones, with another mark on his nose and jaw.  "What do you mean?  It's makeup, right?" 

That earns you a strange look.  "Makeup?  No, it's not makeup". 

"Ok, so what, greasepaint?" 

Rory continues staring at you like you're a fish that learned how to speak.  "Sunshine...  It's not makeup". 

You stare at him.  "It's not makeup?" 

"It's not makeup," he agrees. 

You raise your hand, eyeing him uncertainly.   

"Go ahead," he says with a nod, leaning in a little closer. 

Bringing your hand up you press your thumb to his cheek over the pink mark, wiping at it.  It does not smudge.  Nothing moves at all.  You rub a little harder and Rory scrunches his nose in irritation as you try and wipe the mark away.  It just felt like skin; no cakey or greasy feel that came with all kinds of liquids or powders.  No breakage or anything.  "Holy shit," you can only say in surprise as you retract your hand.  There's a new pink spot on his cheek from your rubbing.  "So are you guys like... born with it?  Or is it like with dalmatians where you're all white as puppies, but get your spots over time?" 

Rory's eyes crinkle in amusement despite the bitchy frown.  "We're born with them.  Your facade is based on genetics or something.  My mom's are pink, but my dad's are round". 

"That's kind of cool.  I just assumed it was a weird fashion statement or something". 

Rory chuckles in amusement, eyes roving across your own face.  "And I assumed you were wearing makeup to cover yours". 

"Do people do that?"

Rory shrugs.  "Sometimes if they disown their family, though it rarely happens.  I've certainly never met anyone that does".

Shaking your head, the two of you snicker at the mutual miscommunication.  Suddenly, there's a knock at the door.  The two of you jump and look up to see a couple people at the door.  One of them waves, and Rory waves back.  "Well, I guess that's my cue," you say aloud, a little disappointed to be leaving so soon after feeling the weight of your secret lifted off of you.  Just as you're about to slam back the rest of your coffee, Rory sets his hand on your shoulder.  When the muscles in your shoulder twitch in a flinch, he removes it. 

"Sorry, I was just going to ask if you wanted to help me out for today?  If you want, you can stay in the back even, and I can give you the recipe cards?" he says hopefully.  "I'll just give it to you when I pay". 

Your heart squeezes in your chest.  "Nah man, it's fine.  I don't want your money.  I'll take you up on the back, though". 

Rory looks stricken.  You're getting better at reading his miniscule facial movements.  "Sunshine, I have money, I can pay". 

Rolling your eyes, you slowly start towards the back.  "Your money's no good to me," you tell him firmly, leaving no room for argument.  "I cannot be bought!" 

His response was almost lost in the thud of you kicking the door to the back open by the brass plate at the bottom.  "I'll make you that pinkmelon cake you like". 

Your boots screech like tires on asphalt at that. 

...Okay, maybe you can be bought.   

Just a little. 

Turning to look at him slowly, you catch the gleam in his eyes as he realizes he has you.  "…Can you do that frosting you did last time?" 

His smirk tells all. 

A few hours later you are beat tired with your arms burning from kneading, rolling, and shaping dough.  Rory had a stand mixer, but told you that he had been able to taste the difference, and was therefore only used it when he was making something that needed to be kept cold (like pie crusts and scones).  The two of you play cards on your lunch break, before getting back to work.  You head home a little into the afternoon when Rory walks into the back to let you know there was no more baking or prep to be done today, and lets you head home.  The agreed upon cake-payment would be delivered when he came for movie night on Saturday (tomorrow, you remind yourself sternly).  Once you get home, waking up early catches up with you and you promptly pass out on the couch. 

Upon waking up several hours later with your legs over Jack's lap to the smell of pizza (one half with your desired toppings and Jack's half with sliced banana peppers and pineapple) and Jack giving you a bright smile.  He snickers when you wipe your face, looking down with sleep-ridden comprehension as you notice the unfortunately large drool spot on the couch you'd left. 

"Why didn't you wake me up?  I could've cooked," you mumble, sitting up as you rub your eyes blearily. 

"You seemed tired.  I thought it might do you some good.  You've been seeming a bit worn out lately".  Jack plates a piece from your side of the pizza and passes it to you.  "Besides, we always get a treat on Fridays". 

Accepting the pizza with only a small amount of grumbling, you finish it in seconds, unaware of how hungry you really were until just now.  You knock back two more glasses of water, when a second wave of weariness washes over you.  Maybe Jack was right; you really did need to sleep for a few hours.  Sighing, you shake your head and flick the cap off your bottle of soda pop, watching as it bounces off Jack's neck.  He makes a small noise of protest, rubbing the spot on his neck and glaring playfully over at you.  Grinning, you take a drink of the sticky, sweet beverage.  Jack's rolls his eyes, flicking the cap back to you. 

A sudden thought wakes you up a bit when the cap bounces off your forehead.  "Oh shit, I just remembered!" 

"What?  What's wrong?" Jack asks, hand on your shin, warm and comforting. 

"Nothing," you mutter, rubbing your face.  Scrunching your nose when pizza grease slides down your temple with a finger, you fumble for a napkin.  "I just remembered that I told Rory I'm from another dimension". 

"Oh".  Some of the tension leaves Jack's posture, but not all of it.  "...Did you want to keep it a secret?" 

You shrug, crumpling up the used napkin and tossing it onto the table with the rest of the trash.  "I mean, I haven't exactly been trying to hide it, but I don't want any extra attention because of it.  I don't think I mind telling friends". 

Jack lets out a smug hum next to you and you glance over, finding his face unbearable.  "Don't look at me in that tone of face". 

Jack giggles, grinning so you can see his teeth gleam in the dark.  "What?" 

"You're looking way to smug over there.  Stop it or I'll kick you". 

"I'm not smug!  I'm happy you two are friends now!" He says sweetly, though his hand tightens on your ankle and he gives you a look from the corner of his eye. 

You roll your eyes.  "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.  You're so annoying". 

"I'm sorry!" He says, eyes wide. 

"No, no, it's the thing again.  The threatening your friends thing".  You shake your head.  "I was just teasing.  Sorry.  It's kind of... hard to unlearn".  Shaking your head again, you grumble under your breath, "I'm going to have to work on that shit.  Fuck". 

"It's okay!  I don't mind, I just...  It's surprising to hear". 

"Sorry.  Sorry".  Flopping back down on the couch,  you sigh.  "Are you making breakfast tomorrow?" You ask. 

"Mm-hm!  I'm thinking pancakes.  Does that sound good?" 

"It sounds super good.  Can I have blueberries in mine?" 

"Sure!  I might have some too". 

Sighing in bliss, listening to Jack prophesize your pancake futures.  "You're a beautiful human being and I owe you my whole motherfucking life.  That sounds so good". 

"Excuse me?" Jack says with blatant confusion as you belatedly realize your mistake. 

"Dammit...  Sorry, I did it again: the insult thing?  Remember how I said it works in reverse too?" you rush hastily, sitting up a little to look at him.  "Over the top gratitude is in the same vein".  His face is somewhat stricken but there's something hidden there.  Maybe it's self-absorbed of you to consider it, but you think it looks like hope that's swiftly crushed. 

"Oh," wheezes out of him, hand on his chest.  "You startled me there!"  Then he pauses.  Then he lets out a small, marveling chuckle.  "I think I'm starting to get it". 

It makes you smile.  It's nice to be understood, you think, settling back down into the couch.  Jack's hand is warm on your leg.  You don't kick it off.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning you do indeed get blueberries in your pancakes, although breakfast ends up being a somewhat stilted affair.  The two of you are in a good mood, but there's a silence that slips in when neither of you notice and by the time you do, the two of you are sending awkward but friendly looks across the table in mute comradery.  The newspaper is mindless sludge, and you could only look at it so long without rolling your eyes so hard you could see your braincells killing themselves from boredom.  Absolutely nothing really happened in this town.

When the doorbell rang, both of you looked up, then looked at one another uncertainly.  "I'll get it?" Jack said, though his voice suggests it as a question.  You just shrug and stare at the wall, shoving a handful of blueberries in your mouth. 

The crack of the door opening gave way to a few excited responses: two familiar voices and one not-so familiar.  "How are you two?" Jack asks, grinning wide as he opens the door wider, tugging a tall blonde woman into his arms.  He hauls her up in a huge hug, lifting her up off the ground with a grunt.  "I miss you!  Come over more!" he whines, shaking her side to side affectionately like he's holding a stuffed animal. 

"I would if you would let me in!" the woman protests with a laugh.  With a little context and a memory of the photograph Jack showed you, you realize this is his sister.  This is Jane.  She's tall; probably as tall as Jack, although it was hard to tell with Jane being hoisted up in Jack's bear hug.  Her hair was a light blonde with two blue and red streaks through it, tied back in a pony tail.  Her red and white candy-stripe romper was too long in the sleeves, drooping over her hands so she could only push Jack back with covered mitts.  They weren't so much sweater paws as they were like socks that hadn't been pulled on all the way.  She wore a vest, also like Jack, but hers was denim and clearly a DIY, with patches and buttons sewn or pinned on, and seemingly once had sleeves that had been cut off.  Her sneakers were untied and muddy, and over top the bottom of the romper were a pair of denim cutoff daisy duke shorts.  Jack spins her around in his arms, narrowly avoiding an amused Cloudy-Belle Sue who stands politely off to the side.  She meets your eye and gives you a silent wave with a small, shy smile.  You wave back, similarly quiet yourself.

Finally, Jack sets his sister down and puts his hands on his hips, beaming as he surveys the three of you.  "Gosh...  All three of my favorite women in one room!  Could this place get any more beautiful?" he says with a blissful sigh, causing you to huff a quiet laugh to yourself, shaking your head in amusement.  "Oh, Janey, this is Sunshine!"  Jack puts his hand on the back of your chair, grinning wide.  It strikes you then that while Jack is almost always smiling, he's never looked so happy.  "Sunshine, this is my big sister, Daisy-Chain Jane!" 

Jane turns to you, still smiling.  She pushes her sleeves up and sticks a hand out.  "Nice to meet you!  Put 'er there, friend!" 

You glance down at the hand and just barely catch notice the little flesh-colored strap around her palm.  Jack had mentioned that Jane had liked to pull pranks, so you were suspecting something, although a hand buzzer felt a little stereotypical.  Though what if you didn't fall for it?  Would she cry?  Would she be disappointed?  You weren't usually such a people-pleaser, but this was Jack's sister.  She was someone you had to get along with; and so, you put out your hand to shake and she took it readily, grin widening.  Then her expression turned slightly puzzled at the lack of reaction.  Oddly, you didn't really feel it much.  Actually, despite the hand buzzer being labeled as cliche and tired, you'd never actually run into one.  It didn't feel all that different from a TENS unit.  For one long moment, you were both just staring at your joined, unshaking hands, each of you mystified. 

"Huh.  Usually I get more of a reaction.  I'm told I've got an electrifying handshake," Jane says, still smiling. 

"Honestly, it feels kinda good," you admit with a shrug.  "I don't think I can move my fingers though". 

After a couple failed attempts to pull her hand back, including trying to pry your fingers off her hand herself to no avail, Jane turns to Jack with a sheepish smile.  "Hey, Jack, can we get a hand here?" 

Jack moves in, looking to you to see if it's okay.  At your nod, your hands are slowly pried apart with a little effort from him.  Jane examines the hand buzzer, popping open the back and peering inside.  Flexing your hand, you rub the joints and roll the small muscles out.  It felt like your hand was full of TV static.  "I thought I fixed it...  Maybe it's faulty?" she murmurs.  "Sorry about that!  I'll get you next time!" she promises, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. 

"Honestly, it could just be the hand," you say, shrugging, you showed her.  The burns from when you'd poured coffee on yourself weren't severe enough for you to go to the doctor (though Jack had begged you to do so, you had stubbornly refused and you somewhat regretted making him worry) and mostly only stung a bit when it was under water that was too hot.  The skin was a little pale and seemed a bit thin on the back of your hand, but otherwise, it wasn't all that noticeable and there hadn't been any issues that might have contributed to the reaction. 

"It is nice to meet you, though!" she tells you sweetly, taking both your hands in hers and bending slightly at the hip to get on your level.  Before you can respond, she turns to Jack and puts her hands on her hips leaving yours to hover in front of you like you're a dog begging for scraps.  Immediately, Jack throws on a sheepish grin and throws his hands up in surrender.  "Speaking of meeting, sir, why did I have to find out about your new girlfriend through Cloudy?" 

"Daisy-!" Cloudy tries quietly from the side, looking between her two friends and flushing in anxiety. 

You sigh.  "Again, we aren't dating-" 

"I was going to tell you!" Jack protests, his grin slightly faltering.  You can't see Jane's face, but it makes Jack's tense stature melt until he's rubbing the back of his head in more serious embarrassment.  "...Eventually.  She's still getting settled!" 

Jane rolls her eyes before gently punching his shoulder.  "You're lucky I love you.  I'm grilling you later, but right now: it's girl time!  We'll see you later!"  You are promptly dragged from the house by the cuff of your jacket, stumbling on every tug before being shoved in the back of a modest red car, landing on a messy pile of something soft.  "Whoops!  Sorry, you can just shove those on the floor," Jane says cheerily, though it's somewhat muffled by the sound of roughly a thousand and one whoopie cushions deflating under your body weight.  Sitting up, you try to pull one of the cushions off your shoulder but it gets caught on one of your spikes and tears.  Quickly, you shove the ripped cushion under the mass of others. 

"Buckle up, quick," whispers Sue, practically hissing the words laced with warning as she quickly buckles herself. 

"Yeah I'm working on it-" you try and say while searching under the pile of junk in the back.  The only warning you get is the sudden scream of the stereo blaring something funky with lots of saxophone and brass before you are immediately sent ass over tea kettle across the back seat when Jane nails the gas.  Grabbing hold of what you think is a seatbelt (but turns out to be a string of rainbow handkerchiefs) you try and tie yourself down desperately, but Jane is swerving again and you roll onto the floor. 

"Can you slow down?!" you yell, irritated by how frantic you sound as you struggle to get back up. 

"What?!" Jane hollers back.  You are about to die.

After another several minutes of your body being juggled in the back seat you finally get your seatbelt on just in time for Jane to slam on the breaks, sliding sideways into a perfect parallel park.  The strap of fabric nearly chokes you, but it does save your face from smacking into the back of Jane's seat and the window. 

"We're here!" Jane says cheerfully, stepping out onto the asphalt.  Unbuckling yourself, you fall out of the car in a tiny avalanche of whoopie cushions and land on the pavement.  Rolling over, you stare at the sky, breathing hard and blinking, trying to make the world stop spinning.  "…Wow, pretty good time!" Jane says above you, staring down at her watch.  Somehow while driving, she's changed into a headscarf and overlarge sunglasses, like a 50's Hollywood primadonna in a sports car, and not a rabid clown that drives it like she stole it. 

"You okay?" Cloudy-Belle Sue whispers, kneeling down and offering you a hand. 

Unable to muster more than a groan, you take her hand, appreciating the hand up.  Standing on your feet, Sue holds you still so you don't sway from dizziness, plucking the whoopie cushions off as Jane tries to recollect them from the ground.  "How do you do this every month?" you whisper back, unable to keep your eyes from rolling in their sockets as you try and steady yourself. 

"I just close my eyes and buckle really fast," she replies in an equally hushed tone.  "She's a good driver, she just...  She doesn't really notice anything happening in the car". 

You shake your head in disbelief only to regret it when you get overtaken by dizziness again.  Cloudy helps you up and over to the front door.  Jane catches up in no time, all of the little bags of pink plastic put away in the car, the headscarf gone.  "You ladies ready for some self-care?" she asks cheerfully like she didn't almost commit manslaughter. 

Sue claps excitedly, almost bouncing on her feet.  You can't help but smile, amused by her enthusiasm.  The two lead you into the spa, admiring the strange, pale blue marble the entire building seems to be made from.  The inside is similarly blue-stone colored, with smooth modern sensibilities.  You let the girls linger up front at the desk while you hang behind them, looking around.  There's plants everywhere, but nothing flowering, leaving things feeling lush and lovely.  All of the furniture seems to be made of chic bamboo, or some other light wood.  Maybe teak?  You'd probably know if woodshop hadn't been cancelled and you'd been able to take it another year.

"Sunshine?" 

"Yeah?"  Turning back forward, you pull forward as the girls pull a sheet with a list of services the place offers forward on the desk.  Flicking your eyes up, you nod at the younger receptionist who smiles genially to you.  Looking back down, you skim the list. 

"We were thinking we could get massages first, then get a facial, and our nails.  What do you think?" asks Sue. 

Shrugging, you search around on the list for anything of interest.  "I'll probably skip the massage and maybe do this Epsom salt thing.  And maybe hit the sauna". 

"Aw, how come?" Whines Jane, clinging to your arm before quickly regretting it with a small, "Ouchie," as she is poked with some of your jacket's shoulder spikes.  "Come on-n-n-n-n!  When you go to the spa you gotta get a massage!  It's, like, a law or something!" 

Your smile thins into a straight line.  "Mm...  I don't think I'll like it.  Never had one and I don't think I ever will". 

"What?!  Okay, then you definitely have to!  You're getting one!" Jane presses, gently shaking you side to side with a hand on either side of your arms.   

"You could just try it," Sue suggests encouragingly.  "And if you don't like it, you can tell them to stop.  They're really nice, and you're always so tense...  You might like it if you try it". 

Shaking your head, you throw on the breaks as Jane tries to tug you in.  Heels dug into the rug, you gently pry her fingers off.  "No thanks!  Other people I don't know touching my naked body sounds like a nightmare from hell.  Hard pass.  I'll see you guys in the sauna when you get out". 

Jane opens her mouth to argue more, but Sue puts a hand on her arm and smiles.  Sighing, Jane releases you and nods, giving you a small smile.  "...Alright, if you're sure.  But you'll join us for facials and nails, right?  You should be having fun this Girl's Day!" 

Although you're not super enthused for people touching your face, it feels like a decent compromise so you acquiesce.  It's fairly reasonably priced, so in the name of Girl's Day bonding, you fork over the cash and pick out a couple things to do while Jane and Sue are in for their massage. 

The salt bath is a bit interesting, but really doesn't feel (or smell) much different than taking a dip in the ocean.  They've filled a warm stone basin in the floor of a small room with warm salt water, with a bag of an herbal mix that smells like seaweed mostly.  Still, the hot water is soothing and when you finally roll out of the water an hour later, your skin is softer than it's ever been and you smell like you've been to the beach.  Jane and Sue catch up with you for a small intermission of drinking chilled juice in white terrycloth robes.  You weren't sure what to get, so you just let Sue pick for you since you didn't trust Jane to pick something nasty or do some sort of prank.  (Your roommate-in-law did end up sneaking what tasted like chili flakes into your juice, but that ended up pretty tasty, so you finished the drink anyways.  Granted you had no proof it was her considering you didn’t see her do it).  The second one you had was thankfully un-peppered and tasted great, with pieces of rainberry floating in the slush-like mix. 

The sauna was nice, although you could have done without the odd looks you got from your tattoos.  A quick glare and soon everyone but your friend was avoiding eye contact blessedly, and you got your peace.  It was just you and Jane, as the last time Sue had been in the sauna she fainted, and thus had been banned.  A little while later the two of you emerged flushed and slick with sweat.  A quick trip to a shower room for another cooldown and then the three of you were getting facials.  Thankfully the bath had relaxed you, so you only flinched minorly every time the spa associate or 'facialist' or whatever touched your face with soft, manicured hands.  It wasn't too bad after they put little cooling pads over your eyes; just like a nervous race horse with blinders, you started to calm down when you couldn't see each movement that could be a threat out of the corner of your eye.

"What do you want to get?  I think I'm going to get red again".  Jane plucks a bright rooster red from the little display of nail polish, examining it before taking a second one that had a lot of more shimmer to it. 

A binder is passed into your hands from Sue, open to a bright page where she taps an almond shaped nail to the picture featuring art of suns rising from the nail bed with blue skies.  "Last time I was here, I picked out this one for my next visit, but now...  I don't know?  I'm just not so sure..." 

Shrugging, you pull a simple dark grey off the shelf.  It was the same warm, stormy color of your old favorite hoodie that was regrettably still in the twenty first century.  "Why not go dark?  It would probably be a nice contrast with your usual clothes," you suggest. 

Hesitantly, Sue reaches over past Jane's hands (which are rapidly filling with colors she can't decide between) and pulls a pretty navy shade with lots of bright white shimmer to it.  "I used to get this one a lot when I first started getting my nails done but...  I don't know..." 

"Do it!" Jane chirps, not at all struggling to hold all the colors in her hands.  She's decided between eight, which she holds between her fingers, looking like if Wolverine was a nail tech.  "I haven't seen you wear that one in a while!" 

Sue sort of lets out a little whine or groan and shifts indecisively on her feet.  "I don't know...  Maybe..." 

"Do whatever you want.  Either color is still going to be here when you come back," you say with a shrug, revealing your choice to one of the nail techs. 

Getting your nails done hadn't been as tedious as you thought it would be, with the most irritating part of it all being that you had to sit still through it.  Jane provided some entertainment, sneakily pulling random accessories out of God only knows where and putting them on when the nail tech wasn't looking.  It had started subtly with a little necklace that you couldn't remember having seen on her with a tiny rubber chicken head dangling as a charm.  Slowly she graduated to chunkier, louder jewelry, then a pair of disguise sunglasses with thick brows on the frames and a mustache, then a tropical fruit hat.  By the time the nail tech actually noticed, she'd completely finished and completely failed to utter anything at all, only staring at Jane's mostly covered face in wonder.  Then, all three of you were walking out with newly painted nails.  Both Jane and Sue are practically glowing in the sun, skin soft and shiny with a healthy flush to it.  Yours probably looks much the same. 

"Well...  I'm sorry there wasn't anything you really liked there," Jane says regretfully, her big eyes looking into yours soulfully. 

You shrug.  "Don't be ridiculous.  I liked the weird salt bath thing...  And I got my nails done, thought it probably won't last that long," you say, admiring your shimmery nails.  The nail tech you'd gotten, had convinced you to use a second gray that was a little warmer, practically a desaturated brown, to fade into towards the tips.  The effect was interesting, reminding you of old gun metal.  Getting your nails done probably won't be a regular thing, especially not long ones, but you suppose you do feel a bit better after the soak.  Your face feels a little weird, but it's probably just not used to being so moisturized. 

"Oh, would you two want to walk to Benny's?" Sue suggests, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, looking across the street.  Dark blue shines from her fingers, with little topaz crystals gleaming.  "We can get some bubbly". 

"I could drink," you tell her agreeably, excitement pooling in your stomach.  You hadn't seen a trace of alcohol since coming to this world.  Was bubbly some sort of alternate drink here, or did she mean the real-deal?  If champagne was all they had, you weren't above getting drunk on it.  Granted it wasn't your favorite, but you weren't about to be choosy when you were well into a month of being straight edge without so much as a smoke or drink.  Now, you don't mean to sound like an addict, but without the usual suspects to relax, you probably had been higher strung than you usually would, circumstances notwithstanding. 

"Let's do it!" Jane cheers between the two of you, smiling. 

A little while later the three of you are sat outside under an umbrella drinking some pink, bubbly substance that is most assuredly not champagne.  You had nearly spat it up on the first sip but managed a swallow before carefully setting it back down. 

"Thanks for inviting me," you tell them, offering a small smile.  You lick your bottom lip and scrunch your nose at the remaining taste. 

"Sure!  I'm glad to finally meet you," Jane says cheerfully, holding her martini glass (how did they have martini glasses but no alcohol in this hellhole?) with two hands, her sleeves drooping past her hands, turning her hands to mitts.  You hadn't actually seen her fingers after she'd gotten back into her clothes and out of the robe, leaving the color she actually chose a mystery.  "Cloudy-Belle was telling me how you visited her at the library, so I knew I had to meet you, especially if you're rooming with my brother". 

"Ah, yeah, totally," you say, a little uncomfortable for some reason. 

Jane frowns, fiddling with the grapes that drooped down from her fruit hat.  Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, she pulled one off and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing slowly.  "Hm...  It's weird he didn't say anything to me about suddenly getting a roommate..." 

"He probably wanted to keep her all to himself," Sue replies, a small smirk on her face. 

Rolling your eyes, you smack her with the back of your hand gently.  "Stop, I'm sure he was just trying to give me space.  Sorry, DJ," you apologize, only to be waved off. 

"It's all good!  Besides, that means I can meet you now!  And I had fun hanging out with you today. It's nice to have another girl in the group, even if we don't know each other all that well".  Jane shakes her head and shoots you a bright smile.

"Yeah," you agree with a nod, fiddling with the little basket of sweet rolls and butter.  "It would be nice to do this again, or do something else together.  I mean, I'd like to get to know you two better too.  Tell me about yourselves.  What do you two do for fun?" 

Jane made Cloudy-Belle go first, gently encouraging her with a grin.  When Sue stuttered, refuting she didn't do anything special, Jane rolls her eyes and announces, "That's not true!  Tell her about the birds!" 

After this little prompt, Sue begins to tell you of her backyard which had become almost completely devoted to bird watching.  Apparently part of the reason the library was so well landscaped was because she gave the team very specific instructions, and kept the little baskets of feed stocked with different kinds of seeds, nuts, and dried insects to encourage diversity. 

"Her backyard is like a sanctuary," Jane tells you with a proud grin.  Sue bashfully shifts in her seat, looking down at the table but still looking quite pleased.  "She's got, like, a billion birds". 

This encourages Cloudy to tell you about the honeysuckle and lilac bushes she's started in the backyard.  "I'm hoping to get some hummingbirds next year in the spring," she tells you, her voice quiet but excited.  "They're small now, but I bet in a few years they'll get really big.  My mom has one with a nest in her honeysuckle, so hopefully they'll decide mine are good enough too".

Jane tells you how she used to do gymnastics and track in high school.  Although she doesn't do either any more, she does occasionally help out the coaches for the younger elementary school kids since she does well with their energy.  She's broken her arm twice, can play the harmonica, and greatly enjoys movies with aliens.  She didn't have any one particular hobby she stuck with, aside from her penchant for pranks and jokes.  Apparently, she did do improv with a small club that she was trying to push you to join and you were vehemently denying.  Your sense of humor would not go over well, and your jokes probably would fly right over their heads. 

"Sorry, we've just been talking about ourselves this whole time," blushes Sue, twirling a lock of her hair as she sips her drink.  "Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?" She crosses her ankles and giving you an attentive look, Jane turning to give you the same. 

Stomach twisting itself in knots, you shift in your seat.  Should you tell them?  You didn't really have any reason not to, and despite not knowing Jane for very long, you had a feeling it wouldn't end well if this was something you kept from her.  You weren't worried about Sue particularly; she seemed easy going and open minded enough to accept you were from another dimension without calling you insane and sending you off to the psych ward.   

Confident in you decision, you nod to yourself before frowning seriously and leaning forward.  "Well... before I tell you that, I have to tell you something else...  You see..." 

"So you're really from another dimension in the future?" Sue says, looking at you in wonder. 

Shrugging uncomfortably, you sip your drink.  It's way too sweet, and the sort of unnatural pink that cotton candy usually has and (to your dismay) has no alcohol that you can detect.  You set the martini glass back down and rotate it by the stem of it.  "Basically". 

"That explains quite a bit, really".  Sue sips her drink, looking into the distance and nodding to herself.  "What you said about cars being different...  It must be very different here indeed!"

"I mean, it explains why Jack's letting you stay with him.  Aside from the obvious, I mean," Jane states, waggling her eyebrows. 

You roll your eyes.  "Jesus, you guys are so up in his business it's not even funny". 

"He's my brother!  It's my birthright!"  Jane pounds her fist on the table, bouncing your glasses and making the pitcher slosh slightly.  "I'm allowed to gossip about him!  He NEVER gives me the material!  This is the first time he's had a crush!" 

"At least we can all agree he's obvious," you grumble.  You take another sip of the drink and grimace at the flavor again.  It was pretty awful right away, but the aftertaste was so interesting and herbal that it was like it wiped your memory of how bad it was.  Honestly, it was hard to decide if you hated it enough to stop drinking it.  Fighting back a shiver of disgust you groan and fall forward until your head hits the table.  "F-u-u-u-u-ck, what am I going to do?" you moan into the plastic. 

"What do you mean?" Jane's voice asks from above.  You turn your head until you can see her, cheek pressed to the cool tabletop.  She's laid her head down like yours to meet your eye.  "Don't you like him too?" 

Flicking your gaze between Cloudy-Belle Sue (who's leaned forward a little in interest) and Daisy-Chain Jane (who's looking a little confused and is holding her martini glass like a little kid holds a crayon).  "Can I be a little gross for a second?  Just be for real with y'all?" 

Both of them nod encouragingly with enthusiasm.  "That's what Girl's Day is all about, sister!" Jane replies. 

Sitting up, you take a deep breath, rubbing your brow.  "Look, I've got eyes in my head and a heart in my chest.  Of course I like Jack a little.  It's impossible not to.  He's been nothing but sweet and understanding to me since I've fallen out of the fucking ceiling and onto his living room floor".  You look down at your glass for a long moment, then sit up and slam it all back so you don't need to finish it at a snail's pace under the pretense of enjoying it.  "And, he's fucking hot," you say gravely.  Sue has to put both her hands over her mouth to muffle her giggles, while Jane scrunches her nose and rolls her eyes, but in the end gives you a nod.  "Both of you are, actually," you tell Jane, gently tapping your glass to hers.  "Honestly, your family hit the fucking genetic jackpot.  I'm being so fucking for real right now". 

"Awww!  Thank you!" Jane says, fluttering her lashes and flicking her ponytailed hair over her shoulder playfully.  "Um, but what's the problem?" 

"The problem is, I don't shit where I eat". 

"Excuse me?" Sue says, recoiling with a hand on her chest like she's clutching her pearls. 

"Sorry, it's an expression where I'm from.  The rundown is that you don't- ugh, you don't cause trouble or pull something risky where you've got a good thing going".  Crap, you looked away for two seconds and Jane has already refilled and dropped another cherry into your glass. 

Sue puts her fingers to her lips thoughtfully.  "So you think dating Jack would cause trouble?  Why?" 

You shrug helplessly.  "It's complicated!  Look, there's a lot you don't know about the whole situation". 

"Then tell us!  Spill the beans!  Spill the beans!" Jane chants, using her fists to smack the table, prompting both you and Sue to lift your glasses so they don't tip over. 

"You can tell us.  We promise to keep it a secret.  What happens during Girl's Day, stays during Girl's Day," agrees Sue, shooting the mildest glare you've ever seen at Jane who sticks her tongue out in retaliation but seems to submit. 

Sighing again, you look miserably down at your glass, watching the small amount of pink foam swirl in the glass around the rim.  "So...  I just got out of a really serious relationship," you start before being immediately interrupted. 

"Wait, pause!  How serious?  How long were you together?" Jane says, lifting a finger and taking a sip as she narrows her eyes in concentration. 

"We're talking together-since-we-were-twelve serious," you reply, equally stern.  "He and I were childhood friends that got together in middle school". 

Jane spits into her glass.  "Holy crap!  And you two just broke up?" 

Trying not to look up, you continue staring at the glass without drinking.  "It's relatively recent.  Like one or two years ago". 

"Dang...  That sucks, Sunshine, I'm sorry".  Jane pats your shoulder comfortingly.  "That's really hard". 

You shrug but manage a weak smile that falls off your face almost immediately and glance away.  Both Cloudy and Daisy are giving you looks of sympathy you can't really handle and are very tired of receiving, as much as you appreciate them.  "Thanks.  Yeah it was". 

"How did you two break up?  If you don't mind my asking," Sue asks, reaching across the table and gently taking your hand to give it a comforting squeeze. 

Smiling at her, you give her a squeeze back.  "Thanks.  Yeah he, uh...  He cheated on me". 

"He did not!" the two say at the same time. 

"Yeah," you sigh, tapping your foot idly.  "With his fucking costar he was shooting a movie with.  Apparently a couple times in college too, so who knows how many times overall.  I didn't want to ask.  I wouldn't trust him to tell me anyways". 

"I'm so sorry to hear that.  That's so awful.  I can't even imagine how you must feel," Sue says softly. 

Jane puts her hand on top of the two of yours joined.  "Yeah, that's absolutely disgusting that he would do that.  I'm glad you left him". 

Heart swelling with affection, you manage the courage to meet their eyes and smile a little stronger this time.  "Thanks, ladies".  Taking your hand back you sip the drink and bite your tongue.  Why does the aftertaste always make you forget how gross it is?  "Yeah it was hard, especially because I didn't really have any friends that weren't his friends too.  So I just kind of ghosted everyone and moved across the country".  The nod in understanding, drinking their own drinks as you continue.  "But yeah, that's part of why I'm kind of hesitant to get with Jack". 

"He would never do that!" Jane immediately says forcefully, Sue nodding agreeably beside her. 

Sighing you set your glass back down and push it away from you to keep yourself from reaching for it again.  "Well, I never thought my ex would either.  We knew each other from when we were in diapers for fuck's sake, but it's only...  If someone that knew me from day one like that, someone that swore up and down that it was just us forever..."  You have to pause to swallow the lump in your throat.  "How are you supposed to move on from someone fucking you over like that?  He knew everything about me.  Every secret thing.  And he still...  How do you trust anyone for anything after something like that happens to you?  Honestly, I have no idea.  I don't think I'm ever going to be able to.  And it hurt so bad because for a long time it was just me and him against the world.  Our parents basically didn't exist, and I only really had my brother.  We were each other's only friend until we went to college and were separated.  The kind of love you get like that is the kind you only get when it happens for the first time, and you're both each other's first love.  I'm never going to get that again, and it fucking sucks because I worry I'm going to chase that.  I don't want my next partner to feel like they're a substitute for my ex-husband, or like they're competing with my memories.  But if both of you are right about Jack and he's never had a crush on anyone or been with anyone either, he's going get that feeling and probably feel really confused and hurt when I can't reciprocate as deeply.  We'll be on completely different pages.   

"Plus, will I even be able to relate to him?  For friendship it's one thing, but I've got a lot of fucking baggage and he really doesn't know a lot about me.  You guys don't even know a fraction of what's happened to me or who I am, and I'd bet every dime I have you guys haven't been through even a quarter of the problems that I've been through, never mind the cheating shit I got put through.  People in this world...  You all have good lives that never ask too much from you.  Really, I wish I had half the opportunities you guys have here.  I look around and I see people that haven't been hungry like I have; people that have never had to worry about choosing between paying rent or eating.  I doubt anyone even in Cloudytown period has ever even had to throw a punch seriously outside of maybe working out, I guess. 

"And that's good.  If anyone here had to go through what I did, they'd probably be dead.  But it makes me feel really lonely, you know?  Nobody here is like me.  People can be sympathetic all they want, but it doesn't change the fact that the world I learned how to survive in, isn't the one I'm a part of anymore, and all the things I learned and that experience I got to keep me alive is probably going to hold me back here.  And I can try and figure this world out, adjust all I want and pick up new ways of thinking and making it work and live a good life here, but it doesn't change the fact of who I am, and whoever I end up with, Jack or otherwise, is never going to be able to fundamentally understand who I am as a person, because we don't have any shared experiences that shaped us". 

Shaking your head, you try and settle back down before you burst into tears in the middle of afternoon drinks.  "And it's not just that.  I think Jack knows something about that night that I fell into this dimension.  He hasn't said anything about that night, but I think he's lied to me, and I don't know why.  I don't know what he could possibly even be lying about, but it makes me really anxious.  He knows something, I fucking know it, and he isn't talking.  If he can't even be honest about that, then how is he going to be honest if we're in a relationship?"   

Looking up from where you've been sternly staring a hole through the table's centerpiece of napkins you see both the girls staring at you.  Flushing, you grab the drink, needing to do something with your hands.  "Fuck, sorry, I've just been talking about myself all this time  I've just been trauma dumping and you guys have just been listening to all this horseshit". 

"No, no!  We asked!" Jane replies instantly.  "Thank you for opening up to us!  Besides, it's not good to lock that up inside you". 

"Jane is right, Sunshine.  We're glad to listen; sorrow shared is half sorrow, you know," Cloudy agrees.  "Have you ever thought about talking to someone about this?  Maybe you should see someone". 

You scratch the back of your head anxiously, embarrassed.  "I used to have a therapist before my ex and I split, but...  I don't know.  Will anyone here even be able to help me?  Like I said, it's not really something anyone here has had to deal with". 

"They could probably still help," reasons Jane.  "I mean, therapy helped me after Mama and Papa passed away.  If they can handle something like that, maybe they could help you too, even if it's just listening, if you really don't want to talk about this kind of thing with us". 

"And even if we never understand... you're our friend.  Nothing will ever change that, Sunshine.  That's too much to bear on your own.  You can always talk to me if you ever need advice, or help, or anything," Sue says, smiling softly at you as she sets her empty glass down, licking droplets of pink off her glitter glossed lips. 

"Me too!" Jane pipes up, giving you a grin.  "I know we just met and all, but you're one of the crew now!  If you ever need help from any of us, we'll all come running.  That sounds crazy hard, what you're going through right now, but that's when you need your friends the most.  Even if we won't understand exactly what you're going through, we'll stick behind you no matter what". 

Unbidden, you feel tears start to well up in the corners of your eyes over the sweet reassurance they're giving you.  Your heart twists in your chest, swelling with fondness for your newly blossomed garden of friends.  It's small, but even with your wounded sense of trust you can sense the sincerity of their words.  Fucking sweet human beings these two are.  Leaning forward, you open and close your hands in request for theirs.  They both put their hands in each of yours, all of your nails gleaming like gems on the table like a small pile of wealth. 

"You two are too fucking nice.  Thank you, I really mean that," you tell them, choking a little on the words with feeling.  "I fucking love you guys.  This is so crazy, what the hell". 

"Aw, Sunshine!" 

"We love you too!" 

Although you are not typically one for hugs, the two lean in their chairs and put their arms around you and you don't push them off.  You don't even flinch; instead, you settle into the embrace and bring your arms up and over so they don't get stabbed by your jacket spikes and instead are given a one armed hug each.  The warm and fuzzy feeling settles deep in your chest and you can't keep from smiling.  "I hope you both know if you ever need me to kill a guy, or die for you, I will". 

"...Wait, what?" 

"But you know," interrupts Jane, giving you a smile, "I think you're over thinking this.  If you like Jack and, well, I only saw him with you for two seconds and it was obvious he liked you...  You don't have to plan for having kids and getting married.  Why don't you just see where it goes?  I'm not saying break my brother's heart and dump him if it doesn't work out," she warns, pointing meaningfully at you with a surprising heat to her eyes, "but you should probably take things one step at a time". 

"She's right," Cloudy agrees as the three of you unwrap yourselves from each other.  "I know a thing or two about over thinking things.  You're definitely over thinking this.  I mean, it's good to want to plan for the future, but you two haven't even kissed and you're already trying to find excuses not to go on a date because you're worried you might not be able to love him enough.  That's a bit much, don't you think?" 

Shrugging, you look down, feeling a little chided.  "Well, I don't want to start something I can't finish".  You scratch your head, feeling a bit ashamed at getting so far ahead of yourself. 

"I think you're just being anxious.  And that's okay!" Says Sue, patting your arm.  "But sometimes you just have to do the scary thing first and think about it later". 

Shrugging, you think about Sue's words.  "Maybe" you murmur.   

"Speaking of scary, why do you think he's lying?" Jane asks suddenly. 

Frowning, you tap the table with a finger, making a blunt, wooden sound.  "It's all just not adding up...  He hasn't said he didn't see me appear, but when I woke up on the floor, he was acting like he didn't know who I was exactly, or that we had just met recently?  So did he see me appear when I came out of the portal or something?  He accepted that I was from another dimension pretty quick...  On the other hand so has everyone else I've told so that's not as big of a flag as I once thought, probably.  Still...  He gets this kind of... look... on his face". 

Sue tilts her head.  "A look on his face?" 

You nod.  "Yeah.  I don't know how to explain it well, but it's just instinct.  Some way he's looking at me, or an inflection, or movement...  I've just got a good bullshit detector.  The cheating thing was an outlier," you say with a shrug. 

"Maybe he's got a good reason?" Suggests Jane.  "Jack doesn't really lie unless it's with cards". 

Shrugging is all you can do.  "Even if he did, I'd still want the truth.  I'm a hell of a lot tougher than he acts like I am, so whatever it is, it can't be that bad". 

"Have you tried asking him?" Jane asks. 
 

"Well... not really, no," you admit. 

"You should probably ask him, then," she replies sagely. 

"...Maybe". 

"Maybe, maybe, maybe!  Maybe yes," she shoots back.  "I feel like you're agonizing over this and there's a simple solution". 

"But what if he just lies again?" you argue, leaning back and huffing as you cross your arms. 

"Then call his bluff.  I don't know what to tell you other than if you catch him on it he's likely to fess up," Jane says with a shrug.  "He lied only a couple times as a kid and anytime Papa caught him on it, he just kind of burst into tears.  Just be prepared for that, I guess".

A low hum of contemplation rumbles in your throat.  "...I'll think about it.  But besides," you say crossing your arms, "I don't buy his nice-guy act.  Nobody is going to be that put together all the time.  That guy's either got something wrong with him I just haven't found yet, or some sort of skeleton in his closet".  If he's as repressed as the others keep saying he is, he's probably some sort of freak.  Not that that's a bad thing, necessarily.  That would be a perk for you. 

"Now you're just looking for reasons not to date him again," Jane complains, rolling her eyes.  She's built a tiny house of cards from a deck she got.... somewhere and has now knocked it down with a flick, sending cards across the table. 

"Well, I for one hope it all works out for the two of you," Sue chirps from her seat, sipping the toxic pink drink. 

"You two would be so cute together!" Jane says teasingly, leaning forward on her elbows overtop the cards to grin at you.  Rolling your eyes, you toss your napkin at her.  She doesn't even flinch when it smacks her in the face, leaving a small dab of butter on her nose and seems more concerned about the cards it lands on. 

"Oh my gosh, I know right?" Cloudy says right after. 

Huffing a laugh, you stand up with a stretch.  "And that's my que.  I gotta go to the bathroom.  Gossip about my love life while I'm not here to hear it," you say with a small laugh. 

On weak legs you rush to the bathroom, not even really to piss, but just to sit in the cold, air conditioned stall and breathe.  It smells like some kind of fake flower in there.  You breathe the air and stare at a minor flaw in the pink and white tiling on the walls until you feel your stomach is strong enough to go back out there and look your new, true friends in the eye without puking your guts out or sobbing. 

On your way back from the bathroom, you look around the restaurant, trying to catch sight of your friends having forgotten where you were sitting.  Finally, you spot them through the window with a waiter bending down to speak, albeit a little too friendly with your girls. 

Upon stepping outside, you're about to call out a joke about how you swore the hand soap in the bathroom had the same scent a girl you knew in high school sprayed on her panties for hookups, when you realize it's not a waiter that's talking to the girls and the joke dries up on your tongue.  It's actually a random guy who by the looks of it, is making Sue very uncomfortable.  She keeps shrinking away, on the edge of the chair that used to be your, presumably having already traversed hers.  The guy can't take a fucking hint and is still leaning into her space, grinning like he's a prince and bestowing some kind of honor on her by giving her attention. 

You fucking hate guys like that. 

Before you even realize it your hand is in your pocket, tight around your knife.  Striding up, your voice carries enough that the guy looks up.  "Everything okay, ladies?" you call, voice dropping to the back of your throat. 

Pale pink hair pushed back with sunglasses the shape of stars.  Similarly pastel green little marks under his eyes and a dot on his nose and chin.  Lean, definitely an athlete.  You haven't been working out; you'll be at a disadvantage there if it comes down to strength and nothing else.  Good thing no one on this planet has ever been in a fight.  "Oh, we're doing better and better," the guy says, looking you up and down.  Gross. 

"Wasn't asking you," you say bluntly, not looking away from the guy.  "Cloudy, DJ, you guys good?" 

"We're fine," Jane says from her position next to Sue, "We were just telling this guy Sue isn't interested". 

"Aw, come on!  That's not true, is it, Sue?" the guy asks, pretty white teeth all set in a row as he grins down at her.  "Look, I don't want to keep you ladies from your drinks, so how about you give me your number and I call you later so you can get back to it". 

Sue for her part shakes her head, looking pleadingly between you and Jane before looking down at her hands, wringing them anxiously.  "I...  um..." 

"Dude, she clearly doesn't want to.  Why don't you hit the road?  Your friends are missing you," you say coldly, catching a glance of a small group of guys inside through the window behind him that are watching you a little too intensely.  As though they know what's going on, know who's bothering the three of you. 

The fucker laughs again and it makes you grit your teeth, hands tightening to fists in your jacket pockets.  "Aw, come on!  What's the harm?  It's just a couple digits," he purrs, looking down his nose at Sue with half lidded eyes.  "Come on gorgeous.  Pretty please?" 

There's something in the back of a human's head that tells them when they're about to be attacked.  It's an old instinct left over from when humans were wild, were prey for other animals as much as they were hunters.  You've seen it enough times in bars and alleys, in human's eyes before they pull their knives or guns; in street dog's when their lips pull back and they bite down.  The slightest change, something indescribable but something you just know when you see it.   

Clearly, this guy has no such instinct because you can feel it when your eyes turn into a street dog's, feel it like you feel your hand grip the knife a little tighter, getting ready to bite.  You can feel it like you can feel the button under your thumb that makes the blade of it flick out, waiting for the right moment; but the guy does nothing.  There's not a trace of wariness on his face, completely relaxed and unaware of any kind of danger you pose to him and his theoretical future children as he laughs airily when Sue flushes lavender and shakes her head. 

"We don't want you here," you tell him, voice as cold and hard as ice.  How should you cut his balls off?  Doing it nice and clean feels too kind for a guy that preys on shy girls and makes them feel like they can't tell him no.  Maybe you could just start stabbing and pulling down, or maybe work your way up until you gut him from groin to gullet.  When you'd worked as a vet tech briefly, you'd observed a couple neutering surgeries.  There was apparently a way to push the testicles up through the urethra, completely bloodless but no doubt painful.  Maybe you could do that.  Sue and Jane didn't seem like they could handle blood like you could anyways.  That would give you something whole that you could make him eat, too.  That would teach him a lesson.  "I'm warning you: you need to get lost.  Nobody wants you bothering them while they're trying to have a drink". 

"Aw, am I bothering you, sweetheart?" he coos, tone sickly sweet.  Sue shakes her head frantically, but her eyes are telling you something different and familiar, something Jane knows too, so she takes her friend gently by the shoulders and pulls her in for a hug.  Cloudy gratefully allows herself to be pulled in shooting anxious looks to the guy.  "See?  She said she doesn't mind if I stick around".  The guy is leaning in now with his hand on Sue's shoulder. 

Cloudy flinches under the touch, looking miserable and put upon.  She tries to shrink away from the touch to no avail until you grab the guy by the wrist and get between them.  "Are you fucking kidding me?  Just look at her!  She's clearly uncomfortable!"  Glancing quickly at Sue, you notice she's starting to actually shiver.  She's fighting to say something but every time she opens her mouth only small, incoherent noises are all that escape.  Her lip gloss is smudged on her bottom lip and you can even see little tears starting to prick her usually moony eyes.  Regretfully, you let him go and thumb your knife.  Do it.  Hit me.  You know you want to.  If you hit first, then I can pin you to the deck and start playing Operation.  Cut a finger off, or hell, just take the whole hand.  Who'd blame you?

Instead of hitting you to your disappointment, the guy just sort of pathetically rubs his wrist, looking a little irritated.  "Look sweet cheeks, I'm not talking to you.  I'm talking to the little lady.  How about you let her speak for herself and tell me no if she wants?" he snaps at you, flustered.

You are going to fucking kill this guy. 

The sound of a lightbulb popping as it breaks is all you hear as the blood starts to thunder in your ears.  The world tunes out until it's just you and him; even the girls disappearing from the red haze that takes over the blood in your brain.  The look on your face must be worse than venomous because when you can finally register the guy as a person and not just a faceless enemy, the guy's cocky grin has faltered into uncertainty and even a trace of fear.  It's all you need: one tiny crack in the marble for you to bring his whole nice guy act crumbling into dirt.  When you take a step forward, he actually steps back, but you grab him by the front of his shirt so hard your knuckles pop.  You pull him down by the fabric so you can hiss in his ear, your cheeks pressed against each other.  "Listen, you useless sack of shit.  I'm sick of being nice, so if you keep sitting here telling my friend what she wants, I'm going to make you wish I fucking killed you instead of what I will do to you instead.  Now walk your ass back to your little buddies and hit the road before I cut your fucking balls off and make you eat them". 

When you let him go the guy stumbles back, white as a sheet.  He has a look on his face like nobody has ever talked to him like that, and no one probably ever has.  Maybe the threat was overkill.  Everyone in this world was soft.  It probably was too much.  Still, it felt good, and his stricken, pale face is satisfying in a way nothing else has been for a while.  You'd be in this guy's nightmares, maybe.

...You probably should get a therapist.  You'll have to ask Cloudy for her recommendation before you split from girl's day, once she relaxes. 

As he practically falls backward, stumbling into another placement, the idiot seems small.  Real fucking small, and you're standing straighter than you have in a while.  He must be able to tell you're built from sterner stuff than he is because he stands back up from where he fell against the other empty table.  The two of you get some odd looks from the others around you who hopefully didn't hear what you said to him. 

"You're sick, you know that?  I was just trying to be nice," he nearly spits, breaths coming short and quick, shallow with panic.  "You need help, freak!" 

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms and lean with your ass against the back of your chair, carefully obstructing his view of Cloudy.  "And you need a better personality.  Get lost".  Finally, he starts walking away, although backwards, seemingly too freaked out to fully turn his back to you.  "Fucking loser," you snarl under your breath.  Just before you sit back down, you see it land.  His entire face tightens up, betraying a deeper wound to his ego than just the threats had.  This hit something raw in him and it makes you a little satisfied even if you hadn't meant to.  Knocking back the gross pink drink, you sit back in your chair, pointedly ignoring him as he angrily stomps away.   

Settling down in what used to be Cloudy-Belle's seat you scoot closer to her and hesitantly lay a hand on her shaking shoulder.  "Hey, Cloudy, you okay?  You want some water?  Let me get you something that's not pink-" 

You're cut off by Cloudy throwing her arms around your shoulders and practically crawling into your lap.  "Thank you," she says softly, her voice quavering in a way that melts your heart to slush.  "I'm sorry". 

"What the hell are you apologizing for?  It's him who should say he's sorry," you say, glaring over her shoulder at the silhouettes in the tinted window as their friend returns to them.  Jane is torn between looking through the window to glare at the guys and looking at her friend with worry. 

Sue just shakes her head and presses her face into your neck with a sniffle.  Jane puts a hand on her back, leaning forward as she rubs soothingly.  "Hey, Sue-Sue, you want something to drink?" 

Cloudy raises her hand and taps her index and middle finger with her thumb twice, like she's pinching something from the air. 

"Do you want to go to the car?  It's probably quieter there," Jane tries again. 

There's a pause before Sue moves her fist like she's knocking on an invisible door. 

"Yeah?  Okay, come on, let's go," Jane says softly, helping you lead her out to the car.   

The moment the three of you sit down, Cloudy starts to breathe a little steadier.  It takes you a second, but you recognize the breathing exercise she's doing and it makes your heart twist funny in your chest to see her do that. 

"You okay, kid?" you ask worriedly, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

"Yeah," wheezes Cloudy-Belle, a nervous laugh bubbling up from the bottom of her lungs.  "Gosh, I'm so sorry". 

Both you and Jane make identical noises of denial.  "Oh, come on Clouds, you know it's not your fault!" 

"Yeah!  Fucker couldn't take a hint," you agree, leaning up from the back seat.  "And even then, it's all good.  I'm sorry you got so anxious!" 

Sue shakes her head, gulping breaths until she is finally breathing easy and slow.  You feel awkward petting her back like she's an anxious golden retriever, but it seems to help a little as once she's calm, Sue shoots you a grateful look.  "Well...  I think I might be done with drinks for today..." 

Jane nods agreeably, though her eyes flick to yours.  "Well...  What if we go do something fun and relaxing?  Just to wind down.  No people needed," Jane says, her face scrunching up as she thinks carefully. 

"I like the sound of that," you say slowly, glancing at Sue.  "Up for it, Sue-Belle?" 

Sue shrugs, picking at a stray thread on her skirt.  "It couldn't hurt...  What would you like to do, Sunshine?" 

"Me?" you ask, somewhat caught off guard. 

Jane nods agreeably, looking a little more excited.  "Yeah, that's a great idea!  What do people in your world usually do for self-care days?" 

Shrugging, you look down between the two front seats at the compartment.  The top was broken off, revealing a stuffed full, messy box of junk and joke toys.  "I don't know?  I didn't really do those...  Not like this, anyways.  I mean, most of them probably also went to the spa.  Maybe get their hair done, but I cut my own hair, and then we'd have to socialize more...  Honestly I'd just smoke weed and listen to records.  Have sex with my husband".  You shrug again helplessly.  "My life wasn't interesting". 

"There's got to be more than that," Jane argues, giving you an intense, searching look.  "What about something you like doing more than anything?" 

You only have to think for a few short moments to come up with an answer.  The grin that splits your lips is wide and toothed. 

"Here you go," the pawn shop owner says, handing you the guitar. 

A sharp whistle runs between Jane's teeth.  "Yowza.  Now that's style". 

"You said it," you agree, staring down at the electric guitar and bass on the glass counter top, little white price tags dangling from the tuners. 

Cloudy peeks over Jane's shoulder.  "They are pretty". 

The guitar was a sharp, acid green and white, in the classic Stratocaster shape.  There had been another on the wall that was closer to a Flying V, but you liked simplicity.  No reason to overcomplicate things when the old would do you good.  Granted you had loved the little heart-shaped thing your ex had given you as an anniversary present, but damn, you had nothing but soft spots for your favorites.  The bass was a similar, familiar BLH shape but nearly opposite to the guitar.  A sweet sunburst color painted the inner parts, fading to a nice dark red wood color. 

A groan of indecision rippled in your throat.  "I mean... I do really want it and I'd use it for sure but...  I don't know.  I just can't justify spending that much money on something that doesn't really do much". You sigh, staring down at the guitar.  None of the brands matched any you recognized, but the one on the glass cabinet reminded you of your old Frankenstein-ed Kramer you'd built out of various parts and pieces that you had lovingly named Renfield, and your equally stitched together bass Igor.  Although you'd always have a soft spot for drums (the first instrument you'd learned) you knew in your heart that you could do much more with strings, or even a synth.  Hence, you were tied between a Marley 1001 electric guitar and a Linebreaker Leopard model bass.  It pained you a lot to dish out this amount of money, but if you were, which would you pick?  The bass was less expensive, seemingly an older model, but the guitar was something you could do a lot more with.  You'd need an amp too, some picks, and a pair of headphones so you didn't bother Jack on your two AM jamming.  And strings.  Couldn't forget those. 

"Come on!" Jane argues, leaning on your encouragingly.  You're too wrapped up in your dilemma to be bothered, lips tight.  "You really like them, right?  You should get them!  Here".  Jane digs in her pockets (several of which were hidden) and begins pulling out a multitude of prank items and random objects, setting them in Cloudy's open hands.  Three kazoos (in multiple neon colored plastics), a harmonica, four fake buzzer pens, two real pens, half a broken crayon, three pebbles of gum that had been free-balling (she shoved these into her mouth upon discovery and began chomping furiously), a finger trap, two hair ties, a tiny rubber duck wearing sunglasses, her keys, and at last: a whoopie cushion that was seemingly full of money.  She shovels it all back into her pocket and then opens her 'wallet' with a pop and tries to shove some money into your hands.  "Here, I still have some leftover!  That's like... half of it all, right?  Cloudy-Belle, what do you got?" she asks as Sue starts to look in her purse with an enthusiastic nod. 

Heart swelling in your chest, you shake your head, pressing it back into Jane's hand.  "DJ, Cloudy, no, that's yours.  I don't need it, I have money, I just don't know if I want to spend it," you protest. 

"It seems I have half of the amount for one as well".  Sue had a determined gleam in her eye that you did NOT like at all.  "Besides, I owe you for rescuing me". 

"You do not.  I would have done that anyways!" you protest but she just levels you with an even stare that Jane backs up, crossing her arms and leaving her sleeves dangling.  It's about as intimidating as being stared down by a woman in a fruit hat and her chihuahua can be. 

"Oh my God, you two are the worst," you bemoan.  "I'm going to the ATM to check my balance.  Can you hold those two for me for a moment?  I'll be back soon".  Tossing the last words to the shop owner, you walked off to the ATM outside. 

The results were shockingly good.  Working for the temp agency turned out to be really good money when you actually added it up against the two instruments.  You hadn't been pressed for the amount, just taking whatever you could without really looking at the amount to be deposited in your account and only concentrating on if they actually gave the expected amount.  It all looked like very little compared to your twenty first century mind that was used to inflated values, so until you were able to adjust, you'd been putting the amount to the back of your mind.  With a good deal on both, you could get both of them without issue.  Walking back in, you stepped back in close, and stood there considering.    "Would you give me a bundle deal if I took both of them, and the amp?" 

"Okay, and we'll pay half-" 

"Absolutely not," you cut Sue off, bumping her with your hip. 

"Yeah!  For your first girl's day with us!  It's com-  compartmentitive?" 

"Commemorative, Jane," Sue corrects.  "I agree.  You should let us help out.  Especially after that guy...  Please let us help?" 

You ignore them and stare the pawn shop owner down.  Judging by the way he's shrinking into himself, your intimidation skills haven't lost their persuasive properties.  "You will not take money from these she-demons". 

His hands lifted in surrender instantly.  To his credit, (that you could see) he did not, and after a little haggling and a test of equipment to ensure everything was in working order, you were walking out with them both in cases slung on your back and in hand.  Your spine hated you, back weighed down by metal, but you had never felt lighter.  Thankfully, Cloudy was able to distract Jane long enough for you to get buckled and secure your new purchases so they didn't go flying before she put the pedal to the metal. 

"Thanks for coming out with us, Sunshine," Jane says from the driver's side window.  She'd finally decided to abandon the fruit hat and replaced it once again with the foxy rider's head scarf and sun glasses. 

"Yeah, of course.  Tell me when we'll go next and let's do it again," you agree, leaning in to rest your arm on the hood of the car to take the pressure off your back.  "Get home safe, you two". 

"Bye!" Cloudy chirps, waving with a small grin from behind Jane. 

You raise a hand to wave good bye but before you can, Jane has already sped off, her car horn honking in farewell.  A whoopie cushion spins in the road before falling on its side and sadly deflating.  Snorting to yourself, you grab it off the ground and bring it inside with you, letting it deflate. 

"Anybody home?" you call, stepping inside and kicking off your boots. 

"In here!" Jack's voice calls from the living room, stepping out. 

"The boys here yet?" You ask, throwing the cushion at Jack like a Frisbee. 

He catches it two handed and looks down with a puzzled smile before he rolls his eyes and sets it on the table.  "No, not yet.  It's only five, and they're not going to be here until seven or so".  A gleam enters Jack's eye as he holds his hand out.  "So, let me see!" 

"See what?" 

"Your nails!  You got them done, didn't you?  Come on, let me see what color!"  His eyes flick to your back where the one soft case is slung and the hard case dangles in your hand.  He tilts his head curiously, looking down at them.  "What else did you get?" 

The enthusiasm was a bit unexpected, but Jack usually had a pretty sunny disposition.  You carefully unburden yourself and set the instruments on the table, then put your hand in his offered one.  Leaning in, he looks over your choice of grey color.  "I'm a bit surprised you didn't pick black, but they look good!  It's kind of steely...  I like it!"  Jack gives you a smile, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles affectionately. 

"Thanks," you reply, quirking a smile.  Then you remember gossip time with the girls, and you have to look away, take your hand back.  Jack's face is too open, too pleased for you to feel completely fine.  It sets your stomach alive like eels, so you move your body to make it open the hard case and reveal the guitar to your roommate.  "But yeah, check it ou-"  You suddenly have to break off, jaw locking shut in a silent scream when there's sudden movement in the case and the thing inside actually latches onto your fingers with a sharp giggle-like call. 

On instinct you whirl your hand down in a blur of red and white and whatever it is immediately flys off on impact with the table, small pieces sliding across the surface.  Both of you stand there frozen, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, when you realize with confusion that the thing had been teeth: little red and white denture looking things that are now slightly broken, weakly trying to chatter with a nearly completely broken hinge.  Cartoonish giggles, now recognizable as Jane's, ring out from a tinny voice box that cheers, "Gotcha!  Gotcha!  Got-" 

Jack picks the toy up and carefully switches the thing off, giving a nervous laugh.  "Startled you, huh?" 

Finally, you're able to wheeze out your held breath, holding up your hand to look at it.  It didn't leave a mark on you, more surprised than anything.  Jane didn't strike you as the type to do anything like that anyways.  You shake your hand out then cup your palm for Jack to gently dump the little chattering teeth toy into your hand.  Fiddling with it, it suddenly splits open, jaws bending back until they open completely like a clamshell revealing... 

...Cold hard cash. 

The same little wad they'd tried to give the pawnshop broker. 

Motherfuckers.  She was so quick you hadn't even seen her do it.  When had she slipped it into your hand?  You had to get this back to her, had to find a way to get it back to her and Sue- 

"Did she need to pay you back for something?" Jack asks, leaning close and looking down at the toy with a puzzled expression. 

Looking Jack dead in the eye, you tell him very seriously, "Your sister is an evil skank and I hate her". 

"...You're doing the threatening thing again, aren't you?" 

The rest of the evening is one of the best nights you've had so far.  Jack lends you a pair of headphones to hook up to the amp.  He does ask for you to show off for him, looking far too excited for your tastes to hear you play, so you tell him to ask another time when you're not as rough.  You'd long ago sworn to yourself when you started learning to play instruments that you would never make a person you were interested in or trying to be friends with listen to you play a song for them.  Quite frankly, you had no interest in becoming that type of asshole.  Although you're excited to play, you spend some time cleaning and restringing both instruments, using the dining room table as Jack putters around in the kitchen and living room, cleaning up and making snacks.  When there's a knock on the door, Jack only calls out a quick, "It's open!" When Rory steps in, carrying a white box. 

"So this is where the party's at," he says, tonelessly happy. 

Jack and you call greetings, with Jack leaving the stove a moment to give his best friend a hug.  You don't look up, completely focused on your work until all the strings of your bass are strung.  On the table is the white box, placed close to you.  Brow furrowed, you look up between your two friends in confusion. 

"That's for you," Rory explains, nodding at the box.  He's leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, watching you and Jack work. 

That just makes you more confused.  Quirking a small, puzzled smile you lay the bass down and carefully take the box.  "Are you trying to bribe your way into being my favorite?  Because it is possible".  Opening up the box reveals a pristine, black cake with equally dark flowers. 

Blinking in surprise, you look up questioningly to Rory.  "It's the pink cake, for helping me the other day in the bakery?  I got so much done," he clarifies.  "So thank you.  I know you like black since you, um, wear it all the time, so that's the color I made the frosting". 

A small smile splits your face, cheeks warmer than they were before.  "Aw, I totally forgot about that!  Thank you, that's so sweet".  Flipping the cake box closed again, you stand up and wrap your arms around his shocked stiff frame.  He quickly melts into it, slowly and carefully hugging you back.  It's pleasant; warm and comforting and it reminds you again that yes, you do have friends here and you're not isolated anymore.  You let go soon after, patting his back as you turn, flipping the cake box open again with a smile.  "It looks really cool!  I've never had a black cake before". 

"I may have used all the black food coloring I had," he admits sheepishly. 

You let out a small laugh, patting his back and squeezing him again from the side.  "Well it looks pretty sick.  Thanks man, I love it.  I do like other colors though". 

"Really?  I was beginning to think you were colorblind". 

"Cut it out or you won't be my favorite anymore". 

"Your favorite what?" 

In response you just shove him, laughing.  From the corner of your eye you notice Jack, eyes flicking to him.  He's at the stove, head turned watching the two of you.  He's smiling, but there's something odd in his expression.  The smile on his face close to genuine, might even be a little fond, but it's a bit plastic, too perfect to be completely real.   

You sniff the air.  "...Jack, your popcorn is burning". 

Jack startles, wide eyes darting to the stove where a sharp, burning scent is emanating with a nearly cartoonish black cloud puffing from the pot.  "Oh no!" 

Not long after, Knackdan arrives to join the party.  Despite being invited to watch with the boys, you declined, the draw of playing with your new toys too exciting to resist.  Back in your room you pulled the borrowed headphones on and plugged in first the guitar.  Tuning things up, adjusting the amp until things sounded properly gritty made your heart beat faster.  Finally, you got things just right, tuned by ear.  Excitedly, you strummed, running through songs in your head and playing by fragments of memory. 

It wasn't perfect, but you had your songs back; the bands you'd loved your whole life that made things bearable.  Heart swelling, your grin was so wide your cheeks were hurting.  You played. 

And played. 

And played. 

Pieces, fragments of songs you could almost remember how they sounded, full songs you knew.  Some old ones you had written forever ago that now held bittersweetness to them, knowing the places and faces wrapped in the lyrics did not exist here. 

It hurt.  A lot.  But you liked that. 

So not long after, you grabbed the bass and turned off all the lights, playing in the dark room.  Your eyes were closed most of the time anyways, but opening your eyes and seeing nothing but black, you could imagine you were back in your old room, playing your old bass.  For the bass, you initially kept things gritty and rough for more rock, but soon changed it for a sweeter, smoother pitch.  The disco-funk revival was something you missed, and you were a little worn out of "older" music.  You craved the new hits of the '20s now that you were far from it.  Remembering a time when you complained about the new songs being overplayed on the radio made you scoff under your breath, inaudible through the heavy headphones.   

Finally, you took a break, fingertips aching.  You rubbed them, sweat slick on your hands. Flexing your fingers and rolling your wrists to relax them, your stomach growls.  When did you last eat?  Probably the bread rolls when you'd gotten drinks with the girls for your late lunch... which made your last "true" meal at breakfast when Jack had blessed you with pancakes. 

Maybe you should eat something. 

Despite knowing that you should get something other than cake for dinner, you couldn't be bothered.  Besides: it was the weekend.  Weekends were for indulging your terrible eating habits.  With that thought, you quietly tiptoed down the dark hall, coming out to the darkened living room where the three friends were enjoying movie night.  Knackdan had taken up residence on two floor cushions laying on his back with his head turned to watch the television.  Rory was using Knackdan as a floor cushion with his head on the man's stomach.  Jack was in his usual spot on the couch, albeit much more relaxed.  His legs were more spread, leaning to the side comfortably as he watched the screen.   

Realizing you hadn't been noticed and still bursting with exuberance from playing the music you knew and loved, you snuck up behind the boys quietly.  Lurking in the dark like an animal, you slowly crept behind Jack, leaning in  close to his ear and whispered a quiet, "Boo". 

Immediately, Jack let out a yelp like a stepped on puppy, flinching to the side and whirling on you with wide eyes that gleamed in the dark.  His sudden alert startled his two friends, both of them letting out their respective noises of surprise, flinching and turning before letting out groans of irritation when they realized it was only you. 

"Oh my gosh, your scream startled me more than she did, Jack!" Knackdan says, letting out a shaky laugh as he settles back down. 

"Sorry!" He says with his own uneven laugh to his friend.  You settle down on your elbows at the top of the couch, leaning in with a grin as he shoots you an amused look.  "What was that for?" 

"Just saying hello," you murmur back, smiling.  "What'ch'ya watchin'?" 

Jack turns his gaze back to the TV, shooting you glances from the corner of his eye.  "Vicious Is the Night". 

Leaning more comfortably on the couch now, you shifted your stance, letting your arms slide over Jack's shoulders for better balance.  You can feel every muscle in his shoulders tense under your arms.  Immediately, you feel embarrassed for touching him so familiarly when he's uncomfortable; you of all people should know better.  So you begin to pull back, arms lifted off of him so you can't feel his warmth.  "Sorry". 

Suddenly and all at once, his fingers are twining with yours and tugging your arms back around his shoulders, firm and quick.  You let him tug you until your weight is back on his shoulders a little.  "I don't mind.  You don't have to pull away from me".  Indeed, when you're settled back with your arms around his neck from behind, instead of tensing up, he's relaxed instead.   

Should you really be doing this?  Suddenly you were doubting yourself, feeling ultimately uneasy.  You found you didn't mind touching Jack as much as you used to, though that was most likely due to your little attraction.  "...Okay".  He gave your hands one last squeeze before letting go, allowing your wrists to cross and press your palms to his chest.  His heart was beating a little fast.  To keep your mind occupied and out of unnecessary anxiety, you forced your body to settle back down.  "...Another vampire movie?  Didn't we just see a vampire flick?" you ask, watching tall, dark, and handsome himself on the screen lean in to, who you assume is, the main character, taking his jaw in hand and tilting his head up to look into the vampire's eyes.  Despite the old fashioned clothing, you think this might be a more recent movie. 

"Yeah, that was The Quiet Castle Vonneghue," he agrees, watching the screen as the vampire pins the other to the wall, biting into his neck.  A trail of dark blood  drips from his neck.  There's not much liquid, and it's too runny to be anything other than water with some food coloring.  It's too dark, not enough body to it.  Maybe you shouldn't judge these special effects too harshly though.  They might not have discovered corn syrup yet.  "This one is much better though". 

You scrunch your nose, Jack's hair tickling your nose.  It smells like Jack either ran out of strawberry or he wasn't feeling it, because he's gone back to apple shampoo.  You try not to have an opinion on the matter and stay strong.  "Blood does not flow like that from the neck.  These practical effects could be better".  Jack chuckles, and you feel it as much as you hear it, his chest vibrating with restrained laughter.  Knackdan glances back at you, then does a double take.  You give him a little wave, raising you hand at the wrist and he gives an awkward wave back from the floor.  "Is this supposed to be a horror movie?  Because it feels more like a softcore porn to me".  Jack makes a choking noise and now you can only feel with your hand on his chest.  One hand covers his mouth while he curls slightly, dragging you with him as he tries to keep from laughing.  You find yourself grinning along, playfully putting your hand over his mouth to help smother his laughs.  "Dude, shut up-" 

"Why is your hand wet?" Jack wheezes.  Rory shushes you both without looking away from the screen. 

"I pissed on it". 

Jack snorts, pulling your hands off his mouth.  "Don't be gross, you-  Oh my gosh!" He suddenly yelps, garnering the attention of both his friends as he tugs your hands out in front of him, looking down at your palms. 

"Dude, what?" you ask, annoyed.  Blinking in momentary blindness as he flicks on the lamp nearby, you look down at your hands held in his.  "Oh". 

"Sunshine!  What happened to your hands?!" 

As your eyes adjusted, you realized that your fingers that you'd previously thought were coated in sweat from the exertion of playing after so long, were actually coated in slick, red blood.   The thumb and first two fingers had taken the brunt of it on your strumming hand, and your other had thin slices in the pads of your fingers where you had pressed on the strings.  Thick blood had been oozing out of your pads and left red marks on Jack's once pristine shirt, leaving it with dark brown stains.  It was still sluggishly leaking blood, new scabs broken open during your play-fight.  "Aw, man...  Not again," you groan as Jack panics over your hands. 

He looks up, eyes wide, with a kind of distance in them that keeps his emotions from you.  All you can parse is some shock and disbelief.  "What do you mean again?" 

You shake your head, smiling and trying to reassure the boys, the other two sitting up and following Jack's lead.  Rory's brow is furrowed in worry, uncharacteristically displaying emotion.  He tries to put a hand forward but Jack pushes them away as he tries to press the bottom of his shirt to your hands to stop the bleeding, looking around for tissues but finding nothing. 

"Are you okay?  What happened?" asks Knackdan, leaning forward to get a good look. 

"I was just jamming too hard.  It's fine, this has happened before when I don't play for a while and then jump into a really long session," you say with a shrug as Jack's panic mounts.  He ends up shucking his shirt off, shoves you into Rory and Knackdan's arms with a quick plea for them to watch you before rushing out of the room towards the bathroom.  You blink in surprise, watching Jack speed away, looking to the boys questioningly.  "Does he have a thing about blood or something?" 

Knackdan shrugs and leans on your shoulder.  You kind of flinch away, and Rory shoots him a disapproving look, so he transfers his elbow to Rory's head with cheeky grin.  "Nah, he just gets worked up sometimes.  You should see him when Daisy gets hurt". 

You raise your brows.  "Does he cry?" 

Knackdan grins at you.  "Sometimes.  Can I see?" 

Pulling the shirt off your fingers, you show off your sluggishly bleeding fingertips.  Knackdan hisses through his teeth while Rory looks pointedly away, trying to keep from looking directly at the bloody mess.  "Ouch!  Does it hurt?" Knackdan asks. 

You shrug.  "Not really.  Can barely feel it," you boast, though truthfully it is starting to sting a bit. 

"What if I do this?" He pokes your bloody index finger in the scab. 

"Nah". 

"This?" 

"Ow!  Not that hard!" 

"Oops, sorry!" 

Scowling, you shelter your newly re-bleeding finger back in Jack's ruined shirt when he comes back into the room, grabs you by the wrist, and drags you away as you give the two boys you leave behind a helpless look.  Rory ignores you and swats Knackdan's arm off his head.  You don't even get a good look at Jack's dark bedroom before he pushes you into a pale blue tiled en suite bathroom that's a little bigger than the one you have.  He's got a darker blue shower curtain and a pale yellow bathmat and matching towels.  White toothbrush, whitening toothpaste, and stick flosser all sitting in a white cup with yellow rubber ducks on it.  Mirror sink cabinet.  You resist the urge to press your finger to it and see if it's a two way mirror (it probably isn't anyways). 

"Sit," Jack commands curtly, pushing on your shoulders with surprising force.  It doesn't occur to you that he never put on another shirt until he's pushed you down and you're at just the right height now to face the front of his sweatpants drawstring.  You could undo that with your teeth, you think to yourself hysterically.  Frantically you try to get a grip and think of anything else.  Oh no, he's got a freckle on his hip, right in the seam of his skin where the muscle dips into 'V'- 

"Give me your hands". 

You obey without thinking, raising your bundled hands up.  Careful but brisk, Jack gently peels the shirt with the darkened blood sports to your now scabbed hands.  He tosses it into a wicker laundry basket on the side, eyes narrow and stormy as he kneels down at your feet in the squishy bath mat.  Since when was Jack buff?  It feels like there's more muscle there than he should have for a guy that never works out-  Does Jack work out?  You've never seen him do it, but he must, because his arms are thick like he lifts weights or goes rock climbing or something.  There's soft fat cushioned on his core, but you can tell he's got thick cords of muscles underneath.  There's something kind of funny about his chest hair being blue too, though a couple shades darker, with a happy trail dipping into his grey sweatpants. 

You shake your head and look down at your hands, feeling irritated for ogling.  You were better than that.  Well, maybe not, but still.  This was Jack you were talking about, not some throw-away guy at a bar.  He sure as fuck deserved better than getting eye-fucked by someone that wasn't even going to do anything about it. 

His hands are gentle on yours, wiping the dried blood away with a warm, soapy washcloth.  The pain finally catches up to you, but it's not that bad, more of an ache than anything.  The soap stings a bit, but you don't flinch.  It occurs to you that Jack hasn't looked at you.  You lean down a little, trying to catch his eyes, but he's completely focused on his task, cleaning each finger with diligence until the scabs and blood are gone and there's only a small bit of blood welling up in the shallow cuts.  There's a small smear of blood on his cheek, where you'd covered his face with your hand to tease him.  You try not to think about licking it off.  He turns away again and takes a soft paper towel from under the sink and douses it with a little alcohol.  "Stay still," he commands in that same stiff tone of voice. 

He's never sounded like that.  You can't ever remember when he had, not even the time his voice went cold and empty when he asked if you trusted him.  He'd never sounded angry, not like now.  A red first aid kit is open on the counter that he's pulled bottles and tubes from.  You do flinch this time when he swipes the paper over your fingers, wincing as the alcohol stings your cuts. 

"I said, stay still". 

"Sorry.  Hurts," you mumble, uncurling your fingers.  He holds your hand with a firmer grip so your resisting fingers don't curl. 

"It wouldn't hurt if you were more careful," he retorts bluntly. 

You grimace down at him, still focused on his task.  "Are you mad?" 

Jack heaves a sigh, chest rising and falling with it.  You try not to stare at the dip in his collarbones that moves with it.  "...Yes". 

"Are you mad at me?" 

"Why would you think I'm mad at you?" 

You shift in place.  "Sometimes I think you might be.  I can't read you very well now and then," you admit. 

Jack finally looks at you with a fierce expression that melts the second you feel your shoulders tense up.  "Sorry.  I'm not mad at you,"  he reassures.  "I just wish you would take better care of yourself".  Your last couple fingers are cleaned with a little more tenderness now, his sudden hail of anger melted into soft rain.  "It upsets me when my friends are hurt". 

"It doesn't really hurt," you insist.  He gives you a look.  "Really!  I've had this happen a couple times before and it's really not that bad.  I just need to get my calluses back.  I'll use a pick for a bit and keep my fingers wrapped until they heal".  Jack sighs, dabbing some antibiotic ointment onto your skin and slowly taping them up with bandages.  "...What?" 

He shakes his head and looks at you with a tint of sadness in his dark eyes.  "You were just so happy when you came out," he says softly, his big puppy dog eyes gutting you.  "I haven't seen you so happy since you've come here...  And then you got hurt because of it". 

You shrug.  "Don't all the best things in life come from at least a little suffering?" you say dryly, dropping your gaze to your fingers. 

"Who told you that?" Jack asks, sounding baffled and upset for some reason. 

"Nobody?  It's just how it's usually been for me.  Is it different for you?"  You pause, looking over your neatly taped fingers, flexing and testing them. 

"I don't think that's true.  At least, I hope it's not".  He's a little quieter now. 

You can only shrug in response.  He hasn't lived the life you had; his experiences have shaped him into something lovely and soft, unlike you.  "You would be a good nurse," you tell him, a little impressed with how he's fixed you up.  Your taped fingers no longer sting, hugged tight in white bandages. 

"Do you think so?  I don't know," Jack says bashfully. 

"Sure," you say with a shrug.  "You're gentle, but you're firm when you have to.  Those are good qualities for nurses". 

Jack stares at you a moment, then laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  "Your compliments are so odd". 

You sniff.  "See if I ever give you compliments again!  Rude ass bitch". 

"I'm sorry, please forgive me!" 

"Unforgivable.  Death by hanging," you chuckle, standing. 

Jack pauses and then laughs again.  "I think I'm starting to get it.  That... is a bit funny.  Dramatic.  It makes me sound like a cowboy outlaw".   He offers you a hand, standing up.  You take it, but his hand slides up to your uninjured wrist and holds it delicately, tugging you back up and onto your feet. 

Invariably, your eyes flick down to his bare chest again.  "You should probably put another shirt on, unless you and the boys are close like that". 

Jack gives you an odd look, then turns his gaze downward at himself and blushes.  Sheepishly, he smiles, scratching the back of his head and tugging you out of the bathroom.  "I'll meet you back out there.  Don't reopen those," he says quietly, leading you into the dark of his room, then pushing you gently out and into the hall as he closes the door behind you.  Blinking, you let your eyes adjust. 

Your stomach growls. 

Oh, right.  You came out for food.  With the whole Hamlet debacle you'd lost sight of what really mattered in this world: not Jack's (very biteable) bare arms, but Rory's cream cheese frosting on melon cake. 

You trot to the kitchen, passing the boys chatting on the couch with the movie paused and the lights on.  With a newly cut fat slice of pink and black cake on your plate you join them, clumsily holding a fork in your bandaged fingers.  Jack returns a few moments after you, in a new shirt for a summer camp from a few years ago with signatures on the back. 

"Rory," you say aloud around a mouthful of cake, garnering the attention of the boys.  "This frosting is the fucking tits". 

Knackdan breaks into peals of laughter, rolling onto his side and clutching his stomach.  Rory and Jack's jaws drop as you stand there nodding, eating the cake.  "W-what?!" Rory yelps. 

"It's fuckin' good as hell man.  I could kiss you with tongue for this".  It's only half a joke; the rich frosting really is the best you've ever had, complimented by the sweet, fruity flavor of the perfectly soft cake.  It feels too indulgent, and the minor sense of naughtiness of having cake for dinner just makes it better.  You've kissed people for less.

"What?!" Rory practically yelps, backed up against the couch with a horrified expression, glancing between Jack and you helplessly.   

"It's a joke!  She's joking!  It's a cultural thing from the other world!" Jack rushes, waving his hands and shooting you a warning glare.  There's not much heat behind it. 

"From another what?" Asks Knackdan uselessly. 

"No I'm not, I'm completely serious.  Come over here, Rory.  Let's get hot 'n sloppy". 

"Sunshine!" 

Chapter Text

"Well, here we are!" 

You blink, your eyes slowly adjusting to the slightly dimmed room.  "Okay, this is pretty cool". 

When you'd left for Jack's little surprise for doing something fun together, you wouldn't have ever guessed he'd have brought you to an arcade of all places.  He had to bring you back to Sun City again (with the promise of stopping for more records after when you passed the building and looked longingly after it).  It had the ridiculous neon nostalgia carpet with shapes and confetti, lit by blacklights.  Bright colored lights flash from cabinets, larger cases, crane machines and platform stepping games.   

"Isn't it?!" Jack cheers, shoulders raising in excitement.  "I love it here," he says with a blissful sigh, looking over the nostalgic, magical land of video game cabinets.  "This is my happy place." 

You watch in amusement as Jack looks around the room, mostly overrun by children and teenagers.  "I'll be honest, I never would have guessed that this is where you would bring me." 

Jack turns,  looking immediately worried.  "We don't have to stay if you don't like it, we can go somewhere else-" he says rapidly, wringing his hands. 

"Dude, chill, I didn't say that," you laugh, patting his arm.  "I told you, this place is cool.  I just mean that you don't really seem like a gamer." 

Jack's shoulders relax and he smiles in relief, leading you over to an already worn looking cabinet with two neon dinosaurs on it.  He pops a quarter in the slot and gestures with a hand to the player two spot.  "What would you have thought I would have liked?" 

You shrug, reading the tutorial that Jack blessedly doesn't click through.  "Uh, I don't know?  You're such a Boy Scout, I would have thought that you'd be like this girl I knew in college that just volunteered at places when she had free time...  Okay, how-  What's the goal?" 

"We've got to bubble the bugs," he explains, his little green dinosaur blowing a bubble around a giant beetle, trapping it so it floats up to the top of the screen as an example.  He's flying through them, getting almost every single one.  You don't even have to do much, only managing to nab a couple here and there, which you begin to suspect that Jack allows only so you aren't bored.  "And yeah, I volunteer sometimes, but it's important to have time to yourself!  This is something that's just for me.  Oh, you should get that power up." 

"Where?" 

"Top left, the wings." 

Your dinosaur hops into them, gaining little dragon wings.  Maybe now you'd have a hope of catching up. 

"Holy shit, you fucking crucified me, dude!" You gasp, laughing through the shock as the numbers spill across the screen. 

P1: 780,003,200 

P2: 400,150 

PLAYER 1: NEW HIGH SCORE! 

"Well, I've been playing for a long time," Jack says with a smile as he enters the initials SDJ into the cabinet.  It pulls you to the main screen where you realize that most of the screen has several places taken by his initials.  So do multiple cabinets actually, now that you're looking around, not just the different ones you'd played.  It didn't matter what game, whether action or puzzle, Jack slaughtered you without hesitation if not in the literal sense of a fighting or racing game, then by points he would win by a landslide.  You would walk out of this arcade a humbler spirit than you walked in, though you probably wouldn't be able to say the same for Jack, who was looking pleased as punch as he watched you come to the slow realization that you weren't nearly as good as he was. 

"Oh my God, that wasn't even a contest!  You piece of shit," you laugh, shoving him playfully.  "You were being all humble about it, and then you get a score like that?  Damn!" 

Jack grins back.  "Sorry!" 

Rolling your eyes you wave him off.  "I'm just kidding.  It's cool!  I didn't know you liked this kind of thing, or were even this good at it."

Jack nods, his smile melting into bittersweet nostalgia.  "Oh yes.  I used to come here with my sister when we would get good grades."

"Let me guess.  You were the overachiever?" you smirk, elbowing him gently as he starts up another round. 

Jack's smile is no longer distant when he sends a smile your way before focusing in on the game.  "Well, it wasn't going to be Janey.  We got here on my good grades more than hers.  Of course, she got us here a good few times too.  Usually she opted to go to the craft store though rather than here.  This was my pick". 

You're struggling to keep up, but Jack is a polite player one.  While you linger in the back and provide support as crowd control, Jack stays in the front lines, zipping through pixels and blasting enemies.  Grateful for the babying, you pass him the power-ups, deflecting them into his character.  "That sounds like Jane". 

He hums in agreement, absorbing the triple shot you sent to him, taking out more enemies.  "You're a really good support player!" 

Shrugging, you focus in.  "Not really.  My brother was the one that would play this kind of stuff when we could afford it.  I was allowed to tag along only if I didn't get in the way.  He was always the one focusing on pure power, so I just kind of noodled around most of the time, passing stuff to him.  I'm not that great at stuff like this.”  Fiddling with an odd patch of what you assumed was metal on the wall, you shoot it until another blaster pops out.  Since Jack has an upgrade you take this one for yourself.  The gun's shots now come out acid green and take the enemies out in two blasts rather than three.  Thank god.  You aren't the best with aiming. 

As the two of you descend to the final level, Jack sends a bright smile your way, pretty white teeth glinting in the neon and the dark.  "I'm glad you're having a good time, at least!" 

It strikes you suddenly that you are, and he was able to tell.  He hadn't been able to do that yet, had been hounding you over every little thing if it was okay if this or that happened.  The unsteadiness was frustrating to no end, but now there was a playful kind of peace as the two of you zoomed through level after level of pixelated space station and forest and kitchen and racetrack and and and.  You try not to think about how close this feels like to being home, and just enjoy the moment.  You mostly succeed. 

Already exhausted, Jack had offered to take a break with you, although it was clear he could play for hours.  You could imagine him on a weekend practically living in the small fun complex, playing game after game from open to close and doused in dreamy neon, the colors washing his focused expression.   

Grateful for the break, you didn't put up much complaint when Jack offered to get some snacks from the concession stand while you waited in the booth, rubbing and stretching your sore fingers.  He'd returned moments later with cartons of junk food.  "Wow, so much trash.  Never would have expected that from you, Teach," you teased. 

"Eating healthy is important, but a treat once in a while won't cause harm," he says reasonably, smiling.  "I can always take it back if you don't want it." 

Rolling your eyes, you ate your pizza before he could take it back.  "I wasn't complaining." 

He'd only laughed at you. 

"You know, that is one thing that I'll admit that this world is dialed in on.  The food here is fucking awesome," you say, taking a fry with button-mash-sore fingers.  "Although the drinks leave a bit to be desired.  I'd murder for a whiskey," you bemoan, looking forlornly down at Jack's drink which is an artificial blue that tastes worse than it looks.  "I'd even take, like, toilet hooch at this point.  Miss it." 

"What's whiskey?" Jack asks, tilting his head with a curious smile. 

"Alcohol". 

His brow furrows.  "Like for cleaning?" 

"Yes but no.  Like ethanol?  Do you guys know what that is?  Like beer, mead, gin, tequila, wine-" 

"Oh, wine?  Yeah, we have wine". 

You sit in silence a moment.  Then, you look up from your drink, mind full of television static and muffled screams.  "What?" 

"Yeah, you're talking about wine that you cook with, right?  Yeah, I have some at home," he continues offhandedly like this doesn't change the entire game for you. 

Wait.  Pause.  "...Does this wine have alcohol in it?" You ask slowly. 

Jack's brow furrows again.  "I have no idea what you mean.  I'm sorry, Sunshine". 

Carefully, you take Jack's hands in yours and lean forward.  You can't be certain, but you think his cheeks are a little flush.  Tongue darting out, he licks his bottom lip, clearing it of his poisonous blue drink, eyes flitting down then back up.  Doesn't matter.  More important endeavors have been discovered.  " Jack, I need- Jack I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.  This is so fucking important.  Do you understand me?" 

Jack doesn't respond at first but then adjusts, shifting in his seat and leaning close, his fingers curling around your fingers.  "Yes?  Yes, of course.  Anything". 

"Does the wine.  Have alcohol in it.  This is very, very important.  Critical.  Life or death, even".  He gulps and you think, good , he should be taking this seriously, because this is so serious. 

"I...  I'm really sorry, but I don't know.  I don't think so?" he says slowly, hushed slightly.  The arcade lights play on his hair, leaving him neon soaked and lit at his edges. 

You close your eyes a moment, taking a deep breath.  Then open them.  "Okay.  Do...  Do you feel dizzy, or more relaxed when you drink it?" 

He gives you an odd look and swallows. "I...  I don't think so, I've never tried?  It's for cooking?" 

Damn.  If he really wasn't sure this far, then it didn't exist most likely.  Maybe things didn't ferment here?  Or at least not in the way to create alcohol.  You know who would know?  Sue.  Sue would totally know.  You'll have to call her when you get home, and maybe also find that wine. 

Releasing Jack, you sit back in your chair, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever.  "Are you okay?"  You rub your eyes with the heels of your hands, eyes dry and tired. 

"I'll live," you tell him, voice slightly rasped from laughing so much. 

"...I'm sorry.  If I could get you what you wanted, I would," he says softly.  Children cheer deeper into the arcade and the sound of a game's high score being trumped rings out in congratulatory bells and whistles. 

You throw a fry at him.  Watching him startle and fumble to catch it, you smile.  "You've given me enough.  I'm just being a complainer." 

Jack smiles at you and eats the fry.  "You can complain!  I don't mind.  Is alcohol that good?" he asks curiously. 

Shrugging, feeling somewhat ashamed, you say, "I mean, now and then is nice, but I don't- or, uh, didn't drink as much as I complain I want one.  I kind of made it a rule that it's only for special occasions.  I'm more of a social drinker than anything.  I sort-of-maybe drank a lot in college and partied almost every other night, but I don't like getting super drunk like I used to." 

He tilts his head like a puppy.  You really like when he does that.  "Drunk?" 

"So, alcohol is kind of like a low grade poison," you explain, watching as his face sours.  "Nothing lethal in small amounts for the average person!  It's pretty common in my world.  So, if you're 'drunk' then you're feeling the effects.  It can make you really dizzy or wobbly, and it can make your emotions exaggerated.  So like, if you were happy before, you'd be even happier." 

"But if you were sad..." Jack says slowly with a look of realization creeping across his face. 

"You'd be bawling your eyes out like the world was ending, yeah," you finish with agreement.  "But sometimes it works in the opposite direction.  Like if you were really sad but deep down relieved, you might end up having a better night by the end of the bottle than you had when you started." 

Now he's looking even more troubled.  "Do people do things they wouldn't normally do when they drink it?" 

"Uh, sometimes.  It depends.  Some people might be more likely to sleep around, but you can't really consent when you're under the influence.  Plenty of people say things they don't mean, though.  Or in some cases I guess, things they do mean, but don't mean to say.  Hey, uh, you alright there, Jack?" 

Jack has gone a very specific shade of pale that the blacklights of the arcade can't hide.  The poor guy is practically glowing with it, his face blank the way it does when he's trying to hide how he's feeling.  "Fine, just fine." 

In a hushed voice, you ask lowly, "Are you hung up on it being a poison?  That's just the technical term.  It's addictive, sure, but I never-  I was just kind of a party animal in college, so that's why I... yeah.  It's not like I got out of hand, like, needing to get my stomach pumped, or rehab, or anything like that."  Embarrassed with the lame finish, you scratch your arm.  You'd actually been relieved by how easy it was to quit drinking as much as you complained about it after college when you'd had to start working more often, then again after you came to this world.  "I spent practically all of college hungover or drunk.  It's a miracle I held onto my grades and scholarships." 

He smiles weakly.  "Is that why you were so sick when you came here?  You mentioned you had been drinking, but I didn't really think it meant anything other than maybe something that made you sick," he says, a look of comprehension crossing his face.  "The alcohol made you sick?" 

"Yeah, I definitely drank way too much that night," you confirm, a bit embarrassed.  "It's probably part of why I don't remember much.  If you get drunk like that, you can black out." 

Jack nods, drinking this information in.  "It sort of sounds like giggle water." 

"Giggle water?" 

"Usually it's for parties," he explains slowly.  "It can make people have stronger emotions, and maybe get a bit... silly... but you can't get sick from it aside from some people getting a headache afterward, and you don't black out." 

Shrugging, you reply.  "Maybe I can try some?  Who knows how it will affect me though, so maybe we should get a doctor." 

As the two of you chat, it occurs to you how easy it is to be around Jack.  Maybe it's just the forced proximity of having to live with someone for more than a month, but you aren't all that afraid to tell him things.  Now that the circumstantial hostility due to your situation had somewhat worn off, you found yourself somewhat relaxed.  Maybe he was right to treat you like an anxious stray animal.  You'd certainly been acting the part. 

"This is so nostalgic.  Can you be nostalgic for a time you didn't live through?" you wonder out loud, shaking your head.  "It's not like I ever went out for this kind of thing." 

"Did you not have arcades where- or when you were?" Jack asks, taking a fry. 

Shrugging you crunch your own, enjoying the hot, crispy goodness.  "I mean, they still exist but not as much as they did in the eighties.  The nineties kind of killed arcades, because right around then they invented consoles and handhelds".  Scrunching your nose, you try to think of a way to explain it to Jack, someone who's never heard of them before.  "Do you guys have those yet?  I could've sworn the Atari was at least out around now...  No?  Well, imagine if you had a cabinet at home, only it could have every game in here on it for just one larger price up front so you don't need to deposit money every time you play.  It's not necessarily 'free', you just pay up front once for each game and then you're done, and instead of a cabinet, it's like, the size of your VCR and plugs into your TV." 

Jack's eyes shine with excitement.  "That would be amazing!  Those exist in the future?!  I could host a game night rather than come here!"  You didn't think he could smile any wider, but he does.  Jack's smile when he's really and truly happy is something to behold indeed.  His usual restraint is abandoned, and he sits relaxed in the booth, shoulders loose and vest collar akimbo. 

You can't help the small smile that flits across your own face, closed lipped like a secret being shared.  "It's great.  We didn't get one until I started working when I was a teenager; my brother and I pooled our resources to get a handheld system that's small enough to put in your pocket and take on the go.  Smaller, less memory, but less expensive; we just took turns with it.  We could only afford, like, one game.  Since you just had one player, they had a lot more memory available, and they were able to make games that had a story you could play through like interactive books.  It started with just pixels, then they moved onto 3-D models, and eventually by the twenty-tens you could make a whole world for players to explore.  Arcade style games still existed, but the platform definitely shifted a lot.  That's mostly why I'm not that good at these types of games... I was mostly playing like, RPG's and puzzle or strategy games." 

He's in awe.  Suddenly, you're really excited for the future again instead of somewhat dreading its approach.  You and Jack will probably be old bastards by the time you can show him something you would play; although hopefully in the next decade something like Pokémon or Doom would show up, and you can play that together.  God, do you ever miss getting high and playing Skyrim until you forgot what was real.  "A whole world?  That's incredible!  And they're in the nineties?!  That's only... six years away!  Oh my gosh, we have to get one and play together!" 

"Sure, if you don't get sick of my ass by then," you say, amused.  You cross your leg, stealing a sip of Jack's drink, scrunching your nose at the saccharine taste. 

He gives you a strange look, a confused smile on his face as he tilts his head questioningly.  "What do you mean?" 

You wave your hand lackadaisically.  "I mean if you still want to be my friend six years from now". 

"Why would I not want to be your friend?" he asks, smile fading into a concerned frown. 

Wincing, guilt churns in your stomach.  "Never mind.  Forget about it.  Yeah, sure, I'll play a game or two with you when it comes out". 

Jack's puppy eyes stare into your soul.  "Sunshine..." 

Shaking your head, you smile weakly.  "It's fine".  Brushing crumbs off your shirt to the dirty arcade floor you shake yourself off internally, squashing the guilt.  "It's fine," you reiterate again. 

Instead of letting it go, he reaches across the table and gently takes your hand in his, large fingers curling around yours.  Instinctively, your hand curls in on itself to pull away, but you only further entangle yourself with him.  Jack gives your hand a squeeze and you want to vomit.  "I'm not just going to stop being your friend.  I don't know what kind of a person you think I am that I would do that, but...  I really am here for you.  I care about you.  Do you think I don't mean that?" 

"It's not about you, I just-"  You close your eyes and focus on breathing.  You're sick.  He's worried about you, sitting here pouring his heart out to you and you can't even respond properly.  Speak, doggy, speak!   Inside, your emotions swirl, twisting your stomach with a cocktail of guilt, fear, and disgust.  At its core sits a small but dense stone of pure, soft affection for the man before you.  "Everybody wants to help a stray dog, but nobody wants to get fleas," you mutter, trying to tug your hand away. 

He doesn't let you go though, not like all the other times he had.  Instead, he keeps your hand in a soft grip.  You could probably pull away if you really tried, but you can't muster up the heart to do much more than a half-hearted tug.  "What?" 

"If you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas.  You don't want my fleas," you reiterate, staring down at your linked hands. 

"You don't have fleas," Jack says with partial exasperation but mostly just sounding sad.  "And you aren't a dog.  I promise you, Sunshine, I'm not leaving your side".   

The guilt has swollen up in you and crawled up your throat.  A beetle, round and crawling and pricking your throat from the inside with its sharp legs.  "You don't know me.  Not the real me.  The me that I am that's not surrounded by fucking muppets and isn't eating three meals a day," you snap in frustration. 

You're not sure what kind of face Jack's making, but you're sure he's got his big, sad puppy eyes turned up to eleven and you're certain if you look up and meet them for longer than a second you'll just combust on the spot, and all that will be left of you will be a smoking lump of plastic and blood.  "What do you mean?" 

Sighing, you pull your hands away successfully now and cover your face with them, scrubbing your face like you wish you could your conscience.  You'd never be clean enough for him to touch.  "Look, my life was pretty fucking awful for a long time, and I did some serious shit to get through it.  I don't...  I won't go into it.  Just because shit's going well for me now doesn't mean it always was.  Just because I'm playing nice, doesn't mean I am."  

"You're nice!" he protests immediately.  You shoot him a withering look, which he responds with a slightly sheepish, "Well, I think you're a good person, anyways." 

Rolling your eyes you lean your chin on your hand with a chuff of a laugh.  "Gee, thanks." 

"I just mean that-"  Jack sighs, his troubled expression turning a shade of frustrated.  "I just feel like... even if you were a bad person, isn't this a second chance?  Doesn't it prove that things were circumstantial?  That you had the potential to be a good person?  Not that I think you were a bad person in the first place," he reiterates. 

"But I didn't work for this!  It just happened to me!" you protest.  A couple people turn to you and Jack in concern.  You slink down in your chair slightly, somewhat embarrassed for getting so worked up in public.  "It's just...  If it's all circumstantial then I didn't earn it."  Sighing, you fiddle with the straw of your undrunk drink.  "I don't...  I shouldn't be here.  It should have been someone else, someone that would have adapted better-" 

"Don't ever say that."  

The intensity in his voice takes you aback and you draw away before his hands find yours and take them firmly.  His gaze is shadowed in the slightly dark room, but the pop of game lights lends just enough to let you see the weight of his eyes fixed on your face. 

"Don't-  You-"  Jack starts and stops a couple times, voice cracking with an ache you feel in your molars.  "You're wonderful.   I don't know what I-"  His voice wobbles like water, soft little waves lapping at the shore and suddenly you feel like shit.  "I can't imagine it being anyone else but you.  Please don't say that". 

"Okay," you whisper.  "I'm sorry.  I just...  I want to be a person that's...  I don't know, every word that comes to mind seems pathetic.  Worthy?  I want to be someone worth calling a friend, or whatever.  I just feel like yours and everyone else's perception of me is warped when you guys have no idea of the kind of shit I've done to people.  I mean, Jack, I've hurt people in ways that would make you sick to your stomach, and you left me in a room full of kids, like, little itty-bitty kids that don't know shit about fuck-all.  You weren't worried or anything". 

"Were you going to hurt them?" he asks, sounding like a startled animal. 

"No!   Oh my God, of course not!" you hiss, heart twisting in your chest. 

Jack just stares at you sadly.  "Then what was there to worry about?"   His hand squeezes yours gently.  "I'm not scared of you, Sunshine, and you don't need to be scared of yourself." 

Christ, this guy just never misses the bull's eye.  Your breathing is shallow and your mouth moves around words that come quietly.  "I'm not kidding when I say I've hurt people."  Slowly, you take your hands back and put them in your pocket, pulling out your knife, pressing the button and relaxing the moment you hear the familiar thwip of the blade flicking out.  You carefully hold it by the flat of the blade and set the handle in his palm.  He just stares at it, doesn't curl his fingers around the handle like you do.  He just looks at it dumbly, like he can't understand what he's seeing.  You fold your hands together.  "I've had it since I was a kid.  My brother gave it to me because he couldn't always be there to protect me and...  Yeah." 

He looks up.  "These are illegal," Jack says, bewildered into blank anxiety. 

Shrugging, you reply, "They were illegal there, too.  So is using them, but I've done that too." 

"...How many times?" He asks quietly. 

"Enough times that I don't hesitate to use it anymore."  Fixing Jack with a hard stare you offer an open hand to take it from him.  He hands it back to you, handle first.  Clicking it back closed so the shiny blade is hidden in the pearlescent handle, you discreetly slide it back into your pocket and keep your hands there.  You don't want to look at them.  "I've got others but that's my main one." 

"Why?" 

"Why what?" 

"You said you used it.  Why did you, those times you did?" 

"Mostly to deter attackers.  Muggers and people that do... worse". 

"Worse?" 

You grimace.  "Assault.  Sometimes the sexual kind.  I don't know if that happens here, or how often, but it's unfortunately common for my time, no matter where you are or what time it is.  But sometimes when I was in some bad areas, there were people that had just kind of lost the plot, or went postal and didn't really know what they were doing, exactly?  I tried not to do much worse than what it took to just get away from those, but sometimes it wasn't possible."  You'd always felt a grim sort of guilt that you knew you'd just have to live with.  Pitying someone's lack of mental help that was much needed was all well and fine, but when they came after you with a broken bottle in an enclosed subway or started screaming slurs in your face, all that pity would do is get you killed. 

Jack's hands clench so hard his knuckles turn white on the table. 

"I just wanted you to know.  The kind of person that you've got living in your house, and you're calling a friend.  That's it.  I just wanted you to know".  Turning your head, unable to face him, you watch a pair of kids play air hockey.  Steeling yourself for some kind or rejection, you put your hands in your pockets. 

It feels like a long time before Jack answers.  When he does, the venom in his voice startles you.  "They deserved it." 

You swing your head back to face Jack so quickly your neck nearly snaps.  "Excuse me?" Is what leaves your mouth, but you can already see on his face he's made up his mind. 

There's cold fire in his eyes you can barely make out the flickers of in the dark.  His voice is soft as old rot.  "They deserve worse.  Anyone that could do something so awful...  I can't even imagine it.  That...  That's just sick.   Did they ever... are you..." He can't seem to figure out how to say it, so you do. 

"My hands were usually quicker than theirs.  The worst they got was a handful, but they'd be taking it back with a knife stuck through it," you say with no small amount of relish.  There really was no feeling in the world like sticking a knife through someone's hand that had touched you when you hadn't wanted them to.  There had probably been enough men in New York alone to start a small club with matching scars.  "But there were some close calls before I figured out what I was doing.  I'm lucky."   

"That's not what I would call luck," Jack grumbles, lip curling over his pretty white teeth.  "I'm glad you're out of there.  I'm glad you're here with me.  That you're safe.  I...  You didn't deserve any of that."   

You look down, a heady look of some strong emotion you refused to name making you feel small and suffocated while you examine the neon table.  With a small shrug, you glance up then immediately look back down.  "...Thank you," you murmur, heart bloody and raw.  Shit, you'd barely told him anything about who you were- are- and it left you somewhat exhausted. 

His eyes meet yours.  "I'll always be here for you.  I hope you can believe that."  Everything about him, from his posture to his hand in yours and the look on his face screams softness.  It occurs to you just then that you've been putting Jack up on a pedestal.  To you, Jack was this soft, pampered little poodle that got to grow up in a safe neighborhood, with parents that loved and took care of him so he never had to grow up before he needed to.  He got food in his belly, family and friends, vacations and arcade money, and all the other horseshit you never had access to as a kid and didn't know what to do with when you became an adult.  Sure, maybe he was all that.  The plain, heated acceptance was too much.  Surely he wasn't fully grasping the situation, didn't have a handle on what kind of imposter has been living a few rooms away from him.  Knowing someone, your friend, your crush, whatever, stabbed someone was different than seeing it.  A part of you melted though at his words. 

Maybe if things stay good long enough, you can believe him.  Even if you don't right now, there's that loyal animal in your chest that’s starting to sit up and bare its fangs, ready to protect your slice of peace. 

You laugh. 

"Sunshine, I'm being serious!" Jack insists, and when you open your eyes to meet his gaze, there's flecks of hurt on his face like a spray of blood. 

"I know, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to laugh," you apologize, still chuckling.  "It's just-  I wasn't expecting such an enthusiastic response!" 

Jack flushes and you crumble into peals of giggles again.  They fade away, drowned in the blare of electronic noise that fills the arcade.  "I...  Thank you.  Really." 

Jack smiles shyly, his eyes flicking to your hands and then back to your face.  "Does this mean... you trust me now?" 

You throw your head back and laugh harder.  "Oh my God, you're like a dog with a bone!" 

"Please?" He begs, nearly whines for it, puppy eyes turned up.   

Your laughter fades into consideration.  Could you?  Lips pressed thin now, you meet his eyes.  You know what you need to know.  "Did you see me that night?" you ask instead. 

Jack blinks in confusion.  "What night, Sunshine?" 

"That night.  The night". 

Jack goes still, eyes searching.  Then, he slowly nods. 

"What did you see?" you ask, whispering.  "Did you see when I-" but you stop, mouth numb like you've been chewing ice.

Jack's dark eyes are melted with the dark room, neon green and yellow blinking in his hair.  A blacklight flicks on and the whites of his eyes stand out even more than before.  Dark.  His eyes are so dark.  "…I saw when you came through". 

"How?  What did it look like?" 

"Like nothing I'd ever seen.  It's so hard to describe...  You..."  Jack pauses, looking as though he were thinking hard.  "You came out of the TV". 

That throws you for a loop.  "The TV?   Why would I come out of the TV?" you say in bewilderment, half to yourself and half to him. 

Jack shakes his head.  "It was so odd- It was like it was liquid for a moment- and then there you were!  On the carpet, and my VCR was smoking." 

"Did anything else happen?  Before or after?" you ask urgently. 

Jack shakes his head after a slow, thoughtful moment.  "Nothing I can think of.  I'm really sorry". 

Sighing, you slump back in your chair.  Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you sit in silence a moment. 

"Sunshine?" 

You sigh again.  Opening your eyes blearily, you spy Jack, leaned forward with concern.  "Yeah, Jack?" falls tiredly from between your teeth. 

He shifts in place.  "Will...  Will you let me watch your back?" 

Working your jaw, you think about how he'd taken you in with seamless generosity and endless patience despite your routinely snappy behavior and tendency to run off and disappear without note or warning.  " W here do you go when you aren't here?" he had asked one night when you'd slipped back in through the back door.  He'd stayed up late: it had been well past two in the morning when you'd finally come home. 

"Anywhere but here," you'd replied.  Immediately you'd felt bad, based on how he flinched, looking wounded as a kicked puppy.  You'd made an effort the next day to stay nearby, to listen to him.  He'd been relieved, you think, that you had come back at all.  Maybe that was why he was twice as scared when you left.  It wasn't like you'd done anything other than walk through well-lit streets and midnight dark parks. 

All he'd done is worry for you and try to help, if a bit ineffectively at first.  Now, with him right in front of you, begging for a scrap of trust, your heart melted a little against your will.  His hand was offered palm up, fingers relaxed.  Not grasping, merely outstretched and waiting to be taken. 

Fuck it.  You've made bad decisions before.  Hopefully, this won't be one of them. 

You slowly reached forward until you could set your hand in his.  "Okay," you whispered, chest tight.  You wanted to trust him, to tear your own paranoia to shreds, but that wasn't a monster you could kill by yourself. 

Everything in Jack's face brightened.  It was like the dark disappeared around you.  Behind you, the stupid lottery game lit up from someone's high score, bright and full with off-white light leaving Jack shining in the dark.  It made his smile thousand watt, highlighting the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, really smiled , not the customer service bullshit you would always see him do.  His fingers curl with yours, feeling your hand like he's savoring it. 

"What is it?" He asks, tilting his head as you stare.  He's got to know he's cute when he does that. 

You just shake your head, staring.  "I'm glad you brought me here". 

His eyelids flutter with the butterfly-wing soft look he gives you.  Yours might have too if you could remember how to be soft like that again.  "Me too". 

You hold onto each other tight, connected from opposite sides. 

Neither of you are willing to let go. 

By the time the two of you get back it's roughly time for dinner, but Jack insists on cooking.  Both of you are in affection-satiated moods so you only argue a little before you let yourself be bullied out of the house and sent to the backyard.  Thankfully, you'd managed to sneak  back in to grab your bass so you had something to do outside.  The moment a couple notes split the air as you tuned, Jack stuck his head out the sliding door with a sharp look and a kitchen towel over his shoulder.  You startle, looking over at him.  "What?  I'm staying outside!" 

Jack narrows his eyes and points a finger.  "Don't.  Hurt yourself again." 

Shooting him an innocent look, you strum a chord, turning the tuning peg so the note makes a slightly silly, wonky sound as though you're choking it.  "Why?  Don't you want to kiss it better?" 

Jack's lips press into a thin line, pink tinting his cheeks as you smirk.  "Be careful.   I mean it." 

Rolling your eyes you go back to it, smiling to yourself.  "Oh, you mean it, huh, as opposed to all the other times when you didn't mean it, right?" 

"Sunshine..." Jack says warningly. 

"Okay, okay!  I'm just teasing!  Weren't you cooking?  Go back in the kitchen, boy!" you huff, grabbing the closest soft thing and hurling it at him, which turns out to be the small outdoor pillow you'd tossed aside when you sat down.  Apparently, the frontal assault was completely unexpected because the pillow smacks him square in the face and Jack sort of flails, falling back into the door frame with a surprised sputter.  Catching it, he looks down in surprise before looking up at you.  "See?  What if that was a real attack and I threw a brick at you or something?  You'd get a fucked up face, dipshit.  Get back under cover!"  Jack sends you a bemused smile, throwing the pillow back at you which you effortlessly grab with one hand and send spinning back, smacking him in the face again in one smooth movement.  "See?  The world's a brutal place.  You've got to improvise.  Adapt.  Overcome." 

Jack exasperatedly pulls the pillow down again, glaring halfheartedly at you.  "What is this about?" 

"I don't even remember, I just wanted to fuck with you." 

He frowns at you, but his dark eyes glitter with amusement as he shakes his head, setting the pillow down by the door.  "I'm keeping this away from you.  Clearly, you can't be trusted with loose objects." 

"Aw sweet!  I found a rock!  Jack, do you want to see?" you call cheerfully, feigning a reach behind you where he can't see, with a wide grin. 

"Oh no, suddenly I have to go back to the kitchen really quickly so I can keep making dinner!" he calls, sliding the screen door shut quickly and scurrying off back into the house. 

Snickering to yourself, you readjust back into a more comfortable position in the patio chair, continuing with your task of tuning the guitar.  Finally, you manage to get yourself back into tune and start to strum out your chosen song without stumble.  You turn the volume up just a little on the amp.  Just enough to listen at an appropriate volume.  The day of fun and emotional connection with Jack left you somewhat exhausted, your raw emotions bleeding into the music.  Fingers drew along the strings with ease as you strummed out moody blues.  Despite your chest aching with desire to sing, you held back, throat a little sore after the long day out, and feeling a bit too delicate to sing for anyone other than yourself.  Instead, your lips moved around the words, humming lyrics that sang of hungry animals seeking solace to yourself. 

Not long after you started, a head pokes up from the privacy fence on the left side.  Sparing him a nod, you strum the guitar with a little more finesse, showing off a little with some quick finger work and bass slides.  He ends up disappearing for a moment before coming back a second later with a kid you vaguely recognize as one from Jack's grade on his shoulders.  The kid waves her arms at you and you give her a grin and a nod back.  Smirking, you show off a bit by playing some flashier, more fun bass lines and slides.  The kid had this big grin on her face and even from a distance you could see the sparkle in their eyes.  Just a few songs later however, your fingers began to sting.  It'd be pretty bad if you started bleeding again in front of a kid, so you only sighed and clicked the amp off, gently laying the bass back in its case. 

Your neighbor lifts his meaty hands and claps enthusiastically as the last notes faded out and you put the guitar away, grinning widely at you.  Sitting up, you catch him put his fingers in his mouth and let out a bright whistle, piercing the air sharply.  "Wow!  That's awesome, kid!  Did you see that, kiddo?" 

"Thanks!" you call back, pushing yourself up into a stand to trundle over to the fence.  "How's it going, man?" 

"Great.  I'm Dan by the way, and this is my daughter, Amanda."  Dan offers one of his large dad hands over the fence, of which you stretch up to shake.  He's heavy-set with wide shoulders that probably made him a great football player in high school, and a deep chest.   

The name clicks into place.  "Right.  Scared-of-spiders-Amanda, right?" you ask with a small smile that widens into a grin when the kid shyly nods and then ducks so her face is buried in her dad's dark hair. 

"Can you say hi?" Dan asks his daughter kindly. 

For a moment you think it might be a lost cause but then she sort of peeks at you and whispers so quietly it could have been mistaken for the summer breeze, "Hi, Miss Sunshine." 

"Do you want to get down?" he asks, looking upwards though you're pretty sure he can't see her.  She nods and tightens her grip on his hands.  Dan carefully lifts his daughter up with a countdown before setting her barefoot on the soft grass, watching her run off back into the house through the open doorway.  "You've met my daughter then?"
 

Nodding, you reply, "Yeah, I covered for Jack at school a while back and taught the kids a little about making a good costume for Fright Night." 

"Oh yeah, I remember that," he muses, sounding as though he were thinking hard.  His mustache twitched with thought.  "She came home talking about it all excited even though she doesn't like Fright Night very much."  He straightens out his polo with a couple quick swipes.  When he looks back up his eyes fall behind you and he grins wide.  "Hey, Jack!  How are you, bud?" 

Turning, you spot Jack who's managed to open the door with one hand, your plates of flautas stacked on top of one another.  At the sound of his name he looks up, startled and then smiling.  "Hi, Dan!" 

"I didn't know you had a girlfriend, Jack!  Good for you, brother, you've been single forever ," Dan states, looking you up and down approvingly.  "Figures you'd get someone talented and good looking, you dog, you!"  They're both tall enough for Dan to comfortably clap Jack on the shoulder.  He gives him a hearty shake, affectionate and familiar. 

Rolling your eyes you sigh in exasperation.  "I'm not his girlfrie-" 

"Speaking of which!" Dan interrupts, crossing his arms and leaning on the fence, "The lady and I were going to do the usual end of summer cookout next week.  You two are coming, right?" 

"Oh, um, maybe!  We'll talk about it," Jack says, giving you a sidelong glance and a smile.  "We've been a bit busy lately, but we'll let you know before then." 

"Sounds good.  You know we've always got a plate for you... and your lady love, of course," he says, giving you a wink.  Before you can say anything else, Dan claps his hands together.  "Welp, I won't keep ya.  Hope to see ya there, Jack.  You too, Sunshine!"  Dan says with a smile, giving the two of you a small wave as he turns back to the house. 

You roll your eyes at the comment referring to you as Jack's girlfriend again.  "Come on, let's eat." 

Jack nods, following after you as you settle back down on the patio furniture, thanking him as he sets your plate down for you.  A short trip back to the kitchen later and you've both got some pink lemonade.  "So that's your neighbor?" 

Jack nods.  "Yeah.  Dan and I were in yearbook together." 

"Aw.  You were in yearbook together.  Adorable," you sneer.  "Were you class president too?" 

Jack pauses.  "I was," he admits slowly.

“Student council?”

“I was the head.”

You smile.  "Nerd." 

"You're so rude." Jack's cheeks puff in reproach.  "What, didn't you do any extracurriculars?" 

Unable to stop the laugh that barks from your throat, you finish off your flautas.  "Guess." 

Jack leans back with a playful smile flirting across his lips.  He presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully, looking you up and down.  "Chess club?" he says jokingly. 

"Believe it or not, you're close," you tell him with a widening grin.  "Me and this other girl I was kind of friendly with ran this not-so-secret gambling ring for cards and the football games.  She paid me in cigarettes and alcohol to make sure the other kids paid when they lost and didn't squeal on us." 

"That is not even remotely close to the chess club," Jack says, shaking his head.  He sits back again, re-regarding you.  "Baseball?" 

You nod, palms up in admittance.  "Made varsity my first year and got special permission to join the boys' team since the girls only had softball." 

He makes a noise of admiration and looks you over, eyes suddenly sharpening with curiosity.  "...Band?" 

Laughing, you shake your head.  "Nope, though not for the teacher's lack of trying.  I kind of stopped playing during high school for a bit," you admit.  You'd had a long dry spell of not playing music for a while, once you were able to get a couple after school jobs. 

Jack lets out a small noise of surprise.  "How come?" He asks.  All you offered were shrugs.  You had nothing else to give.  "Well, were there any I missed?" 

Humming, you tap your fingers to the table.  "Mmm...  I was in a film class with my boyfriend at the time.  But I didn't really do anything else.  I was busy trying to get sports scholarships so I wouldn't have to resort to the military to get my schooling paid for." 

"Why not just pay for it?" he asks curiously. 

You roll your eyes.  "Ooh, look at fuckin' moneybags over here that can afford an education."  Rolling your eyes, you explain, "Schooling costs a lot of money in my world.  People routinely go bankrupt trying to go to college.  And it's not like I had any money, besides." 

Jack winces.  "Oh, I'm sorry...  I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject." 

"It's fine, I'm just being a bitch like usual." You say with a shrug.  There's a small, awkward silence that overtakes you.  "…'M sorry." 

Jack perks up.  "It's okay!  That sounds like it was really hard for you." 

"It is what it is."  You scratch your head and take his empty plate, stacking them and feeling a bit uncharacteristically timid suddenly.  "I really am sorry.  I feel like every time I tell you about my life, I end up acting like a huge asshole." 

Jack smiles gently, leaning in on his elbows, braced against the metal patio table.  "That's alright, Sunshine.  To tell you the truth... I like your sense of humor," Jack replies, looking a bit shy suddenly, his cheeks pinking.  He shifts a little in his seat, looking up from under his long, dark lashes.   

Blatant confusion crosses your face as you ask bluntly, "Really?  Why?" 

"You're funny," he says simply. 

"You don't laugh at my jokes," you can't help but point out. 

"It takes me a moment for them to click," he defends.  "You're really clever.  Besides, it's a different kind of humor than I'm used to too.  But... I like it."  Jack looks up, dark eyes shining like he's reflecting your light.  He's looking at you like you really are the sun, shining just for him.  "Nobody talks to me like you do." 

A smirk flickers across your face, huffing a small laugh of disbelief.  "You little masochist.  All I've been is mean to you since I got here." 

"That's not true.  You've been scared, but you weren't mean to me." 

Your throat kind of closes up.  Maybe you weren't being deliberately mean (you'd probably make the poor guy cry if you had), but you'd been careless with Jack.  He'd been very mindful toward you, choosing his words with intention when he spoke and was pointedly kind.  You'd just kept snapping at the hand that fed you or shied away depending on your mood.  "You're way too understanding for your own good, J," you sigh. 

"It's just the way I am," he replies with a smile.  "I can't help it any more than you can." 

"Ain't that the truth," you mutter under your breath, leaning back in your chair and taking a sip of your lemonade.  A moment of quiet drifts over the two of you, more peaceful than awkward like silences between the two of you tended to be.  "I really am thankful, you know," you say suddenly.  "For everything you've done for me.  You really didn't have to." 

Jack is quiet a moment and when you look over, he's still focused on you.  "Do you feel guilty for being here?  Is that why-  With the chores, and when you were too tired to cook dinner-?" 

" No," you interrupt immediately, then pause, your stomach tightening into knots.  "I mean, yeah, a little.  It's complicated."  Scratching the back of your head, you look out over the back yard, watching a pale orange squirrel pilfer the birdfeeder.  "...I used to live with someone that couldn't really take care of themselves, so I had to do everything for her.  It was really fucking hard, and seeing how it affected everyone around them...  I promised myself I wouldn't be like that.  I don't ever want to be a burden."  

Jack is silent a moment, soaking in this information.  "You're not a burden.  I would never ask you to force yourself to do something if you don't want to do it, or can't, in the name of fairness.  You do things I can't do, just like how I do things for you that you can't.  I wasn't lying when I said you've given me so much, Sunshine.  It's..."  Jack falters for words, and when you look over at him, he has that adoring look on his face like you're all he wants in the world.  "I'm just glad to have you here with me.  That's all I want," he says softly, shyly.  "It's okay to let other people take care of you... It's not just me.  Rory, Sue, Jane, even Knackdan.  We're all your friends, and we care about you.  We want you to be okay and live your life the way you want." 

"I know," you mutter, sighing.  You rub your brow, sigh again, then repeat, "I know." 

All you hear is the last breaths of summer in the wind and the birds for a few minutes, before a small snicker disrupts the peace.  Glancing over with an instinctive glare, you catch a glimpse of Jack covering his mouth and failing to hide a smirk.  "The fuck are you snickering about over there?" 

"You just-  You looked like a little kid getting reprimanded for a moment there," he says between giggles. 

Your eyes roll.  "Hey Jack?" 

"Yes, Sunshine?" 

"Go fuck yourself." 

Laughter bursts like bubbles from his mouth, and you can't find it in you to keep from smiling.  Just a little.  You throw your napkin at him, but he manages to catch it and sets it on your little stack of plates.  The two of you enjoy the last of the summer silently, sipping lemonade and pointing out birds.   

"The backyard looks amazing, by the way," Jack compliments, admiring a patch of yellow flowers encroaching onto the stone patio.  "I really like what you've done with it." 

"Yeah, no problem." 

Jack leans over, delicately tugging a tall stem of some close to sniff, startling back as a bumblebee tumbles clumsily off.  "Well, just remember, you don't have to feel obligated, okay?  You can take a break and I can always put a request back in at the worker's office if you want a day off," he says amicably, bringing his face close to the flower again more cautious this time.  Jack hums softly to himself, thumb rubbing the yellow petal between his fingers.  "What kind are these?" 

"Black eyed Susans," you tell, then pause.  "They're my favorite," you admit after a second.  "And it's fine.  I mean, I'll let you know, but honestly it's kind of soothing so I probably won't ask unless I get sick or something."  What had started as a way of paying your way through, quickly turned into a much needed way to calm your anxiety.  Keeping up with weeding and gardening was easy, the flowerbeds full of soft soil and lovely plants.  Even with the rain, there wasn't much hassle.  The ease at which you'd managed to keep the garden looking nice kept you calm, especially after the chore fiasco.  It kept you out of the house, which had felt too claustrophobic at the time, and free reign to weed and toil in the dirt.  Under your hand, the flowers had flourished.  "Think maybe we could grow some stuff next year?  Could probably save a bit on groceries." 

Jack smiles, looking at the flowers with new appreciation.  "Whatever you want to do, Sunshine.  I don't really have the knack for this kind of thing," he admits begrudgingly, giving the flowers a timidly resentful look.  "I just can't get anything to grow...  It all ends up dying no matter what I do." 

You can't hold back a snort as you take a bite.  "What, Mr. Perfect has flaws after all?" 

"You think I'm perfect?" Jack asks, looking far too pleased with himself. 

"I think you're perfectly easy to lull into a false sense of security." 

"Wha-" 

You bring your hand up and smash a pillow into his face from across the table. 

"Gah!" Jack gasps, pulling his face out of the pillow.  "When did you even grab that?!" 

Easily deflecting his attempt to get you back, you swat his knuckles, making him instinctively release his hold on the soft object for you to steal.  You give him a quick but gentle bop in the face again before tossing it back to the other chair.  "Secret." 

Jack glares balefully at you.  "You're as bad as my sister!" 

"I don't think I'm quite that bad," you reply with a laugh. 

The evening melts into laughter and the blue of night.  For once, you let yourself enjoy it. 

Chapter Text

"We can leave any time you like, okay, Sunshine?" 

You shift uncomfortably in front of the bathroom mirror, fussing with your hair.  "If it were up to me, we'd just never go," you call to him in the other room bluntly, frowning. 

Jack comes up next to you slowly, meeting your gaze in the mirror and smiling.  He raises his hand to hover over your shoulder in question, but you silently shake your head so he drops it, smile unwavering in acceptance.  "Well, we don't have to go if you don't want to," he replies gently, leaning on the doorframe.  "There will be other barbeques; there's practically one every other week.  We can just go to the next one." 

"Like I said: I'll just never go.  May as well rip the bandage off." 

Jack nods from the corner of your eye in the mirror as you finish up on your eyeliner, leaning forward a bit as you hum to yourself.  It felt weird getting ready without music, but you'll just have to make do until you can get around to investing in a tape player, or a Walkman-equivalent, or something.  You ended up humming softly to yourself, whispering lyrics to your reflection like a secret that was silenced when Jack came by.  "You look beautiful, by the way," Jack says, voice warm with admiration. 

Pausing you blink dumbly, glancing at Jack who's watching you with half-lidded appreciation, a soft smile on his face.  It does something stupid to your stomach, but you can't stop the slight, shy smile that curves the corner of your lips as you return to perfecting your makeup.  "Thanks, I know." 

"I've never seen you in a dress.  Or without your jacket for that matter.  Or in something that isn't black."  Though you aren't looking at him you can feel his eyes stroke your figure.  "These are interesting.  Did they take long for you to draw?" he asks. 

"...Sorry, what?"  You cap your eyeliner looking over and following his hand gesturing to- "Oh, my tattoos?  Yeah, I mean, they've definitely taken a month out of my life, at least, but I didn't do them...  Why?"  Then it occurs to you that you might be misunderstanding the question.  "Wait, do you guys have tattoos here?" 

"Is a tattoo a kind of makeup?"  Jack responds before it seems to click for him too that you are each having a different conversation. 

"Kind of.  It's 'permanent makeup'."  You make little quotes with your fingers, the eyeliner pencil in your hand.  You pause, meeting Jack's eyes in the mirror as he raises a hand to touch your arm.   

Nodding in confirmation, he lowers his gaze back down to your arm, rubbing lightly at your skin, then harder when Cerberus doesn't fade under his hand and continues to snarl, breaking his chains.  "What is it?  How long did they take?" 

"Depends on the tattoo.  That one took like two or three hours.  It's ink injected under the skin so it stays forever with like, a kind of needle gun?  So depending on how big it is, you'll be sitting there for minutes to a whole day getting jabbed." 

"Why would you do that?" Jack says, his hand drawing back, looking appalled. 

"I like the way they look," you say with a shrug.  "Self-expression, and sometimes people get them for memorials to someone that died, or any other number of reasons.  People used to get them to show off how tough they are, like how much pain they could handle.  That's probably why they're popular with criminals in a lot of cultures...  It shows you're less likely to get information tortured out of you, is my guess." 

"...The more I learn about your world, the more I'm glad you aren't there." 

"Don't be dramatic.  I wasn't involved in that kind of lifestyle.  And besides, criminals aren't the only ones with tattoos or piercings these days- er, in the future, I mean.  Most people I've met have at least one, now.  Super common." 

Jack shakes his head in exasperation.  "What is with you and needles?  Do I need to lock up my sewing kit?" 

Shrugging you go back to fixing your makeup, finishing a few last touches.  "I don't know.  I'm pretty satisfied.  Though maybe I'll give myself one last one to commemorate my transference of worlds," you muse, ideas running through your head.  "Stick-and-pokes aren't that hard.  The hardest thing is going to be looking for a good ink that will work."  Now that you're thinking about it, that would be a good close out for your last tattoo.  "...Would you want one too?" 

"What?"  Jack stands up straighter, eyes wide with shock.  "Me?  A tattoo?" 

Stretching with your arms over your head, you fix your hair carefully.  "Sure, why not?  Or I could pierce something for you, if we can find something to go in it." 

"Oh, I mean, that's so nice of you to offer, but I don't think-  I mean, I'm not sure I-  It would look weird on me, right?"  Jack scrambles for words behind you, a frantic expression on his face as his cheeks flush.  He can't seem to decide between wringing his gloved hands and waving them as if a misinterpretation of his words was a fly he could shoo away.  "N-not to say I think you would do a bad job!  I just-  I don't think that kind of thing would look very good-  Yours look great though!  I didn't mean it like that, like they look bad-  Just... on me?  I don't think it would look right-" 

His words cut off suddenly as you place your hand gently on the small of his back.  Smiling up at him, you furrow your brows with worry as he works himself up.  "Hey, take it easy.  I was just kidding." 

"Oh."  His arms drop to his sides.  "Ha."  Was that... disappointment you detected? 

"I mean, if you really wanted me to, I'd do it, but you don't have to go worrying that much about it," you continue.  "I know a face full of metal, and tatts aren't for everyone." 

"Oh."  Jack deflates with relief, shoulders slumping.  He grins, boyishly shy almost, and says quietly, "Thanks." 

Walking out of the bathroom and into the main living space, you reply, "Yeah, man.  No problem.  Although, for the record, I think you'd look great with a tattoo.  Or a piercing, even." 

Jack perks up, looking intrigued.  "Really?"  He turns to the mirror on the wall of the dining area, pushing his hair back.  "I don't know...  Where?" 

"Hmmm..." You hum thoughtfully, sidling up next to him and look at the two of you in the mirror.   

Jack has made the very brave choice to wear a white polo when you're pretty sure you're having barbeque, and a pair of pale blue shorts with his goofy-ass clown belt.  Your dress is more casual, although it had been a bit difficult to find anything not pastel or oversaturated.  Thankfully, you'd managed to find it in a darker, jewel tone of your favorite color.  Despite the heat, you decide against your better judgement to wear your jacket.  The smooth black leather feels like the safety of castle walls around you, even if it was just draped over your shoulders and not fully on.  It was a bit warm still, but the breeziness of the dress helped a bit. 

"...Eyebrow," you say finally after a bit of thought.  "That would be pretty sick." 

"Sick is good, right?" Jack asks nervously, fingering his brow. 

You nod decisively.  "Sick is good." 

Jack lets out a hum that's more like an indecisive moan.  "I just don't know...  Do you really think it wouldn't look weird?" he asks softly, an oddly vulnerable expression on his face. 

Smiling a little more gently, your hand slips up from the position on his back to his shoulder, squeezing a little.  "I think it would look really cool, but you shouldn't do something like that if you're worried about what other people think.  You should do it because you want to." 

There's a troubled look on Jack's face, somewhere between indecisive and envy.  "Is that how you feel about them?" 

"Yeah.  I mean, my first tattoo wasn't even visible, and neither was my first piercing, aside from my ears.  It can be something just for you, if that's what you really want.  People that get tattoos or piercings for other people...  It can end in regret a lot of times." 

Jack looks a little doubtfully at your reflections in the mirror, staring at the spot by his brow. 

You smirk.  "...But yeah, I think you would look good with one.  Think about it.  It's not like you're going anywhere." 

Giving his shoulder one last squeeze, you slip away, patting his back in departure.  When you come back and slip your house key back in your pocket, he's still staring at himself in the mirror. 

"Hey, Narcissus."  You snap your fingers at him, startling him from his stupor.  "Quit staring at yourself in the mirror.  Are you ready to go, or what?" 

Jack nods, turning to you, suddenly looking a little anxious.  "Do I look okay?" 

Rolling your eyes, you nod.  "You always look good.  Quit fussing-" then pause to reach up and fix his flipped collar.  As you smooth it down, something moves in the corner of your eye and you flinch instinctively.  Blinking, your fingers tighten on Jack's straightened collar only to realize it was his hand.  His fingers curl and draw back, unsure.  Cheeks warm with embarrassment, you look up to see a flicker of hurt across Jack's face before it disappears behind his usual sweet smile that looks more and more fake the longer you stare.  Shame flushes through you.  "Jack-" 

"We're going to be late," he says calmly, pulling from your grasp with stoney gentleness. 

Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you nod, following after. 

"You don't need to lock the door.  We're only going next door," Jack points out, opening up the bright teal front door of your neighbor's with familiarity. 

Scrunching your nose with disapproval, you carefully step inside.  "You don't knock, you don't lock your house...  You fuckers are all gonna get robbed and killed," you grumble.  "And it's so rude." 

"They know we're coming.  It's fine," he insists.  "And besides, crime is next to non-existent here in Cloudytown.  It's a very safe place to live, and I know everyone here on top of that-" 

Jack's words disappear from your mind as soon as you saw it: the thing that would keep you occupied for the rest of the party so you didn't have to socialize. 

"Oh shit!  Dog!" you cried under your breath, feeling the burden of talking to people lift from your shoulder.   

The dog was seemingly just as excited to see you as you were to see it.  It was piebald white and dark blue, with big orange-yellow eyes and silly looking ears.  Nearly cartoonish, one was lopped over and the other stood up straight, reminding you of a heeler or border collie.  "Hey buddy!" you say, unable to help the grin that splits your face as the happy dog bounds up to the two of you, switching from pushing his face into your hands and Jack's, licking and sniffing, rubbing his smooth, soft face against petting palms. 

"Hi, Sam," Jack greets with amusement, giving the dog's cheeks a playful scratch, stretching his face like taffy. 

"Your name is Sam?" you ask, unable to stop the smile from splitting your face.  At the sound of his name, Sam wriggles out of Jack's hands to bounce on his front paws in front of you excitedly as if to say, Yes, I am Sam!  Sam I am!   "What a cute little guy!  I've never met a blue dog before!" 

Jack tilts his head as Sam looks between the two of you, happy for more people at the party to pet him.  "Really?  But they're so common," he says curiously. 

"Not for me!  They don't exist in the other world," you explain, patting Sam's head.  "Neither do people with blue hair, for that matter.  I just assumed you dyed it like that.  Hi!  Hi buddy!  Yes, I see you!" Sam chooses that moment to shove his nose in your crotch like dogs do and you laugh, scratching up his fluffy dog mane and down his back.  "Oh, you are a lover boy, aren't you?  Yeah, you're a good boy.  You know, Sturgil Simpson has a whole song about you!  And so does Colter Wall, now that I think about it.  Do you know that one?  I bet you're a real good singer," you tell him, grinning as Sam wiggles, leaning on you as his tail fans his happiness.  Slowly sliding down your leg until he's laying belly-up across your feet like a blue and white puddle, licking his nose and begging for belly rubs.  "Oh!  Oh no, Sam!  You fell over!  What happened?" you exclaim aloud, unable to stop giggling as you bend into a kneel, scratching his tummy.  Sam is loving it, stretching his legs up ridiculously, tongue lolling out of his mouth in canine happiness.  "What happened, Sam?  Are you trying to commit insurance fraud?  You're a very good actor, but this will never hold up in court!  I have to be in a car, first!"   

"You really like dogs, don't you?" Jack says with amusement, watching you pet the happy dog. 

"I'm more of a cat person honestly, but I like dogs too.  My old college roommate had this cat named Moonpie, and oh my God , could that cat talk your ear off.  Wish I could speak cat, because he had a lot to say about every damn thing," you tell him, memories of the soft little creature screaming at you when you came home for food and affection now turned bittersweet.  Moonpie would most likely be a senior cat now, pushing roughly twelve or thirteen considering Shaun had picked him up as an adult cat of unknown age.  If you'd stayed in your world, would you have seen him again when Shaun moved back in?  You didn't know, and probably never would.  "I hope he's okay." 

Jack lays his hand on your shoulder sympathetically.  "I'm sure he is."  Giving him a small smile of grim appreciation, you sigh and stand back up, Sam rolling over and looking for the reason why he's no longer being pat.   

Following Jack through the brightly painted living home, the two of you pause now and then for him to say hello.  It seems like the guy knows everyone here, and soon enough, he's caught up in conversation with someone you've already forgotten the name of despite being introduced just a minute ago.  That's fine.  You're not some clingy, insecure teenager, so you decide to brave the wilds of social interaction by yourself. 

Deciding to check out the layout of the house, you head further in before slipping out the back door, before promptly getting headbutted in the stomach.  "Oof!" 

"Watch it-  Oh.  It's you." 

You look down, more startled than hurt when you realize you know this kid.  "Hey!  Dennis, right?" 

Dennis nods, cheeks a little flushed.  "Um.  Yes, Miss Sunshine." 

A little more polite than you remember.  Smiling down at him, you ruffle his spikey hair.  "Been a while!  You were going to make a killer robot costume, right?  How's that going?" 

The kid nods, and the two of you start a slightly awkward conversation as you walk outside and into the backyard.  There's some people starting a game of cornhole, kids playing in the grass, and a spot with fold out tables where some people are eating and playing cards.  Dennis is telling you he wants to make his robot's laser eyes actually glow, so you try and explain how to get that to work without the kid having a fire hazard by his face, but he ends up dragging you by the wrist over to a small cluster of adults laughing by the grill. 

"Mom!  Mom!" Dennis nags, tugging on a tall, pink-haired woman's skirt. 

"What is it, Sweetie?" she asks, turning around to face him, then immediately looking up at you, her brows jumping up.  "Oh, hello!  Dennis, what have I told you about pulling people?  It's not polite." 

"Yeah, right, sorry Miss Sunshine," Dennis quickly says before continuing on, "But Mom!  She said she can show me how to make my robot's eyes glow!  Can she come over?" he asks excitedly. 

For a moment your stomach is full of ice blocks.  Why would he ask that?!  You know what you'd say if a stranger you'd never seen before had your kid coming up and asking for them to come over.  You'd say- 

"Sure, maybe she can babysit you when your mother and I have our date night," Dennis's Mom says with a smile. 

What? 

"Yes!" Dennis cheers, releasing you as he pumps both his fists with a wide grin of childish delight.  "I'm gonna tell Nadir!" 

And then Dennis is speeding away, crashing into Jack who's making his way toward you with two red solo cups in his hands.  He doesn't even apologize, bolting away for the group of kids playing.  Jack only shakes his head, looking up and smiling wide when he spots you.  He offers you one of the cups. 

"There you are!  Sorry, I got a little caught up," he says quietly, pressing his side to yours.  "Here: I got you a water." 

"Jack!  I didn't realize you got a girlfriend!  And she's so cute, too!" Dennis's mother says, leaning into you.  You force yourself steady, trying not to curl into your skin and disappear like you want to and smile tightly.  "Hi, I'm Clara!  Sunshine, was it?  And my wife, Tammy, is around here... somewhere," she says, smiling wide and offering a hand, glancing around for her partner. 

"Uh, yeah, nice to meet you," you greet back, giving her hand a quick shake.  "Sorry, I didn't mean for him to invite me over, you don't have to..." 

"No, no, it's perfectly fine!" she reassures, bumping you with her hip.  "Oh Jack, your fan club will be so disappointed that you finally got a main squeeze."  Clara affectionately shoves Jack on the shoulder as he blushes. 

"Well, I'm not his girlfriend-  Wait, fan club?" 

Jack flushes, looking pleased if a little timid.  "She's talking about the PTA moms," he says with embarrassment.  "They're a little... much." 

"They look at him like rabbits look at carrots," she replies, giggling a little. 

"Yikes." 

Somewhere along the way as the three of you chat, occasionally slipping away for a refill, the circle of people gets a little wider and that's when you start to crumble. 

Small talk is agonizing. 

"So, your name is Sunshine?  Is that your birth name?" one of the other neighbors asks curiously with his hand on his wife's hip. 

"Issued by the government," you lie with a shrug.  Jack bites his lip next to you. 

Clara nods like this isn't a joke, and very believable.  "That's so cute." 

You stare.  Is she...  Making fun of you?  Or is she trying to be nice?  Whatever.  Either way, you don't really care about her opinion on your Jack-assigned nickname.  It's not like you give a shit about a person you've just met.  "So then.  Sunshine.  What do you do for fun?"   

"Uh, I don't know.  Nothing?  I'm working a lot right now to get settled, so I kind of don't have time for hobbies, right now.  I mean..." you struggle, glancing at Jack, panicking. 

"Well, that's not completely true; you read a lot," Jack rescues, smiling down at you encouragingly. 

"Oh yeah, I guess that's true." 

"Really?  What's your favorite book?" asks Clara excitedly, a gleam in her eye. 

"Um...  Probably, The Last Unicorn ," you say, without thinking.  "It's just got a lot of good quotes that put things in perspective for me and helped me get a philosophy of my own to live by at a young age." 

Clara wraps a pink curl around her finger, leaning in.  "Really?  I've never heard of that...  What's it about?" 

"Take a wild guess," you reply, deadpan. 

Her cheeks flush in embarrassment and immediately you want to blow your brains out, until you hear a muffled chuckle beside you.  Turning, you see that Jack is trying and failing to smother his laughter, a gloved hand politely covering his smile, though it does nothing to hide the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he opens them. 

Trying not to look too pleased, you turn back to Clara. "What about you?" 

"Oh it has to be Summer ?  You know, the Gannett book that came out a few years back?" 

You shrug.  "Sorry, never heard of it." 

"Seriously?  Have you been living under a rock?"  She laughs a little incredulously.  When you shrug she continues on.  "Well, did you know there's a book club at the library?" Clara says, trying to regain her footing in the conversation. 

Nodding, you reply, "Yeah, Sue mentioned that.  I might join later.  The end of the year is kind of busy for me with the holidays coming up." 

"That's right, HarFest is coming up soon!  Is everyone going?" 

You try to slip into the conversation a few more times, but it's not easy.  They aren't purposefully excluding you (you don't think, but maybe they are) but sometimes when you say something, you don't get acknowledged more than a sideways look and a smile or pity laugh.  Somehow worse than that is when you just get flatly ignored.  When you raise your voice a little, thinking maybe you were too quiet, you just get a look that says, Yeah, we heard you.  We didn't have anything to say to that.  The conversation moved on.  Let it go.   It wasn't deliberately mean, or at least it wasn't the kind you knew how to deal with.  Handling shouting or cruel remarks was something that was old hat for you; but this quietly dismissive energy was draining.  It makes your mouth dry up until you just stand there listening to the conversation happen around you, a miserable feeling in your stomach.  Vomiting your lungs would be less painful, and when you look over for Jack, he's deep in conversation with a couple of people a little further from you.  He's smiling, laughing with them, and for some reason it makes your heart sink lower, feeling guilty for not having as much fun as he seems to be. 

Eventually you give up, slipping away for another drink.  There's a couple large coolers set up, but there's no indication of what's in them.  Sighing, you fill the glass with half of each.  At least if it's gross then it won't be so bad, but one of them is obviously water and the other is some sort of half-carbonated lemon-lime thing that's closer to lemonade in flavor but is slightly blue.  When you take a break of feeling bad to go to the bathroom, you're halfway amazed to find it has a surprisingly universal, ocean theme, with the little sea creatures immersed in candlewax and all.  It's just like you would see in an old person's home.  The sight makes you suddenly homesick, wishing you could be around people you already knew, and not struggling to connect like you were. 

This wasn't like the parties you'd gone to in college, where connections were superfluous and ever changing, and it wasn't the annoying high class parties you'd go to with your ex where everyone was scrambling to network and win brownie points after a movie premier, either.  Everyone here knew each other already, had an investment in each other's lives, and although you recognized a good number of them from fixing their sink, or pool, or flickering lightbulbs, walking their dog, mowing their grass and what-not, every time you drifted close to a group to try and join in the conversation shifted to some event you missed or had no idea about, or someone's family member.  The cultural difference had never felt wider between you and them.  You had spent so long just trying to adjust to the world that you really hadn't had much time to socialize, outside of the small circle of Jack's friends you'd been involved in. 

Sighing the loneliness out of your lungs, you elect to sit down on an abandoned picnic blanket under some shade.  Blessedly, Sam and another dog (a green and white English bulldog with a blue collar that tells you his name is Buster) end up running over, swarming you and stepping all over you with dirty puppy paws.  It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when a dog is stomping your legs in excitement for pets.  It doesn't take long before you're a bit hotter with the dogs panting as they lay on top of your legs, worn out from running all over.  Forcing yourself to be satisfied with people watching, you sit and nurse your fizzy drink as you pet the dogs. 

"Hey," a voice chirps behind you.  Turning, you realize it's Jack, crouching down to sit next to you on the picnic blanket.   

"Hey."  Turning back to the dogs, you flip Buster's ear inside out.  He flicks it, and it settles back to its usual shape. 

"What are you doing all by yourself?" Jack asks, voice sweet and low with concern as he sits down next to you under the tree.  Sam stretches out so that his legs are within petting distance and Jack obliges, scratching his hock. 

"I don't think I'm cut out for this," you mutter.  Despite "I'm not really...  I don't think anyone likes me here," you admit, looking over the crowd of neighbors reluctantly.  You sigh, stomach sinking.  "And I keep fucking up and looking like an asshole." 

"You do not!  They love you!" he quickly reassures, his voice hitting that forced sweet tone you hate. 

You scoff.  "They hardly know me.  I've barely been able to get a word in." 

"Well, Claire was just talking about how she was excited to know you were joining the book club.  So you've at least made one.  Don't be so hard on yourself," he encourages, looking over at the others, still talking.  They wave to Jack and he waves back.  "Come on.  You wanted to make some more friends, right?  It's not hard!  You just have to open up a little and give people a chance to see how great you are on the inside!" 

You scoff, shaking your head as you lean against the tree.  "Easy for you to say.  Everybody likes you.  Your insides are good ." 

Jack gives you a pitying look that immediately pisses you off.  "Your insides are good too!"  At your flat look, he insists, "They are!  Do you not believe that?" 

Staring out at the people laughing and playing games.  That could be you right now.  Why the fuck are you sitting around like a loser?  They're human beings.  Why can't you just go up and talk to them?  Why do your insides squirm and drop low in your stomach?  In your mind, you are so funny and smart.  So why is it when you open your mouth it's like a sewer line opens up and trash falls out, polluting the conversation?  "I'll believe that maybe you believe that." 

"Sunshine..." 

His puppy dog eyes are unbearable.  The laces of your boots are suddenly really interesting.  "Look, it doesn't matter.  I'm just gonna sit here with the mutts," you mutter, avoiding his eyes.  Which is true: it really doesn't matter.  Smart and funny and very genuinely nice people are overlooked all the time.  Whether your insides were good or not, whether you believed they were or weren't was all irrelevant to this simple fact: Humans will dislike anything for arbitrary reasons, and that included other people.

Your melancholy train of thought is disrupted by your friend.  "Then I'll stay with you," Jack says loyally, crossing his legs and settling against the tree.  He tries to press his arm to you, but the spikes of your jacket dig into him, forcing a slight distance between the two of you. 

"You don't have to do that," you protest, but Jack raises a hand to cut you off with a small smile. 

"There's no one else I'd rather be here with," he says earnestly.  "I need a break anyways."  At your disbelieving stare, Jack gives you a much more believable, tired smile.  "Really!" he insists.  "I get tired of talking too, sometimes!" 

Well, you'd never force him to leave, even if you don't think you have a right to make him stay; so you don't.  The two of you sit on the blanket together with the worn out dogs, talking quietly.  Jack finds a deck of cards somewhere, so you try and teach him to play a modified version of Uno that he picks up quickly. 

"What are you two doing off by yourselves?  You're usually the life of the party, Jack," comes a familiar voice. 

Looking up, you squint, the sun in your eyes.  "Hey, Rory!  What's up?  Oh wow, I don't think I've ever seen you out of uniform.  It feels weird seeing you in just a tee and jeans.  I was starting to believe you didn't own any other clothes." 

"Ha ha, you're hilarious," he says in his usual monotone. 

"Hey, brother!  What's going on?" Jack chirps next to you, giving him a half hug. 

Rory settles down next to Jack, his back in the sun.  "Not much." 

"Good to see you!  Sunshine was just feeling a little anxious, so we're taking a break." 

"I was thinking I might head back in a bit," you admit.  Jack turns to you with a startled, pleading expression on his face but you just smile.  "I'm kind of worn out, and I'm not really feeling myself right now, you know?" 

"Well, before you go...  Hmm...  Jack, have you seen Sylvia and Akshar?  She'd like them, and Akshar was talking about starting a band, wasn't he?" Rory asks, tipping his head to you.  "You play guitar, right?  He's a drummer, and Sylvia plays bass, so you should definitely talk to him if you haven't already." 

Shrugging, you reply, "Honestly, I can't really remember anyone's names...  Too many people here." 

"Well now that you mention it... Wait, where's Jane?  She said she was going to bring you?" Jack asks, looking thoughtful. 

Rory rolls his eyes, uncharacteristically looking a bit emotional.  "I know better than to get in a car with her.  I just walked.  She should be here any-" 

"DID SOMEBODY SAY 'JANE'?!" 

"Whoa, nice suit!" you say, more than a little impressed.  Jane, who had somehow snuck up on the three of you, has on a bright cherry stage style suit like she's a ringmaster with white lapels and a rainbow petaled flower in the buttonhole.   "Holy shit, nice boots too!  Bitch, what the fuck!  I hate you!"  Her boots are white pointed-toe western riding boots that are bedazzled in clear crystals, reflecting enough light to blind a horse. 

Jane has a startle look that switches to momentary confusion, but it melts quickly at the sight of your grin.  "Oh, are you jealous ?  Jealous of my fa-a-a-abulous boots ?!" she coos, pulling her slack's leg up enough to show it off.  She pivots her heel this way and that so it blinds you every two seconds. 

"Yeah, man, those rock!  Where the hell did you get them?" 

Passing your drink to Jack, you lean forward to get a better look, admiring them when Jack asks, "Wait, Sunshine, what are you drinking?  Did you get this from the blue cooler?" 

Managing to tear your eyes from Daisy's blinding boots, you look over at Jack looking down at your solo with dawning panic on his face.  "Uh...  I don't know, probably?  Maybe?  Yeah... yeah I think so.  Why?" 

"Sunshine, this is giggle water!  That drink We talked about the other day?" he blusters, cheeks turning pink. 

"Oh.  Shit."  Your eyes flick between the cup and Jack's mortified face.  "Uh, so I've had like... six of those, so I feel like if anything bad was going to happen it already would have-" 

“Six?!"  Jack's eyes bulge.  "You're only supposed to have two or three!"  His voice raises high   "How do you feel?  Are you okay?  Do you want to go to the hospital?  Come on, let me help you up-" 

"Whoa, whoa!  Hey, I'm fine!  I feel fine!  I thought you said it wasn't poison?" you say, letting out a nervous laugh, shooting the others an embarrassed look from the corner of your eye.  Jack has grabbed your hand in a fierce grip, clutching you tighter as you try and wrestle out of his hands or at least tug him back down. 

Jack looks down from where he's halfway stood up, the summer breeze tousling his hair out of perfection and into his face.  He looks like he's just seen his dog get run over, a terrorized look on his face and chest heaving with quick breaths.  He fixes it a second later and he's back to being pretty and perfect and reasonable.  "We said we'd have you try it at the doctor's, in a controlled environment.  It's not poison but what if you get sick?  We don't know how this will affect you!" 

"I'm not sick, I told you!  I feel fine.  It actually tastes pretty good, too," you sooth, patting his knee as you finally manage to tug him down from where he's crouched over you timidly.  "I'm fine.  Promise." 

Jack gives you a small, worried smile and opens his mouth before he's cut off by his sister.  "Don't listen to him!  Jack's such a worry-wart!" Jane rolls her eyes, slinging an arm around your shoulder and wincing when the spikes dig into her.  As much as it pains you to do so, you shrug your jacket off and let her, momentarily getting a bit of attention for your tattoos, melting the tense atmosphere.  Although, every time you look over at Jack, he has a neatly clipped smile to flash you that's too full of reassurance to be genuine. 

Eventually, the dogs run off to start another game of chase and meander around the party, stealing hot dogs and pissing on fold-out tables.  Clara ends up stopping by again, sitting down and introducing you to her wife Tammy.  You can now see where Dennis gets his fashion sensibilities from, because Tammy is the first person that's close to alternative that you've seen in this world.  The side of her head is shaved with bright, candy-apple red hair and a denim jacket with a million buttons, patches, and pins over top a black shirt with a spiderweb pattern.  She looks a bit odd sitting next to Clara, who's all soft cardigan and flowy skirt, but you think you and Jack look much the same as them most of the time.  The contrast is cute, and you find you actually do kind of like Clara.  You hope she isn't actually talking shit. There's also another couple that comes and goes that seem friendly with your friends, so you don't protest when the little picnic blanket starts to get too crowded for your tastes.   A couple people end up giving you hugs you try to reciprocate for politeness sake, but they're so quick they're off before you know it. 

It isn't long before your lonely mood fades, the buffer of your friends keeping the conversation involving you leaving you much more at ease.  You can make jokes and know people will laugh, at least.  Although you aren't a fan of how touchy-feely everyone here is, you try and stick it out, letting them touch you like you don't want to claw your skin off and give it to the dogs to play tug-of-war with.  Try and laugh along with them for jokes you don't think are all that funny.  Slowly, you start to melt a little, feeling like maybe you could like this.  Maybe.  Less people, you think, or just more you know and like. 

"Ooh, I like your rings," Tammy says, holding out a hand.  Instinctively, you put yours in hers, not touching and just hovering above.  She looks over the cheap silver, examining the eyes, the satanic goat's heads, the wolf, the skull.  "But none on the ring finger?  Interesting..."  Someone might mistake it for being flirty, but you're not an idiot.  You know an interrogation when you hear it.

"Not anymore," you reply dryly, taking an innocuous sip of giggle water. 

"Oh, no?  What happened?"  Clara pauses suddenly and her face goes a little pale, then she flushes.  "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry.  You don't have to say if you don't want to".  Still, even as she says this, she takes your hand and pats it, leaning closer as if to listen in to a secret. 

"Oh, you mean is he dead?" you ask bluntly, taking your hand back and wrapping it pointedly in your jacket folded up on your lap.  The spikes tug at the cotton of your dress,   She seems shocked at your words and lowers her hands (now empty), but you continue, as careless as you can.  "Nah, but I bet he wishes he was.  I divorced my ex-husband like... two...?  Three...?  Yeah, three years ago now". 

Jack suddenly starts choking beside you.  Rory claps him on the back, his wide eyes flicking frantically between the two of you.  "You okay there, J?" you ask, amused yet worried. 

He turns to look at you, bent over and eyes wild.  His cheeks are flush with effort to clear his throat.  "You were married ?!" he gasps. 

Now it's your turn to be confused.  "Yeah?  Why?" 

"You never told me!" he says, voice a little louder, a little high.  A couple people look over from their conversations at the outburst, not quite paying attention but now alert that something is going on in your shady corner of the backyard.  Giggle water drips down Jack's chin from his lips like pink drool.   His eyes are wide like a deer in the headlights under his no longer perfect blue hair.  All you can see is yourself reflected back in them like dark mirrors. 

You shrug helplessly.  "You never asked!  And besides, it's not really something I like to talk about.  Ian and I parted on pretty bad terms".  Defenses rising, you furrow your brow even as you lay a hesitant hand on his back.  "Are you okay?" 

Jack straightens up, stiffening, grabbing a napkin and quickly wiping his mouth.  "I'm okay!  Do you want another drink?  I think I'm going to go get one," Jack says, standing up suddenly before walking off without waiting for an answer, leaving you bewildered and staring after him as he slips back into the house around two kids, sprinting as they chase each other. 

Looking back to the group.  "What was that about?" you ask, but they seem as surprised as you do. 

"I've never seen him act like that before," Tammy replies, brows furrowed in stunned confusion. 

"Okay, so it wasn't just me".  Relief mingles with worry as you glance back at the door.  Tipping your head back, you finish off the giggle water, watching worriedly for Jack to return as you idly chat with the others.  He's gone for a while before he walks carefully back, shoulders back and a distant smile on his face.  You smile back at him as he sits down but it's like he's staring through you.  Turning back, you see everyone staring at the two of you.  "Uh, sorry, Tammy, you asked something right?  What was it?  I don't remember." 

"I was asking if you think you'd ever get married again," Tammy clarifies, arm around her wife's shoulders as Clara sneakily bends Tammy's straw to sip.   

Jack takes a sip of his own and you can't help but feel as though you're under scrutiny, or that he's listening very carefully, despite not looking at you.  "Well, yeah I mean, why not?  It's not like I don't believe in love anymore or anything like that.  It would just have to be to the right person".  It's the truth, quite wholly, although well-rehearsed.  It's something a lot of people ask when they find out you're divorced; they want to know how jaded you are.  If love is as cruel as it is sweet.  It's the answer you can only draw after spending so long in love, even having lost it.  "It's worth the chance of getting hurt again, I think". 

"Of course," Clara agrees, smiling wide.  "It would have to be the right person".  She agrees and pats your elbow. 

"Besides, I can always divorce them later.  After you do it once, it's not such a big deal," you finish, somewhat joking but also not really.  It gets an uneasy laugh. 

"Well, there's plenty of people available here, if you want to get back in the field!" the guy you can't remember the name of says, clapping a hand on your shoulder in a friendly manner.  "Sabrina knows everyone, so I bet she could play matchmaker and find you someone you'll get along with". 

"Ooh, yes!" (apparently) Sabrina cheers, clapping a little.  "What's your type?" he asks, leaning in as Jack starts quietly wrestling with Jane in the corner of your vision, fighting over something as siblings do. 

"Someone that says yes," you deadpan, getting a small but more genuine laugh from your little group. 

"Oh, come on now!  There has to be some sort of preference you have?" Sabrina presses, leaning in a little.  She holds her red solo cup from the bottom, like a wine glass. 

Shrugging your shoulders your mouth moves as words tumble off your tongue.  "Not really.  Having a common interest or liking and disliking the same things isn't all that important to me.  If they're honest and loyal, then the rest is just confetti."  You sip your drink, muttering into the cup, "Especially with how shit went south last time." 

"And... how did things end with your ex-husband?  If you don't mind my asking," Sabrina asks, eyes gleaming. 

Smiling tightly, you reply, "I actually do mind, and I'd rather not discuss it.  Thanks". 

Sabrina flushes, clearly a bit flustered at being turned down so firmly right away.  "I'm sorry, I really didn't-" 

"It's fine.  Forget it". 

Clara saves you all from the momentary awkward silence you'd driven them all into by asking, "Well, there has to be some type you like, right?" 

Drumming your fingers on your knee, you give it some thought.  Thinking about preferences had been hard when you'd finally decided to get back out there after the divorce was finalized and you were your own person again.  It had been really hard, because it had always been Ian; you'd loved him as long as you'd known him, which had been the majority of your life.  The two of you had gotten together just before middle school.  Being with Ian had been inevitable in the same way gravity pulled things down.  In the years of high school when your peers were figuring out their preferences in a life partner, you and him had been busy getting into each other's pants as much as possible, having already done the hard part.  Being thrust into the dating world in your late twenties after no real experience in experimenting outside of a single person had been difficult to say the least, and you had to quickly get calluses on your ego after a few many rejections and terrible dates that went nowhere. 

"Sunshine...?" Rory says smally.  Beside you, Jack knocks a solo back and Jane calls him a thief. 

Shaking yourself out of your melancholy daze, you shrug helplessly, looking around as you try to scrounge up ideas.  "I don't know, I just...  I want someone who's going to be my best friend."  She gives you another bland look of irritation so you scramble for something.  "...I like... long hair?  I guess?"  It's not exactly a lie, but looking at your history, it was definitely a pattern. 

She sighs.  "Well, it's something, I suppose." 

"Sunshine," Rory says again, a little more insistent this time. 

"Yeah, sorry, what's up?  ...Oh.  Uh, sorry guys, I think it's time for us to split." 

Jack is staring into the distance in an entirely concerning manner.  Jane is waving her hand in front of his face.   The guy doesn't blink, doesn't move at all for a second before he tips his solo cup and drinks the entire thing in one long draught.  When did he refill it?  You didn't see.   

There's a sting in your gut, an old instinct that picks up on some unseen signal, like you learned to taste ultraviolet light.  It's obvious that Jack isn't himself right now, but there's something nagging at you that tells you that Jack doesn't want to be seen like this.  He's a thread away from doing something .  You don't know what it is, but you know he doesn't want other people looking when he finally snaps and does it. 

"Okay.  Hey.  Hey, buddy."  You snap your fingers and Jack quickly locks his eyes on you.  There's the usual film of plastic over his features: the smile and the eyes crinkled but just behind it you can see something feral about to claw its way out.  "I wanna go home.  You ready?" 

Jack keeps his little smile on his face.  "Whatever you want, Sunshine," he says sweetly and you grimace.  It's pure sugar, nothing real.  Empty calories in sugar-bottle words.  "We can go if you like." 

"Yup.  I really, really want to go.  Right now.  Let's get out of here," you say, trying not to let your voice shake, so people don't know how freaked out this numb doll with your friend's face is making you.  He's wound so, so tight, cinched up tight and sitting proper and perfect.  You feel even weirder when it's just Rory and Jane that notice, the others on the blanket returning to their conversations and laughter without so much as a glance back.  It really fucking pisses you off for some reason, makes the blood in your veins boil with so much hate it nearly stuns you. 

"Sorry guys, I think it's time for us to head home.  We'll see you later, okay?" you call in a clipped measure that leaves no room for argument.  You slip a hand around Jack's waist and tug his arm over your shoulder.  He doesn't put his weight on you, just lets you guide him around, lead him by the nose like a big, blue maned horse that's old and broken in.  Rory and Jane go to get up but you shake your head, giving Jack's empty, happy look a wary stare before you look back down and find your worry mirrored back to you.  "It's fine, I've got him.  I'll call you when I get him put up, okay?"   you murmur quietly to them

Jane nearly gets up, but Rory tugs her back down and whispers something to her that has her begrudgingly settling back into her seat.  "Take care of him, please," Jane says quietly, uncharacteristically serious. You only nod silently. 

"Alright, you two have a good night then!" Someone calls behind you, careless in tone and that thick blooded, hateful feeling is back. 

You slowly slip through the party, leading Jack who walks with you, eyes far away even as the two of you say your goodbyes.  Jack gives hugs and laughs and pats people on the back but it's so mechanical and unfeeling that you're surprised when no one seems to notice.  He moves fluidly, each hug and high five and laugh goodbye is devoid of any kind of spirit.  There's nothing behind it but the thick concrete of a thousand foot thick wall with something trying to dig its way out, and failing by a thread.  How can they not see the plastic? 

So you get out.  You don't know how, but the two of you do.  The laughter and music and the TV and kids screaming cuts off the second the door closes, only distant and in the backyard. 

Almost immediately, Jack's shoulders start shaking and panic grips you tight around the heart.  You need to act yesterday.  

"Hey, hey, it's okay," you whisper, hand slipped around his waist.  He's still upright, but everything is tight in his body.  You can feel the steel in his back and it makes you ache somewhere inside.  His face is frozen in the mask, stuck in a painted-on smile.  "Let's get home and I'll make you something warm.  That sound good?"  

Jack nods but you don't think he's actually heard you, so you just quickly tug him across the grass to his house, ignoring the sprinklers going off around you.  Slipping inside, you frantically get your shoes off and manage to tug Jack's off as well.  You get him all the way to the couch and he's still got that scary, fake look on his face, and it looks even weirder when his hair is plastered to his face and water is soaking through his clothes.  Waving your hand in front of his face, snapping your fingers does nothing, and it isn't until you get so frustrated you actually slap him that you get a response.  "Jack!" you snap, hoping you don't sound as scared as you feel. 

It's not even a real hit; it was mostly just noise; but somehow, it wakes him out of his daze. 

He stops. 

He looks straight at you. 

He bursts into tears. 

It happens so fast and all at once that you're stunned but goddammit, you're nothing if not quick on your feet in a crisis.  You're trying desperately to help him calm down, rubbing him with the towel, making his hair even more a mess than it was, rumpling his wet clothes while he sits miserably on the couch like a sad dog after a bath.  "Hey, it's okay.  It's okay, Jack.  Let it out.  There you go.  Good boy.  That's it.  You're gonna be okay," you murmur to him, trying to keep yourself soft and sweet, hiding just how freaked the fuck out you are by his sudden collapse. 

He's still sniffling and sobbing, tears flooding down his face and nose dripping into the towel a long while later, the sadness at least coming in waves now.  "Hey.  Deep breath.  You're okay."  Patting his back through the towel.  He curls in on himself and you feel so lost, you don't know what the fuck to do .  Jack has never been anything but sweet and smiles, if a little fake about it occasionally.  Is this what was behind that mask you wanted so desperately to tear off the entire time?  He looks so pathetic, damp and shivering with tears, rubbing his face into a towel.  "Can you tell me what's wrong?" 

He starts crying even more now and in worry, you throw your jacket somewhere across the floor when it sticks too much to your skin and crouch down, kneeling on the carpet by his feet so you can see his face.  He's curled so much into himself that for such a big man, he seems remarkably small.  He looks up from the towel with his big, watery, wounded puppy eyes and just keeps crying.  You take his hands in yours even though they're covered in tears and snot from crying and look up at him, probably looking like a confused, sad pet yourself.  "It's okay, big guy.  You're alright.  Please, just tell me what's wrong so I can fix it?" 

"W-w-w-" 

Here we go.  Here comes a bit of explanation for the rampant sobbing and sudden hysteria.  This you can handle, not wordless sobs. 

"W-w-w-why'd you let them touch you?" 

Whatever you expected him to ask, that is not it.  "What?" you ask, completely dumbfounded, but he's drowning in sobs again while you look up at him with what you're sure is a stupid expression. 

"Y-y-y-you just-" he sniffles, coughing out sobs like plumes of ash from a fire slowly suffocating inside him.  "You l-l-let them hug you.  W-w-why didn't-  I wanted one!" 

What the fuck?  What is he- 

The cup.  

"Jack, how much did you have to drink?" you ask, hackles slowly lowering.  Now this is familiar.  "You were drinking that crap too, right?  How much?  How many cups?" 

It takes a bit of consoling to get him out of the sobs, when he finally whispers, "Please don't be mad at me."  

You take his head in your hands and make him look at you with his teary, snotty face.  "I promise not to be mad," you swear and it's not even a lie.  You're too freaked out with this sudden flood of tears to be angry with this small little ragdoll that doesn't look anything like the pressed and perfect Jack that you're used to seeing.  Seeing this soggy mess of a man feels wrong somehow.  You know instinctively that if Jack were in his right mind he would hate it, hate that you are seeing him like this, but it feels like you've finally seen something raw and real from him.  Even when the two of you were alone, even in the bathroom that night you had played your fingers bloody he had been trying to keep himself pretty and perfect, but now that armor has crumbled and he's sitting before you, looking pathetic but real.   "Now tell me.  How many cups?" 

Jack looks suddenly like he's being scolded and his eyes drop to your lips then down at the floor before meeting your eyes again.  "F...four..." he replies timidly, sniffling. 

Sighing, you let him go and he hangs his head.  "Jack, you just told me you're only supposed to have, like, three.  Why did you do that?"  Unable to help sounding exasperated, you rub your temples. 

"Y-y-y-you like everyone else m-m-m-more than me!" Jack sobs uncontrollably.  Your heart twists in pity, but your nose scrunches in disgust.  "I-I-I t-thought it w-would help me keep smiling..." 

"Jack, you're being ridiculous," you sigh, prying a hand from the knot of towel to hold.  He squeezes it so tightly you'd think that you were about to disintegrate.  "I've known them for like, less than a day.  How could I ever like them more than you?"  

"You... you let them touch you though," he whimpers, giving you a rueful look, like a toddler that had gotten its favorite toy taken away.  "You didn't let me touch you for a month ."  He's fucking sulking.   Sulking because to him you were this skittish little cat that wouldn't let him touch your matted black fur but let the neighbor pull your tail.

"Yeah, because I need them to like me, or at least not hate me.  Gotta pretend to be well adjusted," you explain, patting his knee as you pull yourself up on the couch.  "Look, if I really liked them more than you, I would have made you go home by yourself and stayed behind at that stupid barbeque."  He doesn't say anything, just curls in on himself, trying to hide in the towel.  "...I'll be right back.  Stay put.  Drink your tea." 

Sighing, you stand up and make your way back to your room.  You're quickly shucking your dress and slipping back into a long-sleeved shirt and the borrowed sweats he's given you, slipping into the bathroom to take off your makeup.  When you come back, Jacks still crying a bit, sniffling pathetically with the towel over his head and shoulders like a hood. 

"You do hate me," Jack mumbles quietly, voice warbling through sadness as you come close again.  "I know you do," he's mumbling over and over to himself.  Your heart squirms in your chest. 

"Jay, we've been through this.  Of course I don't hate you.  Don't be ridiculous," you say gently, rubbing his back gently as he cries himself out.  "Come on.  Let's get you to bed so you can lay down at least, alright?" Cajoling him into standing up.   Slowly, clumsily, with limbs splaying and wobbling with every step like a deliriously sad newborn deer, the two of you manage to navigate the house, trying to guide him with a hand around his hip.  Trying to remember which room is Jack's based on the one time he dragged you through to his bathroom, you sling his arm around your shoulder and take his weight on one side, using one foot to kick each door open.  It doesn't take long to find his room at the end of the hall, to the right of an old grandfather clock.   

"It's because of what I did, isn't it?" Jack sniffles, his eyes shiny like marbles in the dark of his room.  "It's all my fault!" 

Taking a deep breath, you sigh, waddling him over to his bed and sitting him down with a heavy thump.  Instead of his usual upright sit, Jack slouches as though his spine has melted, and you have to keep a hand on him to keep him upright.  "I have no idea what you're talking about, dude, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is, isn't a big deal.  Come on.  Arms up.  Let me get you into something dry," you sooth.  Thankfully the first drawer you open is sweatshirts which is good enough for you. 

When you turn around he's fumbling with his polo, his mumbling muffled by the fabric.  The bottom of it lifts up, revealing his stomach with that little blue strip of a happy trail.  Your mouth dries up, but you make yourself move, helping him gently untangle his clumsy limbs before shoving the dandelion sweatshirt you grabbed over his head. 

"But it is," he refuses, shaking his head.  "You should hate me...  I'm a... I'm a bad person".  It comes out of his mouth like he's pulling his own teeth, yanking them out of his head and licking in the bloody crater where it used to be.  He looks a miserable mess now.  His hair is even worse with the shirt change, ruffled and fluffed, half dry from the sprinkler, with eyes bloodshot from crying, leaving pretty bruised circles of stress that make him look even more like a soggy, sad hound.  He's shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm and it's doing unfortunate things to your gut.  You're a nightmare of a person.  Jack is beside himself with despair, sobbing his little heart out in a drunk-cry about how much you must hate him, and all you can think about is how you'd like to give him a different reason to cry.  You should be taken out back and shot.  Why are you like this?  Why do you always like when pretty, put-together guys turn into disasters? 

Why do you like breaking nice things?

You sigh, pulling the sweatshirt down to shield your eyes from his pretty body before you memorize it.  "No you're not.  Cut that out," you tell him a little stiffly, awkward.  Although Jack had been fairly open in the past with you, it occurs to you now how practiced it was, how obviously it was regurgitated therapy-speech.  And it had all been focused on you; although Jack asked for things like for you to spend time with him, or once in a while his input on what the two of you should have for dinner, Jack didn't particularly ask for things for himself.   

He's been hiding his wants behind a thousand tons of concrete, and you knew he had walls, but you assumed it was normal anxious guilt about him having a crush on you or something equally embarrassing.  Now he's having a mental breakdown, crying his poor little heart out for you, all because this whole time he's been wanting a hug and felt guilty about asking for it, while everyone else you didn't even care about got one because you were trying to follow his own advice and open up.  He's been seething, simmering in jealousy this whole time because of his own unselfish actions.  The entire situation is so tragic it's nearly comedic, but the sobbing from Jack just melts everything inside you into something liquid and warm with affection. 

Reality snaps back as Jack falls to the side on his bed, rubbing his face on the pillow.  "I just want..." Jack sniffles, breaking off with a hiccup.  "I just want to give you everything you want," he says in a small voice.  "I wish I knew what that was...  Nothing I do ever makes you happy, no matter how hard I try.  Why do you always like everyone else more than me?  F-f-first Rory... a-and then Cloudy and Jane... and Knack...  W-w-what's w-wrong w-with me?" he sobs, voice wobbling so hard you almost can't pick out his words.  Jack tips his face to the side and he's already a mess.  His face damp with tears and sweat, nose running.  Snorting loudly he looks up at you, pathetically sprawled on the   "Why can't I have you?  I'v-v-ve ne-never had a problem get-getting someone to like me before-re...  I don't know w-what to do!" He bawls, sobbing into the cotton as he knots his fingers in his pillow and blankets.  His face is flushed and teary, cheeks wet and eyes shining in the dim light like the shiny, plastic ones they use for stuffed animals.  "Why don't you like me?" 

"I like you," you say dumbly, heart twisting in regret, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  "Of course I like you.  How could I not like you ?"  Your hand hovers in the air, unsure where to lay it, if at all. 

"It's because I'm bad, isn't it?"  It comes out as a whimper, soft and childish in the dark. 

“You're not a bad person," you tell him, trying to be soothing, but failing utterly. 

"Yes I am!  You're stuck here because of me," he cries uselessly. 

Nose scrunching in disgust, you take a really good look at him, face wet and buried in his pillow.  He keeps stealing glances of you like you're the only real thing in the room, or maybe in his drunken, anxious mind, you're the only real thing that ever existed.  Sighing, you rub your brow tiredly, unable to make sense of his anxieties. 

"Jack.  It's fine.  It's all fine.  Okay?  I'm not anywhere I don't want to be right now.  You're not a bad person.  You're just a little selfish and kind of a liar.  And you get jealous.  That doesn't mean you're a bad person.  It just means you're kind of stupid," you reply with exasperated affection, petting his head.  "And we're all kind of stupid most of the time.  If you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask.  I'd have hugged you." 

Jack mumbles something into the pillow you don't catch. 

"What?  Dude, pull your face out of the fucking blankets, I can't hear you."  Leaning forward doesn't help, his voice only growing quieter.  Rolling your eyes, you sigh and pull his head up, tipping it to the side so you can hear him.  His eyes are closed and he's blinking slowly.  "There you go, stupid.  Speak, dingus." 

"I heard you... I heard you singing," Jack mumbles, hiccupping between sobs.  "You...  I thought you were an angel...  So beautiful..." 

Sighing, you pat his head reassuringly.  His hair is really soft.  "That's nice buddy.  Maybe you should take a nap, okay?" 

Ignoring you, Jack continues mumbling, none of it really making much sense before you hear your name escape his lips.  "Suuun-shiiiineee..." He sings off key, voice warbling and soggy. 

"Yeah?" 

Jack emits a petulant noise of some kind, moaning and mumbling, burying his face deeper into the blankets as if to burrow. 

"What?" You question, a little louder, turning your head to try and hear better. 

"I can't remember...  I don't remember the words...  Can't do it how you did..."  He mumbles, seemingly already half asleep.  "Suuuunshine...  Sunshiiiiiine.... Mmmm...  Sweet...  Sweet love..." 

"I can't...  Don't mind...  Tell anymore..." Jack mumbles, breathing slowing down. 

"Just go to sleep, you big baby."  Sighing, you shush him one last time, rubbing his back.  Slowly, trying not to disturb him, you get up.  Tip-toeing through the house, you bring him back a glass of water you set on the bedside table with a bottle of painkillers you found in his bathroom for whatever otherworldly type of hangover he might get from giggle water.  Unable to help yourself, you glance back down one last time before you leave. 

He looks so pretty, sleep mussed and broken, like a bird that fell out of a tree.  Jack has curled himself up to take up the least amount of space on his king-size bed, looking smaller than you've ever seen him.  His weepy words of insecurity ring in your ears, thunderous and stormy with an ache for comfort. 

Your chest hurts so much, but it helps you walk away. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, breakfast is on the table, but Jack is nowhere to be found. There's eggs and bacon with hash browns like you usually do for Sunday breakfast, but the man himself is inexplicably not around for you to eat together in typical routine.  By the time he does, he's returned dressed in these tiny, cherry red running shorts and tank top that are so wet with sweat that it leaves nothing to the imagination.  You can't even enjoy it really, the anxiety overflowing inside you. 

"Hey.  Good morning," you say, careful and measured, worried you might set him off.  Maybe more crying, or fussy apologies.  Even embarrassment would have been better than that blank look of false happiness he’d had on yesterday.  "How are you feeling?" 

He doesn't say anything, just gives a panting, open-mouthed smile and a nod like everything is fine and pulls some thin headphones you hadn't noticed before with orange foam on the ears off his head and makes his way past you and into his room.  Silently, you eat the prepared breakfast, unable to taste any of it.  Jack returns, rubbing his hair with a towel, pausing in the entry to the hallway.  He rolls it down so the towel lays around his neck and he lets out a sigh of appreciation, back in his usual outfit. 

"Hey.  How are you feeling?" you try again, a little more insistent this time. 

Jack sends you a sparkling smile that makes you a little sick to your stomach.  "Great!  I thought I'd take advantage of the weather now that it's cooling down and ran a couple miles!" he chirps. 

You know you're giving him a worried look, can feel the way your brows are drawn together, but you can't help it.  He just stands there a moment, staring at you, as if daring you to say something.  To insinuate anything other than perfection.   

"Okay..." you say slowly, not believing him for a moment.  Oh, you believed he ran, but you weren't believing everything was fine.  If anything the guy was running from his problems.  "Are you going to... maybe sit down and have breakfast?" 

A couple droplets of water fly from his hair, darkened to just shy of navy from the shower and land in little reflective specks on the wood floor.  "I already ate, thanks," he carries on, perky and cheerful like there's nothing wrong at all. 

"Jack." 

"Hm?" he inquires, looking down at his watch. 

"Jack," you urge again. 

 
"I'm listening.”  His tone is emptily pleasant. 

"Look at me." 

He does.  Jack looks up with that blank-happy look on his face and your stomach turns.  "Yes?" 

"Jack, you're scaring me," you say quietly. 

He looks down at you, eyes flickering momentarily over you, searching, before his smile widens without feeling and his eyes fixate back on yours.  "No you're not.  I've seen you scared," he tells you, about to walk past you back to his room. 

You catch him by the belt loop, leaning over to do it.  When Jack looks down at you, still smiling like a wax figure, you feel so small that it starts to make that fire spark in your gut.  Keeping it down was what you needed to do.  It wouldn't help anything to get pissed right now of all times; so you use it to propel yourself forward because despite what Jack thinks, you are scared, though you're not sure what of. 

"Yes?" he sounds calm.  Maybe he is.  Maybe not. 

"Hey, are we... okay?" You ask slowly. 

Jack looks at you with that uncanny smile on his face and says, "Why wouldn't we be okay?" 

Hesitating, you twist your fingers in the loop of denim a little greedily.  "You seemed... pretty upset yesterday.  I just… I want to make sure you're okay."  Your words come slowly out of your mouth, somewhat afraid of setting Jack off so soon after the two of you had finally started to actually be friendly with one another. 

He twitches.  "Why wouldn't I be okay?" Jack asks, looking perfectly okay, which means he absolutely isn't. 

But what the fuck were you supposed to say to that?  Tapping your foot, you shift uncomfortably, turning to face him more comfortably.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not good at this.  I know we... got off to a rough start, that we have trouble... connecting, sometimes, and I...  I know I get along with everyone else a little..."  You're struggling.  You're heaving buckets out of a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean.  What the fuck are you trying to say?  You don't seem to know, and Jack's plastic smile hasn't shifted an inch, the smooth, blank look perfect and unchipped despite your attempts at his false pleasantness.  You’re fucking this up so bad.  "I'm just...  I'm trying to say..."  Christ, it's like yanking a molar out of your own head.  Why is it so goddamn hard to talk?   He’s a human being for fuck’s sake!  "I know I'm kind of an inconsiderate asshole at times- um, well, maybe all the time, but I didn't-  If you had asked for a hug, I would have given you one," you explain badly. 

"Would you?" Jack says, ice cold and pretty.

"Yes," you reply immediately and with so much vehemence that Jack blinks, though you still can't see anything past his mask.  "I was just...  Trying to be on my best behavior and not act like an asshole, and then when I fucked that up, all I could think about was how I'd...  I'd rather just be home."  You pause, hoping your face isn't as pink as it feels.  "With… you." You have to break eye contact, looking down at your half eaten pancakes and taking a second to gather your courage and take a deep breath before you can look up again and meet his eye with determination.  "You're the only one I even wanted to see at that stupid thing anyways.  Well, other than Rory and Jane, I mean," you add hastily. 

The icy look of polite friendliness finally thaws, the snow sloughing off his face to reveal something real and vulnerable.  It's an echo of last night; jealousy and guilt like cracks of imperfection on an otherwise beautiful marble statue.  It's such a relief to see that you sigh, sagging into your seat, your grip on Jack barely more than your two fingers dangling in weak connection. 

"Anyways, I just... I hope you know that.  Want you to know that-" you stumble, faltering at the end, your courage finally leaving  you.  "-That I care.  Even though I'm not good at showing it." 

Jack's looking at you with this awed expression before it dissolves into soul-rending, tender guilt.  He takes your hand and wrestles your fingers from his belt loops, taking it in both of his.  Fighting instinct, you keep your hand there, watching him carefully.  "Thank you for trusting me.  And... I'm sorry too.  That was..."  An awkward, flushed look crosses his face, the red in his cheeks blurring with the red markings on his face.  "Last night was embarrassing.  I swear, I don't drink that much giggle ever.  It won't ever happen again.  I promise."  The last bit almost sounds like he’s the one begging you, now. 

"Dude, it's totally fine.  I swear.  I'm not going to get mad at you for trying to relax," you tell him, feeling more at ease now that the worst of your part is over.  "And I'm not going to get mad at you for getting mad at me about something silly like this.  I guess we just have to figure out how to talk to each other like adults."  Laughing, you dryly add, "Can you tell we're both the family babies?" 

Jack smiles in acknowledgement, eyes flickering down then back up to meet yours.  "I really am sorry.  I was acting like-  Like an asshole."   The sudden curse makes you blink in surprise, leaning back.  "I'm sorry I made you worry, and you had to walk me home.  And leave early."  The more he adds on, the more Jack seems to sink into himself with shame.  “I just feel awful about the whole thing.  That was your night, and I ruined it.”

"Jay, you didn't make me do anything.  Of course I'd leave early to take you home and worry about you.  You're my friend,” you tell him as gently as you can.

Jack's eyes fill with disbelieving wonder, like he's just seen something rare and beautiful that he can't possibly comprehend.  "I am?  I mean, really I am?" 

"Yes, of course you are!  We've been living together for like, two months!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up.  "You do all this nice shit for me, make me fucking breakfast every day, spend time with me...  If we aren't friends, what the hell would we be?!"  Grumbling, you use Jack's hold on your hands so you can stand up and be eye-to-eye with him. 

Sheepishly, Jack rubs the back of his head, the other still holding yours.  "Well...  I kind of thought you hated me..." 

You snort.  "Yeah, I gathered that," you reply dryly, thinking back to last night when he'd been sobbing his little heart out.  “Though I’ve got no idea how you can think anyone would hate you.  Just talk to me next time instead of bottling that shit up until you cry about it.  It’s way less embarrassing.  Trust me.  I know.”

Clearly giggle water didn't cause black outs, because Jack is flushing even deeper red.  "Right...  Gosh, I am so sorry about that.  That's so embarrassing..." 

Rolling your eyes, you give his hand a squeeze as you smile.  "Don't worry about it.  I've done tons of embarrassing bullshit drunk.  We'll laugh about it when you're ready." 

Jack's cheeks are still red when he takes both of your hands in his and asks shyly, "Can I have one right now then?" 

"Have a what?  Breakfast?" you ask dumbly. 

Jack looks down at you with a boyish look and murmurs with a smile and a soft blush, "No... a hug.  Can I have one?”  There’s a small pause before he hurriedly adds in a hopeful tone, “Please?" 

You blink.  "Oh, yeah, sure, here, let me..."  Carefully, you take your hands back from his grip and pull your jacket off, not wanting to stab him with the metal spikes.  Holding your hands out, you confirm, "Okay, ready now." 

Suddenly looking incredibly anxious, Jack takes the smallest step forward.  "I'm going to do it," he warns. 

You smile.  "Okay." 

Another inch.  "I'm going to hug you," he warns again. 

"I want you to," you reply, not bothering to hide your amusement. 

Another inch.  "Okay.  Here...  Here I come." 

"Don't hold back," comes your dry remark in return. 

Hesitant and slow, Jack's arms wrap around you without touching until you decide to do a little of the heavy lifting and step forward, face planting into Jack's soft chest.  He smells warm and clean, like his stupid fruity soap and home.  Jack's an amazing hugger too; you feel like you're lying in a warm, peaceful little patch of sunshine, dust motes breezing by in the air.  Thick arms surround you; one around your shoulders and the other a little possessively around your waist, holding your body tight against his like he intends to keep you there for a long while.  You hold him back a bit looser, but still quite close.  His back muscles flex in appreciation as he settles into the hug, pulling you tighter a moment before loosening just the slightest.  Without thinking, you nuzzle your face against his chest before freezing in sudden realization.  You're about to pull back, but Jack must sense that because he settles against you, tucking his head over yours and resting his chin on your head. 

"You fit perfectly in my arms," Jack murmurs, voice swollen with awe. 

"Yeah," you rasp, your throat suddenly tight.  If Jack notices you shivering a little in his arms, he says nothing about it, only holding you. 

It's not clear how long the two of you stay like that, but eventually, Jack's stomach growls.  Your laughter is muffled by his chest, shoulders shaking under his arms.  "S-Sunshine!  It's not funny!" He protests, though you think you can hear a smile in his voice.  Sure enough when you pull out of the hug, he's sheepishly smiling through a blush. 

"You're stupid," you say instead, bullying him into a chair.   “Eat breakfast with me.”

He doesn’t argue.

"Take it off," you sternly advise, Jack looking over at you surprised. 

"Doesn't it need to get more color first?  It's barely been on there!  I don't think it's done yet..." he says with concern, pulling the pork cut off the pan but still hovering with the spatula over the heat. 

Carefully, you reach over and gently poke the steaming hot slice of meat with your ring finger, nodding as you feel how soft it is.  "Nah, it's done.  It's more important to have soft and juicy pork than to have something with good browning.  It's just going to get slathered in sauce later, so worrying about coloring doesn't do much good.  Do the next just like that." 

Jack takes the piece off the heat and carefully sets it in the bowl with a foil cover.  "How did you learn how to make all these different dishes anyways?  It seems like every day I end up trying something I've never had when you cook." 

Scoffing, you wipe your finger on the towel over your shoulder.  You shift your weight on the counter where you're sitting next to him, going back to your book.  "I've worked at more restaurants than I've got fingers.  You figure it out after a bit." 

"You must really love cooking then.  Did you want to be a chef when you were a kid?"  Jack prods the other piece as he lays the next floured slice in. 

"Not really... Rotate those, the pan's hotter in the back," you tell him, watching as he changes their positions with anxious spatula work.  "And no.  I didn't really have anything I wanted to be when I was a kid." 

Jack presses the meat flatter with the spatula.  "Really?  Nothing at all?" 

"Nope.  Just wanted to stay alive another day," you reply dryly.  Pausing a moment, you then add thoughtfully,  "I actually used to hate cooking, honestly." 

"But you're so good at it!  How come you hated it?"  Jack holds out a careful spatula of pork for you to check.  Nudging it gently with a finger proves it's finished, so it joins the others.  

"Don't forget to drain the oil off in the cup," you remind him.  "And I-  Wipe it.  Okay, good-  Anyways, I just didn't like being hungry.  My brother figured it out pretty quickly that it was hard making money and food was expensive, but as long as he worked in a kitchen, then we could make a free meal that would get comped."  It's somewhat uncomfortable to explain all of this, especially in Jack's very nice and inherited house. 

"What do you mean?" 

When it becomes clear you're not going to get much reading done, you (somewhat with irritation) slip a clean paper napkin between the pages and set it aside on the corner furthest from the action.  Anxiously, you scratch your arm where some hot oil has flecked at you in a fine, not all that painful, spray.  "Well, we didn't have a lot of money growing up.  Mom couldn't work, so my brother- Biggie- he kind of had to work it out by himself for a while until I got older." 

Jack stands quietly by the stove a moment, carefully cooking the meat and draining off the oil.  "...You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to," he says quietly, giving you a soft, pitying look you hate. 

Shrugging without feeling, you drum your fingers on the counter.  "Not much more to it than that.  I hated it because I felt like I didn't have a choice.  I kind of had to cook if I wanted to have reliable food that I could get in my mouth, so that's what I did.  I have a hard time eating fried stuff sometimes because of how much I was eating it.  Because, like, if you got something that was a piece meal, like fried chicken or tempura or something like that, then you could get more out of it.  A lot of cheap stuff is frozen or in a can too, like a pack of frozen veggies can go on sale for like, seventy-five cents sometimes, so then you’re thinking to yourself, ‘how can I make this taste good?’  You know?" 

"Why couldn't your mom work?  She was... sick, right?  You've mentioned that before, I think?" He asks gently. 

You nod, focused on the cooking food.  "Watch those, they're about to be overdone.  There you go, that's better.  And... yeah.  It's...  It's kind of hard to explain?  She was like...  In a waking coma or something like that," you explain hesitantly.  "I was too young to remember or understand how or why it happened, but like...  I guess after my dad left she kind of got with a string of other guys?  According to Biggie a couple of the last ones abused all three of us before they finally left for good and we got evicted.  As long as I've remembered her, she was like that.  Sitting on the couch just.  Breathing.  Eyes open, except when she slept.  Didn't speak.  We had to feed her, move her around so she didn't get sores and change her diapers.  I don’t know if it was a brain thing, or psychological and she was disassociating, or what, but that’s how she was."  

"What about your grandparents?" Jack urges, sounding very upset and not at all paying attention to dinner.  

"Watch what you're doing," you remind him sternly.  As Jack rushes back to cooking, you continue after a moment.  Speaking with his eyes on you is too difficult.  "Never met 'em.  I don't know if they were dead or if she was just on bad terms, but Biggie never found any photos or anything, and nobody came to her funeral, so...  Yeah.  It's always been just Biggie and Smalls, which is what he called me.  That's, uh, a music joke that you won't get, by the way.  There was a hip-hop artist named Biggie Smalls back in the-  You know what, this isn't relevant.  Sorry."  

"It's okay!"  Jack turns off the burner and looks at you, but you don't meet his eyes.  He's probably finished, and you should start working on the sides, but you don't bother prompting him.  "Take your time.  I'm glad to listen, and that you feel comfortable talking to me about this."  You send him a small smile.  There's a very tender, gentle look on his face that seems practiced but earnest.  Jack's certainly mastered the art of a listening face.  The guy could be a therapist if teaching failed to pan out.   

"Um.  Thanks.  But yeah, she was the only thing that Biggie and I couldn't agree on.  Because, like, he could remember when she would talk, and laugh, and was like... like an actual person and not practically a part of the couch.  He remembered when she would take him to the beach.  He would always tell me about that one, and about how she used to chase the seagulls away from him because they would steal his food when he was little."  You sort of smile at that, but a moment later a sad frown crosses your face.  "But I never got that.  He'd get mad when I would come home and not say 'Hi' to her, or kiss her cheek, or when I just straight up stopped acknowledging her."  Your tone grows the slightest bit frustrated as you scratch the old scar.  "I mean, when I was a kid, I used to fantasize about how she would wake up, and we'd all be a normal family, and I'd suddenly have a Mom that loved me.  Stupid right?" You bark with a laugh.  

"No," Jack says very gently.  "It's not stupid at all."  

You stop laughing.  "I guess you wouldn't think so," you reply, looking up at his numbly sad look.  He nods for you to continue.  "I used to do it as a kid, is my point.  But I figured out right around when I was like eleven or so that she was essentially dead.  I did..."  Hesitantly you break off, tapping your heel against the bottom kitchen cabinets.  "Let's just say I did a couple things I wasn't proud of.  But Biggie and I would get into screaming matches about her.  For a while...  I'm ashamed to say it now, but I stopped taking care of her, beyond changing her diaper and feeding her.  We had such a big fight when I went away for college that I didn't speak to him until winter break.  After a few months I decided it wasn't worth losing my brother over, so when I came home, it was like I was playing pretend.  Like I was a little kid again...  And then later as I grew up I realized it wasn't fair of me to tell him how to feel about her.  Just because I didn't care about her, didn't have a mom, didn't mean he didn't lose one.  And even if she didn’t mean anything to me she-  She was still a person .  I should’ve…  If I could go back and change anything, I wish I’d taken better care of her."  You pause, sitting in regret.  “It was just a bad time.”  

"Yeah," Jack rasps, leaning closer, his thigh pressing to yours.  "That's not an easy situation."  

You laugh again, a bubble of bitter acid.  "You're telling me.  Things only got worse again after she died, too.  He was pissed that I wasn't broken up or even all that upset.  I felt really bad about it, but the only thing I could think of was, 'Thank God that's over with'."  You brace your arms on the counter and heave a deep breath.  "It was so… awkward.   He was so sad, and I just felt bad for not feeling bad; mostly I just was relieved he could get on with his life and actually live it, instead of taking care of her.  I'd try to get him to eat and sleep, and take a shower, and he'd just look at me, all betrayed and shit like there was something wrong with me, or like I had killed her, when he's the one who-"   

You pause.  You take a deep, deep breath and calm yourself back down. 

"Sorry," you murmur. 

"No, no, it's okay!" Jack immediately reassures.  "Thank you for telling me!" 

Shrugging, you look off to the side.  "It just kind of sucked," you tell him blandly.  "I really...  Going to visit him felt like coming home in all the best and worst ways, but after his mom died it was like none of it existed anymore, you know?" 

"Yeah," Jack replies softly, 

"Sometimes," you say, the phantom smell of dust and molding coffee filling your nose, "you just can't ever go home." 

"Yeah," Jack agrees, looking out over the kitchen and into the dining room and the rest of the room.  "I know exactly what you mean."  The two of you are quiet for a moment, looking over the kitchen.  "Can I hug you?" 

You look at him with surprise, then nod gratefully.  Crossing your legs, you open an arm and lean in to meet him halfway.  He wraps his arms around you and gives you a big hug that smells of ginger, soap, and cooking oil.  It's the second best hug you've gotten. 

You hold Jack close, turning your head tucked under his chin so you can still speak.  "When I was younger," you mumble, "I wished she died earlier.  Like when I was a kid.  Now I just kind of wished I could have known her, so that at least he wouldn't have been alone in missing her.  Fucked up, right?" 

Jack is silent, and rubs your back comfortingly.  "It's okay to wish things could have been different." 

"Yeah well," you sigh, feeling the last threads of heaviness leave your body as you let him go, rubbing your eye with the heel of your hand.  "You know what they say: wish in one hand and shit in the other.  See which one fills up faster." 

"What?!" Jack squawks, pulling back with a laugh. 

"Yeah, you've never heard that?" 

"No!  Who says stuff like that?!" 

"My old boss at one of the twenty-million places I worked at." 

"That's an awful saying!" 

You cross your arms and use the ball of your foot to gently shove Jack away, bullying him back to the stove.  "Okay, well, you're a bitch.  Get the sauce bubbling so we can eat."  You sigh, watching him toss in the minced garlic and ginger.  "Shit...  I'm so hungry and tired.  Why have the past like, three weekends been so tiring?  Talking about your feelings is harder work than I thought…  Ok, while that cooks, just remember to stir now and then while it's low.  So you've got your liquids in the cup with the drained off fat, but now we have to decide what kind of seasonings we want, then after we mix, we put everything back in the pan and let the sauce thicken up." 

"What kind of spices are good for this?" Jack asks, opening up the spice cabinet next to your head. 

Turning to look, you hum.  "Well, whatever you want.  We've already got ginger and garlic, so maybe turmeric, paprika, some chiles if you want it really spicy...  I like putting garam masala and a bay leaf in mine, but I don't think that's really traditional.  It sounds kind of weird, but it works." 

"How do I know how much to put in?" He asks, pulling out spices from the cabinet. 

You make a little heart with your hands over your chest. 

Jack makes one back, smiling brightly.  "That's so sweet, Sunshine, but I-" 

"With your heart, dumbass.  You measure with your heart."  

"Oh."  Jack's hands drop the heart.  "Well, that doesn't really help!" 

"Until your ancestors whisper in your ear to stop." 

"That doesn't help either!" 

"I don't know what to tell you, Jack.  When you know, you know." 

"But I don't know!  How am I supposed to know?!" 

"Don't forget to stir." 

"Oh dear-" 

Chapter Text

Blood poured down from Jack's forehead, a large gash open and oozing, dripping over opalite eyes.  Gone were those warm, obliquitous dark orbs, and over top of them was a cloudy film; the same kind you might see on roadkill.  His clothes were drenched, soaked through with sweat or water or something, clinging to his flesh and making him look somehow both smaller and larger than he was, than you were.  The living room was dark, the television static behind you, white and gray dancing on his skin like paparazzi lights.  The VCR squeals, but you barely hear it, breaths coming in shallow puffs.  Black tape spews from the television set, coming out in threads like party streamers, impossibly long and spilling over the carpet.  It looked infectious, like spores, or some sort of mycelium.  Your breath drifts in your gaze, misting around Jack like the cold winter air you'd left behind all those days ago.  You'd come out of the cold, but the cold never came out of you until now, did it?  No streams of mist ever left Jack's lips as he spoke, chest unmoving, speaking without breathing, dying without-  

"Do you want it?" Jack asks.  His mouth moves strangely out of sync with the words.  It comes out smooth, soft, almost empty if not a little tender, a little hungry.  He walks forward, the carpet making watery noises, a little plip-plip-plip with every step he takes.  Like he walked in a shallow puddle, less than an inch deep.  The tape keeps unwinding, spreading over the carpet around you.  You feel yourself walking backwards, backing away with no wet noises to indicate movement, and Jack's somehow getting closer still.  His steps are smooth, too smooth, like it's metal that moves him under his flesh.  Like he's getting commands and no longer in control of himself, every movement preordained.  

That gash on his head keeps drip, drip, dripping, drenching his face in red.  It's like he's a candle, melting red wax from the head down, soaking his hair, his shirt, dripping into the wet.  

"Do you know how it ends?"  

Plip.  Plip.  Plip.  

"Do you feel lucky?"  

Plip.  Plip.  Plip.  

"Do you want to go home now?"  

Plip.  

Plip.  

Plip.  

You can't walk any more.  Maybe you never were walking.  You had just been wanting so badly to step back, to run, to get away, maybe you'd just been thinkin' about it real fuckin' hard and never followed through, just like a lot of things, just like you always had, like it never was-  

-And he's taking you by the hand and he's pulling it to the rotten white cotton of his shirt.  Your hand slips in, his insides shredded and white, bloodless because it all leaked out through his head.  He's still bleeding, how, how is he still bleeding?  He opens like a wasp nest, flesh flaking and opening and paper white like death and he's talking to you and he's telling you to "Make a wish," whispered in your ear as his own hand slips inside your chest, fingers knotting in your ribs, pushing through your flesh like clay.  His fingers were freezing and stiff with death, cold in a way nothing alive ever could be and it felt like nothing, felt easy to give him everything, felt natural, like he was knotting his fingers in your hair, and look, he was doing that too, pulling you in for a kiss-  

You awaken drenched in sweat, gasping like you'd been holding your breath.  Gagging on your spit, you choke as it wets your throat, sticking together.  Coughs rip painfully from your throat as you catch your breath.  Your hands clutch at your shirt, knotting in the fabric there, feeling for a hole, for some evidence of fingers that had been wrapping around your heart through your ribs. 

Of course, there was none, even when you stood and pulled your shirt up and over your head, looking at your body in the mirror.  Face pale and clammy, hair clinging to your forehead with sweat, your fingers slip over your soaked skin. 

You don't feel any holes. 

Relief shouldn't have been as strong as it was.  It was a ridiculous dream.  It was classic horror movie horse shit: Jack gushing blood, quoting a poem you'd heard forever ago that stuck with you, reaching into each other's chests bloodlessly fondling each other's hearts.  You'd say you couldn't dream up a more stereotypical arthouse horror if you tried, but you just had.

Still, your stomach sank and twisted violently when you thought of how dead Jack looked.  His blue skin clinging to him like an ill fitting funeral suit.  The way his body opened up like an abandoned wasp nest, paper gray and empty. 

It had felt so real. 

Forcing yourself back into bed, you let the fan dry the sweat from you, leaving you shivering.  You closed your eyes.  You were fine.  You were breathing, no fingers in your chest, no blood dripping. 

But what about Jack?  

Jack was fine. 

Was he though?  

Of course he is!  You'd seen him walk to bed yourself, having started to finally catch up to the time, and stayed up late like you used to. 

But he might not be.  He might be lying in bed and dead, dead as a doornail sticking out of the bed like a broken staple, head all bloody, his pretty skin pale, eyes white like death.  And you won't know if you sit here seething, waiting for him to get up tomorrow morning.  

Or you could go look for yourself now.   

You sigh and bring your palms to your face, rubbing the sweat from your skin. 

Standing is easy, but you shamble like a zombie through the halls, glaring at the funhouse mirror at the end.  You look lanky and unpleasant, too skinny with limbs too long in its reflection.   

It takes you a moment to find Jack's room, opening and shutting doors as quietly as you can before you find it.  You realize stepping inside that you've never really looked around in Jack's room before.  The only two times you'd gone in were when you were being rushed in and out of the bathroom while you were bleeding, and the other you had been so worried about Jack having a mental breakdown that you hadn't bothered to look around at all.  In the dark, the walls look blue and pearlescent, shining- 

-like dead eyes in a dead man's head-  

-like the sea at dawn, calm and collected. 

It's not messy, but not super clean either.  No laundry on the floor, but there's scattered objects, out of place but out of the way too.  Boots meant for camping by the door, one tipped over on its side.  The 'O'- the one you had given him what felt like decades ago to your sleep-slurred mind hangs from a thumbtack in the wall by a desk covered in papers with a banker's lamp sat beside it.  A small bat leaning against his nightstand with a cap for a much smaller boy hanging off it.  There was a floor.  There was a ceiling.  There was a bed, and on that bed was Jack. 

Bending down onto your knees, you knelt at Jack's bedside like you'd seen Ian do when you were still kids and a few times later on when he'd been begging for you to take him back, long after he stopped going to church.  Leaning in, you paused, chin brushing his pillow.  Jack lay with his face partially pressed into the pillow, arm coming up underneath to cradle his head.  A side sleeper, your friend Jack was, shifted half on his side and half on his stomach, curled around his pillow.  Frozen, you heard a slight noise. 

Nothing. 

Then, there it was again: the sound that made your bones go liquid with relief. 

Breathing. 

Soft, deep breaths.  Air moving in and out of wet organs that were alive and told you that you were home with your friend. 

Friend. 

When had Jack become your friend? 

You supposed all things considered, he'd probably been your oldest friend here.  Maybe he wasn't telling you the truth about that night, or at least not all of it, but did it really matter anymore?  It had only been a month, getting closer to two as September wore on, but it already felt like a lifetime ago. 

When had he started to become more? 

You slink back to your bed as the clock ticks closer to three in the morning, with Jack still breathing silently under the covers.  Falling back into the now cooled covers you shift restlessly.  After another hour of tossing and turning, you flip onto your back in a huff, irritated.   

Well...  There was a reliable method that could relax you enough to fall back asleep.  Now that you think about it though, it had been an exceedingly long time since you had actually done it. 

Swallowing your saliva, you glance at the curtains.  They're drawn shut, not a crack of light coming through.  The door is closed tight, but you still get up and test it before flicking the lock active.  You tug your shirt over your head with two hands before stumbling out of your pants and back into bed.  Stomach twisting with anticipation you rolled in, slipping under the covers when the air from the fan made you too anxious.  Spitting into your hand you swiped your fingers over your clit rapidly, wincing at the nearly painful feeling of trying to get too much too fast. 

Twitching, pleasure slowly began to simmer in your gut, bubbling just below the surface as you closed your eyes.  Inevitably, your nightmare continuously intruded in your mind, making you groan internally in irritation.  This was so much harder without porn.  All those people you'd mocked on the internet were right about everyone nowadays (or futuredays?) being porn addicts that needed help.  You'd always written them off as abstinence advocates that hated sex workers and queer culture.   Maybe that paper cup could hold a little water when it was soaking wet.  It wasn't like you had any favorites or anything; as soon as you finished with them they seemed pointless.  It felt pathetic to keep magazines around, or videos.  You had teased Shaun mercilessly for his own dirty manga collection, and one thing you'd never be is a hypocrite.  Weirdly, renting videos had been your best friend after you'd moved out on your own after the divorce, though it had made you feel like Patrick Bateman. 

Fucking focus, asshole.  

You're so fucking tired.  You just want to go to sleep and this was one of the only ways you thought might help.  Sighing, you closed your eyes and tried to let your thoughts drift.  Biting your lip as you squirm, you stroke your fingers carefully over yourself.  Little sparks of pleasure burst in your gut, finally at least a little good and no longer stuck in the too-much pained side of things. 

Knotting your fingers in the sheet you pretended it was light brown locks, long and soft.  He'd press sweet kisses down your belly, keeping his hand slow like you were now.  Fuck, you were wet.  It's been a long time since you'd actually been in the mood; you can't remember when the last time you'd taken care of yourself was, but it had definitely been before you'd come to Cloudytown, that was for sure.  Letting your fantasies move you, you allowed yourself to drift, breaths coming in quiet puffs.  Your fantasy boy-toy sank his teeth into your hip, though in reality it was your fingers digging in.  Hissing through your teeth, you dragged your nails up, leaving scratches up your ribs.  Hands held your hips down, until too-pretty honey-sweet eyes looked up at you.  "That's it, Baby-"  

Fuck.  Fuck!  Damn it!   You pulled your hands back, lip curling in a snarl as you rubbed your brow with your dry hand, wiping the other off on your dirty shirt as your arousal rotted and shriveled in your gut.  Every time your mind would flicker to Ian when things got hot and heavy, it was like your hand had touched a hot stove.  Your insides would curl immediately, shame and anger muddled like monsters covered in a thick tar that fought it out in your stomach.  There had been times after you'd first split up that you had to stop altogether because your mood had been immediately killed. 

It was natural.  You had to keep telling yourself it was normal.  You'd been together since you were in middle school for fuck's sake.  It was habit, if nothing else.  Initially, it felt like a betrayal of the self.  You hadn't been able to stop sobbing the first time it happened; it felt like you belonged to him, like you were necked up like a dog to a fencepost.  It had taken a lot of time and therapy for it not to feel like a personal failure when he sprung to your mind.  It was just your brain following the path it had walked for more than a decade. 

It still left you pissed, even now, three years later.  At least I can't get his stupid fucking voicemails anymore, you think to yourself.  The first time you'd gotten one, you'd cracked up.  Then you cried for a couple hours.  Then you saved it to your phone.  For some reason, it had been hard to let go of them.  Maybe it just made it feel more real, hearing him talk about it and cry for you.  Maybe it made you feel stronger.  After all, you definitely had been crying less than he was, just based on the sole amount of voicemails alone where you couldn't even tell what he was saying anymore, his voice was so muddled with his tears. 

You can't help that you like boys that cry. 

Sighing, you try and reorganize your thoughts, and settle back down to try again.  Surely there was something else you could think about. 

Brown hair-  

No more brunettes! you told yourself firmly.  Curse your specific tastes.  You can't help that pretty brown eyes make you melt like a chocolate under some freshly made espresso.  It just happened, completely outside your control. 

Someone else. 

Brow furrowing in concentration, you tried to imagine faceless hands.  One of your hookups.  Shit, even the hot goth guy that kept coming into your old workplace to try and fail utterly to flirt with you.   

It all falls short, your restless thoughts dropping them as soon as you conjured them up in your mind. 

Maybe you could think of someone from this world.  Someone- 

No.   Frustration was wound tight in your mind as you groaned.  Opening your eyes, you glared at the ceiling.  Not him.  

Why not, though?  He likes you.  What's the harm?  Just a test, your mind wheedled.  You sigh.  The same thing had helped you realize your own feeling for your ex when you were younger.  Why not?  He'd never know.  If you didn't feel anything, maybe that would be for the best. 

Just a taste. 

Just a taste, you begrudgingly agreed with yourself.  Then, you'd drop it forever. 

Starting slow, you visualized him.  Soft, pretty blue hair.  You'd like to tug it.  Those big, dark puppy eyes that just made you melt.  His hands were big, certainly bigger than yours.  The others had said he'd never had a crush, but that didn't mean he'd never been with anyone.  Jack seemed the secretive type.  Still, you think maybe his fingers would be tentative when they stroked up the lips of your pussy so you commanded your hand to do the same.  Would he take his gloves off?  Maybe.  Might not though.  He might leave them on, the fabric creating a bit of a drag on your clit as he rolls it under his fingers.   

He'd probably want to hold you.  He seemed the type to like sweet sex.  Gentle as a spring shower, Jack was.  He'd want to do it right.  Let you take his clothes off slowly, help you with yours.  Maybe he'd get stuck on your bra, you think with a quiet laugh that turns into a silent moan as you sink your fingers into yourself.   

Jack would smile when he kisses you. 

That would be nice.  You could feel his lips curling against yours, against your cheek and neck as you would let your hands rove his broad chest and shoulders.  Maybe he'd let you push him down until his mouth was at your cunt.  He'd look up at you, pleading, questioning, unsure and you'd push his head down until his tongue was on you.  You're almost certain he'd like something like that.  The guy would probably eat you like you were his last meal and he was on death row.   

Maybe he'd like the way you talk dirty as you do.  Maybe he'd moan into your pussy while you pulled his hair and pushed his face into you.  Your cunt tightened up around your fingers and you bit your lip to keep from moaning at your fantasy.  Fingers knotting in the sheet, you wondered if maybe he'd like it if you were rough with him.  You loved breaking pretty things.  Maybe he'd want you to break him.  Pull his hair, slap his face.  You could pull him up after cumming on his mouth, watching him pant with glazed eyes.  Your orgasm's remnants mingled with his drool, dripping down his chin as he looks up at you, hungry for more.  Maybe he'd get a little harder in his pants when you'd loom over him like a demon and spit in his mouth.  Those dark eyes would get darker and more hungry, and maybe you'd have a little mercy on him, but maybe you'd leave him like that.  Let him taste you all day and think about you until he came home and begged for it. 

You wonder if he'd let you peg him.  He seemed like he might.  Jack was definitely the type that would do anything his object of affection asked.  The guy had gone above and beyond for you just as friends, so he certainly liked doing things for others, the little people-pleaser that he was.  You'd have to try and find an adult store around here at the very least; you hadn't seen anything the slightest bit raunchy, but you're sure that even if they didn't exist, then you could make something.  You hadn't spent two years of side-hustle time filling molds with silicone for nothing.  He'd probably give it a try for you.  Probably bite his lip all shy and boyish, flutter those long lashes of his for you as you rested the tip against his hole.  Threatening.  Promising.  Maybe he'd be a little scared, a little nervous, but trusting you and curious and wanting to do anything to please you. 

Maybe that was your type.  People-pleasers.  It certainly tracked. 

Maybe he wouldn't though, and he'd want to slip inside of you.  You might not mind that so much, if you could keep the reins on the situation.  Maybe he'd let you tie his pretty body up so he'd stay still for you.  The thought of those biteable, thick arms tied up behind him (or maybe above, anchored to the headboard?) as he squirms against the binding while you fuck yourself down on him was making you start to pant quietly in the room.  The ropes biting into his chest, pushing his tits up.  He had a fantastic chest, really.  You'd pay good money, maybe even give a little blood, to see some rope burn bruises outlining where you'd anchored him back to earth and to yourself.

Maybe though, your mind cooked up with hazy excitement, maybe he'd want to fight you for it.  Maybe the two of you would have to fall over each other, biting and scratching and pushing one another.  You can remember doing that with your ex (stop, stop, no more thinking about Ian-) but hadn't felt brave or trusting enough to do it since.  Maybe he'd like that too.  It was fun.  Playful.  The two of you could roll around on the carpet, grunting and snarling.  Grinning and baring teeth at one another like animals.  He'd have that little out-of-breath laugh he got when he came back from running.   

You'd definitely win; Jack would be too scared of actually hurting you, you think, whereas for you, hurting him a little was part of the fun.  You knew your limits better than he did, and that's why you'd be the winner.  Twisting his arm to force him down to the floor.  Let him look up at you, frustration at the loss but excitement for the consolation prize.  Desire.  He'd want you.  Maybe.  Maybe he would.  You'd climb on top and mount him like a dog, fucking him fast and punishing, savoring the victory over him while he squirmed and let out pretty little noises like a good little loser.  

Maybe he'd win though, and wasn't that a pretty thought too?  Maybe he'd be so determined to win, or maybe you'd let him, and he'd shove you down.  He'd grab your wrists in his hand in a hard grip you'd try and struggle out of, making him tighten the hold until you were sure you've made him leave bruises on you.  Force himself between your hips and slide in (no resistance of course, because you'd already be dripping with excitement) and start fucking you roughly.  A guy that big had to be hung, you're pretty sure.  He'd probably knock the wind out of you, make you take it in wet slaps of skin on skin.   

Or maybe he'd shove you to your knees and fuck your mouth.  Gloved fingers knotting in your hair as he sank into your throat, choking you, moaning as your throat worked around him.  He'd probably start slow until you really got him worked up, made him lose his mind with your tongue and throat while you swallowed on his cock, looking up at him while you did it.  Then he'd really speed up until he's fucking the thoughts out of your head, bruising your lips and throat.  You'd be hoarse the whole next day, probably have to tell people you were just a little sick, or maybe overworked your voice.  They'd never guess that perfect Prince Jack was fucking your mouth like he owned it, cumming down your throat to mark his territory. 

You'd love it either way.  You'd fuck him into the floor, bruise his knees enough that he'd feel it the next day and think of you and what he let you do to him.  Hear his skin meet hardwood or give him rugburn on the carpet, bruises on his body he'd struggle to explain away to some concerned friend or acquaintance that had no idea that you fucking owned him, from his body down to his thoughts.  You'd go without your jacket when you were with him.  Watch his eyes trace the bruises on your wrists, your throat, and he'd remember everything he did to leave those marks on you- 

You'd fuck him every way you wanted.  You could play along, have a little fun playing sweet and nice and give it to him gentle until he sobbed your name.   

Heat was knotting in your stomach, wetness dripping on your fingers as you stroked yourself.  Biting your lip so you didn't whimper, visions of Jack swam through youryou mind, leaving your thighs shaking with want as you clenched on nothing. 

Jack in those little running shorts that didn't quite go long enough to cover the curve where his ass and thigh met.  

Jack with this timid, hopeful expression on his face like he's not sure he'll get something he really wants.  

Jack looking like a fucking prince-  

Jack sobbing, fat tears rolling down his face, but not miserable this time, but begging, begging you to-  

It's extremely unfortunate that this is what finally sets you off.  It's the crack that breaks the damn, releasing that flood of endorphins and warmth.  Your whole body simmers with it, pleasure bubbling under your skin as you relax.  Everything turns liquid as you melt into the bed with a sigh, lungs seized of breath. 

You lie on the bed, huffing as you tried to slow your breathing down, staring at the ceiling.  Warmth bubbled inside you, sweet and thick.  Grim satisfaction trickled in.  Pressing the heels of your hands to your eye sockets made sparks in your dark vision as you sighed to yourself, feeling utterly pathetic and stupid.  Resignation and regret sank in your gut, heavy as a talent. 

Jack probably wouldn't want any of those things, really.  Now that the pleasure had dripped off your bones and drained out of your body, you couldn't imagine Jack actually doing, let alone enjoying, any of that shit.  It felt so fucking disrespectful thinking about him like that.  He was your friend.   Granted, he was a friend that had a crush on you, but somehow that just added another layer to the guilt eating your stomach.  He was probably enjoying fantasies of you two married with a baby and a dog or something pure like that, meanwhile you were getting off to thoughts of pegging him through the living room floor. 

There really wasn't any denying it now.   

Just a taste.    

Who the fuck had you been kidding?  You'd said the same thing about cigarettes and had smoked nearly a pack every day until two months ago. 

Why did you always like boys that cry? 

Chapter Text

Knock knock.  

Go away.  The door is obviously closed for a reason. 

Rattle, rattle.  "Sunshine?" 

It's locked for a reason too. 

You absolutely can't talk to him. 

Not after- 

Not during- 

Just.  Not.  Now.  

"Sunshine?  It's dinner time.  I know you're busy, but can you please come out?" 

No time.  You're in the zone .  Stop soon.  Stop later.  You're busy.  You've got your hands in foam, carving away, you're sketching, you're planning, you're painting, you're making a fucking mess.  

"...I'll leave you a bowl, okay?  It's going to be on the counter." 

Yes.  Good.  Food later, work now.  Focus.  

You come out of your room sweaty with paint streaked on some grungy pants and a shirt.  Looks like Jack made salad fixings, so you just throw a bunch of them in a bowl and eat without tasting it much, mind still on your work.