Jack Vincent

Usually, Jack Vincent is an early riser. He gets up and he runs or he does yoga. He usually makes breakfast and brings Poison coffee in bed. They had a late night, though, so he's still sleeping when his alarm goes off. He reaches out, hitting snooze and turns over, burrowing his face into Poison's chest.

"Nope. Not yet," he murmurs.

She's been home for a week. So far, so good. The meds make her heavy in the evenings, so Jack's been venturing into the house, up to Jillie's bedroom, which is opposite his old room, to spend time with her before she falls asleep. He's already in pyjamas when he works his way up through the house to Jillie's door. He knocks, but it's more affectation than anything. They've never hidden anything from each other. Never had to.

"Yo, Jillie!" he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "You decent?"

Nothing is coming together.

Jack's been working pretty frantically on his portfolio for the last week. He's got lots of pieces mostly done, but nothing done enough to submit. The deadline is looming. He's pinned all of his hopes on getting into art school, starting in the Fall. Mentally, he doesn't really feel prepared to submit anything, though, and that leads to a manic level of work. He's been peripherally aware of Poison all day, hovering in his space, asking him if he wants to do something else for an hour or so.

He's being an asshole, he knows. He can't help it.

"Shit, boo," he says, worrying his lip with his teeth. "I just want to get this piece done, okay?"

He's still trying to figure out how he feels.

Mostly, he's been thinking about Poison, about how it felt to be with him like he was with him the other night. About how he feels about that. Not just the sex, which was awesome, but the intimacy of it, lying next to him, sleeping with his arms wrapped around him. What he can't stand is the thought that, maybe, that was the only time he gets to do that. That, now, he has to go back to being Poison's friend, even though he knows what it's like.

He's not sure that he can stand that.

He's been hanging out all day, half dressed, working on his portfolio. Every so often, his phone buzzes and he texts back. That's been his day.

Mostly, he's been trying not to think.

For the last couple of weeks, he's been spending a lot of time with Poison, getting used to having him around, in his space. He's been nursing something, a warm and liquid knot behind his ribs. He's not examined it too closely. He definitely hasn't said anything to Poison about it. Sometimes, he finds himself flustered, but he pushes it down, ignores it and, eventually, it passes.

Sort of.

They'd arranged to go out and test drive the I.D that Kavinsky had made for him. Poison wanted to go dancing and Jack can get into clubs now, so...why not, right?

So he's standing on a corner, just down from the club, waiting for Poison to show. He hadn't, entirely, been sure what to wear for something like this, so he's there in black t-shirt and jeans, one of his more fitted leather jackets, boots. He's got product in his hair. Double row of eyelashes give the effect of eyeliner.

It's weird, maybe, but...he's actually kind of nervous.

Dinner with Bex's family is pretty great, actually. Jack can't remember the last time he sat down to eat with his parent; family meal-times were pretty low on the list of Mayor Vincent's priorities, no matter how much he liked to play the family man in the press. Meatless lasagna, washing dishes, Bex's hand grazing his under the table when no-one was looking. Her mom asks a lot of questions, Bex and Noah argue back and forth and Jack...Jack just enjoys being there, surrounded by the clatter and noise of a family who clearly love each other.

He's not sure his family have ever felt like this. His family don't bicker; his dad's word is law. Noah and Bex start arguing back and forth about bedrooms, about Noah moving out, and Jack feels his ears get hot. He's just not used to people who so obviously love each other.

"Where is your room?" He hears himself ask.
Smooth, Jack. Really smooth.

Bex's room is, predictably, incredible. So cool. Weird in a way that Jack finds absolutely delightful. He wanders around in his sock feet, peering into display cupboards, looking at artwork tacked to the walls. He perches on the edge of her bed (ignoring the fact that he's sitting on her bed, sheets still rumpled from being slept in) and she lets him flip through a few sketchbooks full of art that she hasn't posted anywhere online (he's still incredibly jealous of her ability to draw people, especially when it's paired with an eye for layout that's almost as good as his).

He asks to see Minnie, wants to see how she's captured the cadaver's lines. The way she looks at him, it's like he's asked to see her naked.

Which is something that he'd also like to see, if he's honest.

"If you want…" she says, and it's like she's caught him in a lie, like she can see into his head, like his thoughts are projected on the wall and all of them, every single one, are things that he'd like to do to the girl sitting next to him, her knee touching his.

"I want," he says. "Believe me. I want." Jesus and Mary, Jack. Fuck. Bex doesn't move and Jack's suddenly and immediately certain that he's fucked up. He stares at her for a moment, hot colour burning in his cheeks. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about your 4H belt buckle."

The way she looks at him, the way she says it, has a pretty immediate physical effect. Jack's face heats up and he shifts his weight against the bed.

"Well, I was thinking about how hot your bra looks beneath that see-through toga shirts, so I guess we're even." He leans closer and drops his voice to a whisper, intensely aware of her skin, the heat of her, the scent of her hair. "Show me Minnie before I embarrass myself in front of Katherine the Great."

Because the last thing he needs is to make a mess in his shorts with Bex's mother in the next room, right?

She gets up and walks over to the drafting table, and Jack gets up to follow her, taking a deep, settling breath as he does. She opens the sketchbook to a page and Jack stares at it for a moment. It's a view of the cadaver's full torso, her hair and face, her arm dissected, open to the air. It reminds him, intensely, painfully, of Jillian that night in the basement, the wound in her neck, her veins open to the air, flesh parted so deeply that he could see the way that she was put together, layers of muscle and fat. Stupidly, he remembers thinking that they were twins, wondering whether he looked the same on the inside?

Black spots dance in the corners of his eyes.

"I think I'm going to pass out," he says. He's hot, suddenly - so, so hot. His mouth tastes sour with vomit. That's all he manages to get out; he's aware of the world tipping sideways and then he hits the floor.

Hard.

Fair was fair.

Jack had been brought up to be a man of his word and, when he lost a bet, he followed through. There's a shiver of nerve as he kills Ghost's engine and swings up out of the car, shoving his keys into the pockets of his jeans. They're well out of town, in the shadow of trees, and the sun is shining down, throwing dappled light. Jack smooths a strand of his hair back into place and then offers Kavinsky his hand.

"Good race."