Jack Vincent

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?"

Back in San Francisco, work had been volunteering and it had been a couple of hours a week. In Darrow, Jack was actually picking up a pay-check and so he was putting in a few more hours. That afternoon finds him crouched down and shelving books, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair styled into a loose pompadour. He's actually starting to put down roots here. Aside from embarrassing himself while he was helping to die Poison's hair, he's been making friends. He's been doing okay.

He's got his ear-buds in, listening to something loud and clattering.
He's in a pretty good mood.

Not bad, for a Saturday afternoon.

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.