I leaned over and turned off the alarm clock, knowing that in a few minutes the alarms I'd hidden around the flat would start to go off at five minute intervals until I gave up and woke up. Next to me, my flatmate mumbled darkly about how he hated having to be woken up. I didn't mind-it was the usual morning routine. Ever since I came here on the train to go to school,things had been better. That's when we'd met, and well, we'd hit things off nicely right from the bat. He understand my need for freedom, didn't understand why I found the city to be that place, even though he'd been coming back from a different city, and while he was still getting used to women's rights, he didn't argue when I came home late or left early from work. School was an after thought now. I took one or two classes a semester, and I didn't really complain. I love my job at the magazine where I work as a writer, and I don't care that I probably won't get further than little backwater magazines until I get my degree, and even then, I might not move further.
"Come on, time to get up and get to work," I whisper in his ear, hugging him, before pushing the covers off of the both of us and padding towards the bathroom, ignoring my slippers even though, once I stepped off the shag rug, the floor was freezing. It's December. Of course it's freezing.
"Ugh, do I have to?" He worked at the magazine as a distributor, lovingly coming up with new ways to expand our clientele, convincing small organic stores to carry our whistle-blowing magazine, convincing small coffee-shops, even sometimes going out and standing on street corners selling to people. At least, until the fifth time he was picked up and I had to get a bail bond to get him out since the judge was sick of seeing him in front of them. He was depressed for a few weeks after that, but then he'd actually opened up and told me a little about himself.
"Of course you do," I call back as I turn on the shower water and wait for it to warm up to the temperature I was asking it to provide me with. "Make breakfast will you?"
I can hear the creak of the floor on his side of the bed as he gets up. "You know I still can't cook much more than those toaster waffles you like so much baby."
"Then make toaster waffles. Warm up the syrup and make some coffee too? Pweease?" I make the adorable face that makes him melt into the palm of my hand so easily. In the three years we've known each other, it's been an easy relationship. Nothing too complicated. No argument over what is going to happen next. We started as friends, me showing him the ways of the world, since he was naive to the craze of 1999 as Y2k came barrelling towards us. (Not that I believe in y2k, even though the article I've got to turn in by eleven am is on preparing for survival of Y2k.)
"Aww sure," he sticks his head in and kisses my neck, careful to avoid the starts of the soapy trails coming from where I was shampooing my hair. "Good morning Erika."
"Morning Jack." I catch his hand and kiss his knuckles, since I can do that safely without getting water and soap all over the bathroom floor. He grins at me and I feel my heart catch a moment before I turned back to the shower head and started to rinse out the shampoo, before reaching for my body wash. Jack and I may be friends with benefits, but deep down, I always wonder if maybe he and I are just denying something else that we're hiding from ourselves and from each other. As the water runs over me, I wonder what it would be like if I could introduce him as my boyfriend when I meet people that I know but he doesn't, instead of just my friend. I sigh, and shove the thoughts out of my mind, knowing that, while I mostly had my own personal shit from the past under control, Jack didn't, and he was still rooted deeply in something of the past. "Read my article for me and proof it, will you?" I call out, deciding that I did want to take Jack up on his outstanding offer to proof anything I write. Proof as in how sellable is this, not proof as in whether or not I used the correct form of a word or put one too many commas in. Jack was entirely still working on that. I won't even get started on his reliance on his calculator. He's got a smart head on his shoulders, but for advanced math, he struggles. He knows basics, but not much else. What he really knows is the world of the papers.
Ten minutes later I've managed to put on a gray pencil skirt, a dark purple silk blouse Jack surprised me with on my birthday (I still don't know his birthday, come to think of it), and the requisite nylons, heels, and make-up. There's a corporate meeting of sorts today, and as head writer for my division (I'm still squealing happily over this) our boss, Mary, asked us to come. Jack is half dressed, shirtless in the cold of our apartment, somehow staying warm since I don't see any evidence of goosebumps, and waiting with food at the table. I smile as I see the clamshell of blackberries and the homemade whipped cream sitting by my plate. He must have hidden them in the back of the fridge after he got back from the store last night, while I was dealing with finishing frying up the potstickers. The toaster waffles are on plates, a glass thing of syrup resting on a potholder in the center of our tiny circular table from Ikea, and two steaming mugs of coffee resting next to our plates.
"So how is it?" I ask him, noting his look of concentration as he looks at the printed draft of my article. Computers still bewilder him for some reason, as do phones and a myriad of other things, but he's getting much much better.
"You need to improve da truth, obviously, but not dis much." He's lapsed into the accent he had when I first met him, a New Yorker accent, but a bit different from the voices you usually heard on the street, less cultured than most that I hear. It's changed over the past three years, but I still love hearing his voice like this.
"How much less?" I pour syrup over my already buttered waffles and dig in, knowing that we'll need to leave soon. He's already half done with his food, and I know he didn't wait so that he could slide in and shave the stubble off of his face. Sometimes he lets it grow, but most times he shaves it off, declaring he doesn't like the look of whiskers on his face. I like him both ways, and I'm honestly not sure what my favorite is-maybe the five o clock shadow on his face when he doesn't shave for a couple days because he's busy working on something and gets carried away, not pausing except for when he needs help using the computer.
"Clear up some of this vague, nebulous, fake seeming source stuff. I know dat's you improving da truth, but you need to watch it. Don't get cocky Erika."
'How can I get..."
He shoves a blackberry in my mouth, stopping me from continuing on with my somewhat sexual remark because he knows what I'm about to say. "Come on Snark. Eat up." A minute later he takes his coffee with him to the bathroom, and I hear the usual soft uses that come with him nicking himself on the modern razor he's trying to learn to use, since he decided he was tired of using an old-fasihoned straight razor after a couple of the guys at work told him he could get a better shave this way. I'm hoping he'll go back to the straight razor. I loved watching him shave when he used the straight razor.
We leave the house on time, me having added a long black wool coat and gloves, not to mention a scarf to my attire while he's shrugged on a gray shirt and a suit jacket and his woolen blazer, with the red scarf I'd knitted for him when I broke my ankle last winter. I didn't knit it persay, more like wove it on what my friend who does knit calls a cheater's knitting loom. Whenever it gets cold, Jack is inseparable from that scarf. It's adorable. "At least it didn't snow any more," he points out calmly, as he locks the door behind us with his glove-less hands. He always refuses to wear gloves, and instead has cold digits when we get places, but they warm up quickly, because of a few tricks he holds up his sleeve. I shrug, adjusting the straps of my satchel and my purse on my shoulder before taking the hand he offers me as we walk quickly down the street towards the station.
"True or false," he begins.
'Okay," I murmur, knowing that he sometimes begins serious conversations in this casual, nonchalant seeming manner. "You first." I always let him go first when he does this, it's like a tradition.
"We're not exactly just friends anymore, are we?" He runs his free hand through his dark hair, and I bite my lip, wondering how to respond.
"Yeah, I suppose. I mean, most people call what we have friends with benefits."
"Shared living expenses and occasional sex?" He half-smiles, with a sad twist to it.
"Something like that," I sigh, hoping that this conversation isn't going to end with him telling me he's got a girlfriend, telling me he's going to move out. Truth be told, he and I could either pool our money to afford a better place, or have one of us move out to a different flat and still be able to afford the rent, but to me, having him there in the flat is security, warmth, and well...
"I don't know how to put this, because honestly I've never had these kinds of feelings before, but, you see..." He pauses for a moment to hand a homeless man we became friends with, Mad Max, a ten dollar bill, with a smile and an oddly placed wink. I know that Jack has spent a lot of time talking to Mad Max, so I can only surmise that the wink must be some sort of secret communication about some secret that they each share. Jack doesn't pick up where he left off for a few minutes, not until we're comfortably ensconced in a warm taxi cab, the driver ignoring our conversation by listening to opera, of all things. Go figure, this is New York after all. "Erika...I don't want to just be something nebulous, like we're fuck buddies or something." The phrase rolls out of his mouth like it's a foul taste. "Before I met you, yeah, I had a lot of girls in my life who were my "dates" for short time frames, but it was more of a one or two night fuck buddy thing, maybe a couple weeks max, but then I'd break their hearts and leave. I've known you for three years and..."
My cell rung and I gave him an apologetic smile as I picked it up. "Erika Worthington."
"I can't get a hold of Mary and I know she's busy and won't have time to check her thousands of messages-I think her voice box is full and I don't want to page her over something this silly but I just can't go into the office today! Cover for me?" Amanda Owens, my co-worker and the slut of the office wailed into my ear. "I don't want to call Charlotte because the bitch is half responsible, but I do NOT have the willpower to face her and my cheating now ex."
"Honey, calm down. Can you drop off your article or is there something else going on other than breaking up with that man whore?"
Jack stiffles a laugh as he realizes who I'm talking to and what it must be about. Amanda has dated almost every guy in the office, and I swear she'll turn lesbian when she's done. Jack and her went on one date, she tried to get him to have sex, and he didn't finish the story after that, and Amanda refuses to talk about it. Dagnabit.
"Oh Erika...Erika...Erika! I'm in the hospital, because I found out I was five months pregnant and he flipped, claiming it couldn't be mine and kicked my stomach so hard I lost the baby."
"Next soap opera story?" I say blandly. I know she isn't preggo because I had to help her out when her period seeped through her white pencil skirt last week. "Mensi cramps don't count and neither do broken nails. The truth?"
"I'm in the drunk tank! I only got this call because I said I had pets I needed a friend to take care of. You will take care of Snookums for me?"
"Your boa constrictor? You called the wrong woman for that." I hang up, hoping that the call hadn't been collect and knowing it probably was since it was from jail most likely. Amanda drunk usually means her trying to commit a crime or two. Mary said after the next incident she'd fire Amanda. I'm not covering for Amanda; I'm done putting up with her flirting with everything that has the capability to give her...oh never mind. I let out an angry sigh and whump my head back against the headrest. "She's locked up. Mary had better follow through this time." Mary was a dear and didn't like firing people.
"I'm sure she will, especially if CHarlotte and Owen are involved. Charlotte is Mary's niece after all." Jack shifted uncomfortably. "So...what I was saying..." The taxi driver blares his horn especially violently and I notice that we're in a serious traffic snarl. Something must be happening more than normal for a Tuesday morning.
"Any clue what it is?" I address the driver, before Jack can continue. He's notorious for just ignoring things like this.
"Jumper ma'am. Seems to be a huge snarl. I can take an alternate route but it'll take an extra while."
"Take it please. What were you saying Jack?" I turn back to him and squeeze his hand, impulsive, but feeling sorry for cutting him off.
"Oh screw it..." he mutters, than releases my hand and grabs my face and pulls me to him in a long, drawn out kiss with more passion than anything before, even the times we've had sex. He pulls back, and I take a deep shaky breath, trying to get air into my lungs. Oh please don't be pulling me along for nothing Jack.
"Jack?" I ask softly, taking off my gloves and setting them in my purse and putting my bare hand on is cheek.
"I love you Erika,' he whispers softly. "I've known you three years and you're different. You don't press for answers and you don't question me and my past. Dis is hard for me, but I think dat, well.." The taxi driver turns up his music and Jack smiles up at the man appreciatively. "I had all dese plans Erika, but I just can't wait longer. I can't offer much, but..."
I kiss him softly. "Jack, are we jumping over a few steps here?"
"It's been a year and a half since m'last date with someone other than you Erika," Jack whispered, the old accent still mingling with his new one. "I've made up my mind bout dis, and I hope dat, well..." He palms a small cold object into my hand, and looks at me with a look that's more powerful than any of the intense stares he's given me before. "It'd be an honor..."
"The honor is mine." I whisper, opening my hand and looking down at the ring, the same ring I'd pointed out in a tiny expensive private shop when we'd been shopping for a gift for Mary's ten year anniversary since she founded the magazine. He must have saved so much since that moment six months ago. I'd seen the price tag and had been floored. This explained the lack of new clothes, the lack of splurging, the reduced dinner dates and the desire to cook at home more often. "Oh Jack..." I kiss him again, and while we kiss he takes the ring from my hand and slides it onto my ring finger, and it fits perfectly. How he found my ring size out when even I don't know is a mystery.
He wraps his arms around me and I lean my head on his shoulder for the rest of the taxi ride. When we go to pay the taxi driver, he shakes his head. "I try to give my passengers their privacy, but I couldn't help notice. You two have a blessed life together, I'll cover this ride." He says, as a new fare comes up and gets in, telling him where to head to.
I drop a fifty dollar bill stubbornly into his tip jar and smile at him. "Thanks." It's sudden, and there's so much that could go wrong, but I shove my worry-wart self aside and focus on the fact that I'm so happy I could burst right now. I smile up at Jack as he wraps an arm around me as we walk into the building where the offices are for the magazine and into the elevator. I'd left my gloves off and the ring sparkled in the winter sunlight, and in the florescents of the building.
Jack pulls me into an elevator that is miraculously not full and shuts the door, hitting the button for the twelfth floor and pulls me to him. "I wish we could go back in time and you could meet all my friends. They'd love you." He'd told me a bit of how he'd come from the past, when he got sick once, and I wondered how going back in time would work, if we'd both be three years younger, or if his friends would all be three years older.
"I'd like that. What did you do for a living back then, what did they do for a living? Or is that too forward?"
"You're gonna marry me Erika, so as the happiest man in the world, I can tell you no, it's about time I told you everything." He kissed my forehead and held me closer somehow. "We were all newsies, for the most part, although some of us were starting to get too old-myself included." He shuts his eyes. "It was a hard life, but I loved it."
I close my eyes and lean against him, knowing we're in the elevator that always takes ten minutes to go up twelve floors. A technician had looked at it multiple times and said that there was nothing wrong with it. "I'd like to experience it. I can see you as a newsie Jack."
AN: I don't own a copy of the DVD, and so I can't just immerse myself until I can write perfect accents for them, so I'll do a bit here and there, but I'm trying. Also, I DON'T OWN NEWSIES. Dammit *insert rant here that would be much much worse to unleash at someone than the infamous CB rant*. I wish I could own Newsies, but then, don't we all?
This is a 2 shot because I lost the urge to write the story I originally sat down to right. Too many continuity issues.