So, this has minimal plot and lots of rambling (I promise real updates are coming, as soon as I finish cramming to finish my portfolio) but I had to write something little when I encountered that gif that's floating around of the kiss from the mysterious secret expensive bootleg from the second to last show.

I own nothing; specifically, not the characters or the bootleg. Unfortunately.

Jack has never been kissed by someone who loved him before.

That is, not that he can remember, anyway. Maybe his mother placed her lips on his forehead in the brief moment she held him (before succumbing to the blood loss and infection and whatever else was crawling around their small, dingy room). Maybe some long-forgotten relative held him close when they saw him for the first time, praising the Lord that such a healthy boy could come from such a cold, dirty, hopeless place (before getting out themselves and never looking back). He has no way to find out. He's not sure it would matter to him, anyway.

His father hadn't been particularly affectionate, when he was still alive. He'd told his son that embraces couldn't protect you from the world, that one had to be tough and strong and unafraid to face the hardships of life on your own in order to survive in the city. He'd shown his love in other ways – a small cookie he really couldn't afford to buy, a short trip to a show somewhere they could sneak into easily between jobs – but such moments were rare and scattered. (It was almost as if he was afraid to get too close to his son, after losing so much already.) And then Jack lost even him, in the end, and then those small gestures were gone as well.

For the longest time since then, he doubts anyone loved him at all.

That was always his job. He was there to care for and support the boys, to get them through each day and help them in the little ways he could. If they needed a hug to get them through a particularly frigid night or painful beating, then he'd give them one, toughness be damned. (He never agreed with his father about that, anyway.) But no one ever approached him as he lay on the roof surrounded by crumpled drawings of a dream he'll never reach, curled protectively around himself (and shaking under the weight of the dozens of lives supported by his shoulders). He was fine with that. They didn't need to worry about him, on top of all their other problems. That wouldn't solve anything.

The other girls were nothing but distractions, the same game that the other boys played to get away when their hands were stiff with cold and their stomachs emptier than usual. (It helped that they were probably just as lost and lonely as he was, but in the end he didn't even know their names.) Sometimes Miss Medda gave him a brief hug as he was leaving for the night, the way he imagines a mother might, but she never lingered. (He understands the facts. She needs him for his backdrops so people return to her theater, nothing more. Any affection he may see in her gentle face is probably just a projection of his own, anyway.)

He's never felt anything like what he feels when Katherine is around before, and it scares him.

So when she comes at him in a flurry of rage and fists and softness and warmth (a contradiction just like she is), he doesn't quite know what to do. A part of him worries that it's a trick, that she's trying to distract him so she can take his drawings and write her article and go back to her life of luxury. But his arms come up to cradle her anyway, his mouth moving cautiously against hers in a way that can only be described as instinct.

And later, once he's realized he likes this, he moves in for one of his own.

To his utter delight, she reciprocates, too.

Katherine has never kissed someone she loved before.

She doesn't know what makes her do it. God knows she never has before. She's never even been alone with a boy (let alone one she feels this way for), and despite her bravado and the support of newfangled ideas and social equality that she shows in her work, it's so forward. What would her mother say?

Back at home, her mother and sisters were always the ones to chase her around, threatening wet kisses. Her younger self would immediately wipe them off, convinced that a proper lady must be composed at all times – an regal princess carved from ice rather than a warm, emotional human being. (She regrets this now – she'd give anything to have that carefree family back in her arms rather than dispersed throughout the East Coast or rotting in the cold ground.) Her father occasionally brushes his lips briefly across the back of her hand (usually only as a pretense in prestigious company) but she'd certainly never seek him out for affection. Most of the time they don't speak to each other, anyway, and since she's moved out of his mansion their only interactions have been strictly business.

She had friends at school, of course, ones she could talk to in passing and maybe share a joke with, but none of them had ever shown any interest in remaining in touch. (She suspects a fear of her father kept them all at a distance long before life led them to move away.) And while she's loved Darcy and Bill as long as she can remember, the idea of thinking of either of them in that way is almost nauseating (as she's sure it would be for them as well).

But Jack – Jack is completely different, so she takes her churning feelings and channels her energy into something she knows will at least shut him up (and maybe make her feel better, too).

She can feel him stiffen in her arms, and her blood runs cold at the thought that she might be scaring him away even more. She will never forget the look on his face when her father revealed to him who she was (the look of betrayal etched there cut deep, but the hatred and distrust that flashed briefly in his eyes were worse). But when she tries to distance herself, she finds she can't, because his arms are suddenly around her waist and keeping her close to him.

His uncertainty is evident in the tenseness of his fingers on her hips, the way he pulls back as she tries clumsily to deepen the kiss. She thinks he might be shaking (though it's probably a combination of lack of sleep and fear for his boys more than anything). Yet somehow they know what to do and they keep doing it, pressing closer together on the rooftop in the dark like the only thing that matters is each other.

The noise he makes when she finally peels away is high pitched, confused and a little disappointed (as well as, dare she say, frustrated). And when she continues her argument as if the kiss never happened the confusion and disappointment there only intensify, as if she's let him down somehow. She wants to hold him close, to make that expression leave his face and never return, but she has to understand what is happening before they worry about themselves. She knows they have the boys to look after, and knows he's aware of this, too.

And she's terrified.

She was wrong if she thought he'd let the issue go, though, and his demands for an explanation leave her equally thrilled and tongue-tied (she gives him the best one she can, which she'll be the first to admit isn't much). But she can tell from the way he doesn't shy away from her now that he's forgiven her, even if he hasn't forgotten what she kept from him. She's so grateful she could cry – she'd worried that he'd run far away and she'd never see him again. But he's always surprising her, and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he's here for good.

And then her impossible boy does something even more unlikely.

He kisses her again.

Is this okay, or does it suck? Let me know: reviews are confidence boosters. :)

Much love,
KnightNight