So, since "White Noise" got some positive reception on a few sites, I decided to expand the story universe with a story set before it. Unlike "White Noise", this isn't as well thought out from the start. I have an idea for the outline, but I'm going to take this story slower than the other.
So, basically, let's see how I can write how QuackerJack met Claire, and how I can help solidify what's established in passing mention in "White Noise"
It started with a laugh.
QuackerJack felt his face heat up and he hid it behind a packet of stapled papers he quickly grabbed from his desk. Embarrassment was always such a unpleasant feeling, and he didn't want to let on just how awkward he felt.
He peered over the top of the makeshift barrier, and eyed her carefully, realizing that his tongue was refusing to form coherent words, so he just stammered like a fool until he clamped his beak shut and nodded as he reached a hand out for the envelope.
She was a mailroom clerk, and so she was going to be visiting the office floor often, it seemed, as was the nature of her job.
QuackerJack had been speaking with one of his cubicle neighbors, and had made a small joke, as he often did (and often, it went over most of his coworkers' heads). Then he had heard it. A small laugh. A genuinely amused noise, one that he wasn't accustomed to hearing on this floor.
A fluttery sensation made itself known at his core. He was relatively unfamiliar with this feeling; it had been so long since he felt something like this in response to interacting with a person, so he honestly thought he'd been spontaneously stricken with a bad case of jitters.
He didn't know if he was giddy or maybe sick, but he did know that the more it lingered, the more it felt right.
Was this what a "crush" was? It certainly felt like the feeling it caused was crushing down on him, and now that's all he could think of.
She looked at me. She laughed at my joke. She smiled at me. She... probably doesn't know who I am...
The last thought halted everything with the savage reality like it had hit a brick wall. Surely this lady didn't know who he was and what he'd been notorious for. That had to be the only explanation as to why she'd even made eye contact with him. She simply just didn't know better...
The fluttery feeling turned sour in his stomach, and he turned back to his work with far less enthusiasm now as he snuck a glance in the direction of the elevator doors down the aisle, watching her disappear from sight.
... I feel sick.
It was the only explanation he could find for this awful new feeling. He put his head on his desk with a heavy thump, and hid his face in his folded arms. He felt like he was going to hurl, and now he really did consider the possibility that the queasiness was just instead him being spontaneously stricken by some bug going around the office.
"You okay there, Jack?"
He lifted his head slightly and saw his cubicle neighbor, Rick (a dog), peering over the top edge of the cubicle at him.
"... I think I'm sick..." QuackerJack mumbled, staring blankly at the idling computer screen in front of him. "... I feel wierd..."
"Sure it's not butterflies?"
QuackerJack squinted with a confused look crossing his face.
"... Butterflies?"
Rick gave a short laugh.
"Yeah, y'know, butterflies." He waved a hand. "I saw the way you got all flustered; you like her, don't you?"
This made QuackerJack's face blush with such ferocity, his wondered if his cheeks were actually glowing from the heat.
"... I don't think that matters if I do. She's probably out of my league anyway." He huffed, bringing his hands to his face to hide the reddish tint. "Besides, all she'll probably need to hear is that I'm QuackerJack, that crazy toy maker that used to terrorize the streets and match wits with Darkwing, and that's it, poof, bye-bye any chance."
"You fit in here just fine, Jack." Rick shrugged. "And we all know about that, too."
"Gee, thanks." QuackerJack said dryly, rolling his eyes. "I don't know if that makes me feel any better."
"Well, talk to her next time she's here. What's the worst that can happen?"
QuackerJack gave Rick a look that clearly said: "Are you serious right now?"
Truth be told, he wasn't even sure if he was ready to open up to someone like that. He was barely starting to accept the loss of his beloved Mr. Banana Brain, and that alone had taken months of city appointed therapy sessions to even bring him to a functional level.
Grief over loss was one thing, but he had no idea how he'd be able to handle rejection, if he even dared to give it a shot.
The thought of it was making those so called butterflies in his stomach multiply and now he had a squirmy feeling in his gut. He really hated anxiety.
Just do your job, and work on those toys, at least you know you can trust those not to hurt you...
He sat up straighter, stretched his arms above his head, wove his fingers together to crack his knuckles in preparation to type, and hovered his hands above the keyboard.
... She's cute, though.
QuackerJack slammed his hands on the keyboard, causing a string of gibberish to appear on the screen as he held them there, staring ahead with a blank, wide eyed look. He could feel the heat in his face again, and was only partially aware that his coworkers were peering cautiously into his cubicle. The motion had caused the bells of his hat to jingle as they had been flung upward from momentum, and were now swinging back and forth gently to a stop.
He was also now standing out of his chair, which had rolled to the other end of the cubicle, and he looked up from the screen awkwardly as he was now painfully aware that all eyes were on him.
"... What?" He was hoping that no one had caught on to the internal turmoil he was experiencing at the moment. "... Um... muh-muscle spasm..." He attempted to cover it feebly.
The butterflies were absolutely relentless now. He wondered if he could be excused to the break room until he could compose himself. Maybe that was a bit too obvious, but he felt like he was experiencing a sort of sensory overload, and his supervisor was relatively understanding about his occasional need to "decompress" in order to function properly.
He lifted his hands off the keyboard slowly, and just stood there, staring at the floor in a state of stupor.
It had all started with a laugh, and though he didn't fully understand... now he was smitten.
Of course, he wasn't going to admit that flat out. He was convinced that this was all just a fleeting fancy and would fade by the end of the week.
It was now the following Tuesday, and yet, he still found himself going out of his way to seem busy, to avoid eye contact. This time he had grabbed a joke book off the shelf beside him and hid his face behind the pages. Looking back on that later, he felt absolutely stupid that he thought that could have been convincing.
QuackerJack peered over the top of the book, and nearly dropped it. She was holding out a handful of envelopes addressed to him.
His face was red again, and he was half glad that his hat covered most of his face anyway.
Tongue tied, absolutely tongue tied, all he can do is nod and reach for the envelopes, and smile weakly as the butterflies came back. How did anyone function under this kind of stress? It was maddening, and he'd know that very well.
He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, and put his face in his hands in embarrassment once the elevator door closed. He shuffled his feet on the floor in an anxious fidget, and whispered laments under his breath.
Twitterpated... I'm hopelessly twitterpated... That's a first... Never have I ever... Who is she..?
"Why don't you just go talk to her?"
Rick's voice made QuackerJack jump and toss the handful of envelopes in the air with a shout. They hit the floor in a flutter of papers as QuackerJack looked at him with wide eyes.
"... I haven't been able to get so much as a 'Hello' out all week when she drops off the mail, how on earth do you think I can do that?"
"Gosh, it's like you've never had a crush before."
"... I haven't." QuackerJack said earnestly. "I've always been working on making toys and designing them and all that. I wouldn't even know where to start."
"Well, ya like her, don't you?"
"... I guess. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on with me." QuackerJack shrugged. "I don't even know her name."
"So ask her." Rick said simply, shrugging back.
"Y'know, it sure seems like it's easier on your end of things, you're not the one who's insides are all twisted up in knots." QuackerJack frowned. "Are you sure that I'm not just sick or something? Maybe it's just that..." His tongue slipped between his teeth in an expression of disgust. "... Definitely feel a little sick right now..."
"You probably just have a bad case of the nerves, then."
"You keep giving these things names and I don't understand!" QuackerJack tossed his hands in the air in exasperation. "Butterflies! Nerves! Where did you learn these! I am very confused!"
He put his head on the desk with another thump. He was getting a headache from trying to sort this all out, to be honest. It was frustrating, and frustration was something he had trouble dealing with.
He huffed a heavy sigh and closed his eyes.
"... Is the day over yet?"
QuackerJack woke up in the middle of the night. This was a common occurrence, really, be it from insomnia or the occasional troubled dream.
He was sitting up, hunched over and gripping the blanket in balled up fists, feathers damp, particularly around the chest and back, which made his shirt stick to him. Wide eyes were darting around the dark room, and he felt terrible as his breathing hitched. He knew that it was probably a residual feeling from the nightmare he just had, it was a common enough thing, after all.
If only Mr. Banana Brain was still here, he'd have someone that he could talk to about it...
He gasped harshly when he realized he hadn't taken a breath in almost half a minute, and he collapsed backwards onto the soft pillows as he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. There was a dull ache in his chest that slowly went away with each breath. He wasn't sure if that feeling had been from holding his breath, or from that terrible alone feeling due to Mr. Banana Brain's absence.
He was tired, but he couldn't stay asleep, not when his brain was buzzing with thoughts now. Shame, as he really should be getting rested for the next day.
He really didn't much care for this studio apartment he'd been given by the nice people at QuackWerks as part of a "villain rehabilitation program" (and boy, did he hate the word "villain"), it felt more like a fancy cell to him. Yes, there was the necessities, and yes, he could come and go as he pleased, but it just didn't feel much like a "home" to him, no matter how many trinkets and toys he'd stack on the shelves and tabletop surfaces.
It all felt so artificial. So fake. Like it could go away at any moment if he got too attached to it.
He squinted at the clock on the cable box across the large composite room, and the bright blue digital numbers flashed at him, telling him it was two in the morning. Of course. It was always two in the morning when he woke up, it seemed...
No way he was going to be able to wind down right now, he might as well just get up for a bit, maybe boil up some water for something nice, like cocoa, and watch some late night programs until he felt tired enough to sleep.
Of course, at this hour, it was mostly just reruns and bizzare programs getting dumped off at the late night slots to fill time blocks, but he didn't care much for plots right now, he just wanted the low noise to fill the air and give him something else to focus on.
QuackerJack slid off the bed and to the small kitchen end of the apartment, reached into the cabinet for a mug and set the water up to boil. Inside the cabinet was various little sticky notes stuck to the cups and inside the door; personal reminders of tasks and such for him to keep track of during his morning routine.
He plucked the note off the mug that reminded him to eat before he took his pills, then stuck it to another mug, and grabbed two little cardboard boxes, one in either hand, and weighed the options.
Cocoa or tea?
One was more of a comfort item, the other probably would help him get back to sleep faster. But cocoa seemed more appealing right now...
Within minutes, he was lifting the kettle from the stove before it had a chance to whistle, and he poured it into the cup full of chocolaty powder and tiny marshmallows, with a little square of chocolate dropped in there for an extra boost in flavor. The only thing to do was wait for it to cool down enough to sip at it, so he set the cup down on a side table and turned on the TV.
Cheesy sci-fi movies, bizzare animated programs that no sane person would enjoy during the day, and true crime documentaries on particularly unnerving cases seemed to be the available faire tonight.
The cheesy sci-fi movie was something about dinosaur skeletons coming to life and the whole visual of pterodactyl bones maintaining flight without any reasonable methods was strangely amusing to him.
Cheesy sci-fi flick it is. At least he could be amused by the outlandish plot and unrealistic premise, and the silly stilted acting would just be the icing on the cake.
He sat down in the cushy chair and sipped his cocoa, trying to focus on the screen, but he could hear the distant noise elsewhere in the apartment complex, like two people having a confrontation. He tried to ignore it, it wasn't his business, after all.
I wonder if she's up right now, too...
He sipped the cocoa again, and turned the low volume up a notch. He blinked and realized that he'd been musing about the mail room lady. He swirled the drink in the cup with a gentle shake.
I wonder if she likes cheesy sci-fi movies...
He smiled a little, but he wasn't sure why he did.
... I wish I knew her name...
He sipped again and gave a tired sigh.
"... Bet she doesn't even know I exist beyond dropping the mail off..." QuackerJack mumbled aloud to no one in particular, not expecting an answer from anyone. Mr. Banana Brain was gone, after all.
He heard a thump from the above apartment, and glanced up at the ceiling from force of habit. Again, his studio apartment was alright, but he just didn't like the noise from neighbors from all directions, particularly the ones that shared either a wall, a floor, or a ceiling with him. He'd always assumed that the fact his apartment was on an upper level, that it simply reverberated sound more efficiently than it should.
Maybe he should invest in a white noise machine to drown out everyone at night? Maybe something nice, like the ocean or a rainforest..?
The sound of water running through the shared pipes made him frown. He liked that noise the least, he couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was because it sounded like something was sliding through the shared walls...
He sipped the cocoa again. The mug was half empty and the marshmallows had melted into a layer of gooey sugar that stuck to the sides of the cup and edges of his beak. The drink itself was lukewarm.
This movie was certainly silly and cliché, but it was clear that the people who put it together had fun with the whole thing, so he wasn't expecting it to be serious. It was entertainment, after all.
He snorted a laugh, and found himself wishing he had someone to watch this with. Could be fun; silly comments to make with each other, pointing out inaccuracies to humorous effort, just basically riffing on it, all in good fun.
You're thinking of her, aren't you?
It was like a whisper in his ear and he jumped a little, jerked his head to the right, then the left, then put both hands on the mug and lifted his feet off the floor and onto the chair with him, tongue between his teeth in an expression of annoyance.
He wanted desperately to have his little fruit headed pal to talk to about this, and now he was imagining it vividly enough. Bleh, he really shouldn't be up this late anyway, recurrent insomnia does things to the brain.
There was another thump, like a series of footsteps, on the other side of the complex. He really hated it about this time of night, he could never really tell if his tired mind was imagining it, or if it was really another neighbor. The distant noise of keys jingling in a lock gave him some solace in telling him it was legit, so now he was wondering who could possibly be out and about on the streets at this time of night, considering the Crimebots policing the streets with adherence to the rules.
Curfew wasn't solidly enforced, per se, but at the very least advised strongly.
You should talk to her, what's the worst that can happen?
QuackerJack blinked, dumbfounded. That was honestly a bit encouraging.
He smiled again. Maybe he should. Wasn't that what Rick advised, too?
... The worst that could happen would be that he screwed everything up.
But
The best thing that could happen is that they end up as friends. Friends are nice.
She did laugh at your joke, though.
He felt that heat in his face again. He sipped the lukewarm cocoa again, the cup was almost empty.
He looked at the clock. It was now three in the morning. If he was going to be functional tomorrow, he needed to go back to sleep as soon as possible. He yawned, and decided that he had calmed down enough to give it a try again.
He finished his cup and rinsed it out to leave in the sink for clean up tomorrow. His ears picked up the noise of someone playing video games at this ungodly hour. He was too tired to be anything but mildly annoyed that they didn't have the decency to at least turn the volume down.
Heck, he could barely even recall what had woken him up in the first place. It occurred to him that he hadn't even given it much thought once his mind wandered. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he wasn't really sure.
... I'm going to talk to her tomorrow...
Easier said than done, of course. It seemed that all the courage he'd worked up over the course of waiting just abandoned him completely once she did her rounds and handed out the mail.
He'd caught wind of the rumor going around that apparently she'd thought him as a very shy person. Great, she had a preconceived opinion of him now, and it was hardly accurate. He wasn't shy, he was just nervous about speaking to her. But ordinarily, he was far from quiet and reserved.
Oh, everything was going along just fine.
QuackerJack considered maybe it wasn't too late to back out now. Maybe he could get his cubicle moved to a different office, change his name, and start a new life-!
She's right there, right there handing him his daily stack of envelopes. He tried to force himself to utter something other than the usual mumble of gratitude, but once again, he was dumbstruck.
... This is life now, I guess... He told himself, wondering if he should just resign to this routine.
It wouldn't be all that bad, really. He'd be able to see her everyday, and he hadn't spooked her yet with his bizzare personality, so maybe this was the best alternative..?
... Tortuous, more like. Absolutely frustrating. What on earth was he doing? He'd been able to make such a theatrical persona for himself in the past; loud, energetic, eccentric, and couldn't care what anyone thought of him. Played to the beat of his own drum.
So why was this one seemingly simple task so difficult for him?
He inhaled deeply, and held his breath. He was going to give it a shot. What's the worst that could happen?
He looked up and realized she'd already gone to the next cubicles. Standing up to look around the corner, he was disheartened to find that she was was already too far enough away that shouting for her attention would just be wierd. Oh, well, maybe tomorrow then..?
It was at this moment, he regretted leaving the handful of metal jacks on the floor near his desk, because when he stepped back, his soft sole shoes landed on them and he yelped under his breath in both shock and pain.
He jumped back on pure primal reaction to the sudden sharp pain in his foot, and tripped backwards over his chair and onto the red wagon he kept on the other side of the cubicle, and could tell that he probably bruised himself somewhere on his lower back. The force of him hitting the wagon and into the thin walls of his cubicle jarred his shelves loose and everything toppled down on him.
This was not the first time he'd been buried in an avalanche of playthings, in fact, this was not the worst incident, so he knew instinctively to throw his hands up and cover his face. Thankfully, most everything was either lightweight or fluffy, so it wasn't too bad.
Pushing the pile of stuff off his face, he decided that maybe the best thing to do now was get a transfer and change his name, because no doubt, she'd probably saw all that.
Maybe she was asking him if he was alright, now, maybe she was concerned, but right now, QuackerJack was hyperaware of a rolling noise and tilted his head up and back, against better judgment. He widened his eyes when he saw the Magic 8-ball he had foolishly left on the top shelf for no reason, teetering precariously on the edge of said shelf, as if taunting him.
"... Aw, nuts..." was all he managed as it rolled off and the heavy, liquid filled hard plastic ball clobbered him in the head and he saw a flash of white before he lost consciousness.
The first thing he was aware of after this happened was that there was a blurry light moving from side to side in front of his eyes. He didn't realize that he should have followed it with his eyes until his vision cleared somewhat and he tilted his head in confusion to look around with a bit of a walleyed stare.
Concerned coworkers all around him, it seemed like maybe someone had dragged him into the break room and onto the couch, with one of the cushions pulled off and used to partly prop him comfortably against the armrest.
There was sort of murmur drifting about, but he was more concerned about the dull ache in his skull that felt like something the size of a grapefruit and much, much harder had smashed into it and left an egg sized knot on his head.
Oh, right... The Magic 8-Ball. Why was it even on that shelf anyway..?
There was also a distant ringing in his ears, was there a phone ringing out in the office..?
Despite the fact that he was disoriented and had such a headache, QuackerJack had enough clarity to accurately assume that he might be concussed. However, any thoughts that extended beyond that idea didn't get far because he was now preoccupied with following that persistent waving light with his eyes, which he'd later find out was a pen light being used to check his visual reflexes to assess the severity of his concussion.
"I think he's coming around." He heard someone say.
"Gosh, the one heavy thing he's got on that shelf and it hits him square in the head."
"Think we should take him to the hospital?" A third voice chimed in. "He did just get a good knock on the noggin. Look at the size of the goose egg on his head. Ouch!"
"I think as long as his pupils are the same size, he'll be fine, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him just to be sure."
A hand was waved in front of his face, and he looked up at the dog doing that. It was Rick.
"Heeeey, buddy, you took a quite a hit there." Rick said with a tone not unlike the one you'd adopt when trying to coax a cat out of a tree. "Got some questions for you, just to be sure you're okay, alright?"
"... Okay..." QuackerJack finally said after realizing he hadn't spoken a word aloud since before the Magic 8-Ball whacked him in the head.
Personally, he wanted to just sleep the whole thing off, but the concerned tones of his coworkers managed to break through the muddled state of mind he was in right now after that blow.
"Alright, then, you're talking, that's a good sign." Said Rick. "Now, this is going to probably sound dumb, but can you tell us what your name is?"
"... Jack..."
"Oh, good. That's an important one." QuackerJack heard another coworker say further in the small crowd around him.
"Cool, that's a good sign." Rick agreed. "So, Jack, what do you remember up until now?"
"... I feel like I got hit by a baseball, but I doubt that's what happened..."
"You're right to assume that. Actually, you tripped and knocked everything off your shelves and, well, this hit you in the head."
Rick held out the Magic 8-Ball, which had settled on the answer "Outlook Not So Good", as if mocking him.
QuackerJack tried to sit up, but hands grabbed his shoulders carefully, to keep him laying down. He tried again and again before it clicked as to why this was happening. Right, he had just been unconscious for an unknown amount of time, not to mention the whole getting clobbered thing. Everyone was just concerned.
At least his vision wasn't blurry anymore, and the ringing had died down considerably, so maybe it wasn't as bad as everyone was worried about. In fact, he felt perfectly fine now, aside from the fact that the impact spot in his head was sore and had a particularly nasty bruise on it.
He blinked.
"... How long was I out?"
"Not too long, I think maybe a couple minutes, but you were out."
"Well, I feel better now, so I guess I can get back to work and-"
"Actually, Mr. QuackerJack..." The voice of his supervisor sounded off and QuackerJack tilted his head back to look at him with a look of mild alarm. "It would probably be in your best interest to take the rest of the day off. You suffered a blow to the head, after all."
"But-But I feel fine now!" QuackerJack protested loudly. He absolutely hated the idea of falling behind on projects, and this certainly would set him back.
"That's a good thing to hear, Mr. QuackerJack, but as your supervisor, it's my responsibility to monitor and ensure the safety and well-being of my crew." Said his supervisor. "You were injured on the clock, so it's my responsibility to make sure you recover from that, even if you have to take time off."
"I only got hit in the head with a Magic 8-Ball, I didn't break my leg!" The clownish duck insisted, feeling a sense of panic rise in him as he sat up quickly. He didn't like the idea of being prevented from working on toy designs, and the very concept of it stirred up a primal response of horror in him that he often suspected was a result of the past. "I can still-!" He stopped suddenly and threw his hands to his head. "... Okay, I see your point. That's a bit of a headache, I think I sat up too fast... Ow..."
Of course, there was no way for QuackerJack to be able to talk his way out of this. He was going to have to take a little time off whether he wanted to or not, at the very least, just sleep the ouch off.
That was expected, after all; he'd gotten gotten clobbered in the head.
What he hadn't expected was for him to be escorted to his apartment, as it was agreed by everyone that it wouldn't be wise for him to operate a vehicle (or anything requiring a moderate amount of brain power for that matter) right now. If the knot on his head wasn't sore from the bruising, he'd almost be offended by the notion that he was incapable of handling it himself, but in all fairness, he supposed it would indeed be difficult to drive a car if he was holding an ice pack to his head.
What was also unexpected was that the lady from the mail room was the one to offer to drive him, as her shift was pretty much close to done anyway.
So now, here he was, in a car with the girl that had been the indirect source of all his clumsy misfortune in the past couple of weeks or so, while he was currently holding an ice pack to his head, face flushed about a few shades below the red half of his jester hat. The car ride between the QuackWerks' office building and his apartment was just a good ten minutes, traffic permitting, and the ride was already two minutes in.
You should say something. You're alone with her, and it's going to be an awkward car ride if you don't so much as acknowledge she's helping you out. You're being rude otherwise.
QuackerJack clenched his teeth and made a straight face, really starting to get internally annoyed at the calm, persistent voice in the back of his mind that kept encouraging him to talk to this lady. In fact, the way he saw it, that little voice is the indirect reason why he had stepped on those discarded jacks, tripped over his chair, landed in the wagon and knocked everything off the shelves and got hit with the Magic 8-Ball. If it hadn't been urging him to speak to her, he would still be at the office, working on toy designs.
Still... It had a point. Silent car rides were awkward, and he had a chance right now to talk a little, so why not?
"So, how long have you been working for QuackWerks?"
She had beat him to it. Darn it all...
"... About a couple months, I think." He said, lifting the ice pack and touching the injury carefully to see how it was doing. "You?"
"I just started last month." She said. "I'm Claire, by the way."
That's a nice name, I like that...
"... Probably no point in introducing myself, but I'm QuackerJack." He said, flinching internally. He was worried that his prior reputation proceeded him, and that introducing himself as such already ruined everything. But, of course, it was better to be up front. "... Everyone at the office just calls me 'Jack'."
"I thought your name was familiar."
QuackerJack felt his spine go stiff and he felt himself go in panic mode.
Maybe the car was going slow enough right now, he could get the seat belt off, open the door and roll out and make a run for it? He knew how to roll in a ball, he just had to make sure to cover his head...
No, the car was going at least thirty miles per hour down a main street, and the asphalt was very rough and bumpy in this part of town. Also, he still had to go back to work anyway. There was no way he could do this and not have to acknowledge it later. Plus, his supervisor would probably chew him out for escaping a moving vehicle after already having a mild concussion.
"... Oh?" Was what he finally managed, hoping the expression he had on his face wasn't obviously saying he was screaming internally. Those stupid butterflies in his stomach were back with a vengeance.
"Yeah, wasn't there a toy company years ago?" Claire said, oblivious to QuackerJack's incredious look. "No wonder you're in the toy department now, that's something you're really good at."
QuackerJack stared dumbly. Of all the things to connect his name to, and that was the first thing she thought of? He would have figured that his numerous escapades, clashes with Darkwing Duck, and incalculable wanton damages to the city over the years from his "products" would have sprung to mind first.
He was honestly relieved. So, so very relieved. In fact, it tickled him so much that he could help but snicker before he burst into relieved laughter, still holding the ice pack to his head, wheezing and gasping between breaths as he wiped at his eyes with the heel of the palm of his free hand.
"Oh, man! I can't tell you how much off my chest that is!" He waved the aforementioned hand halfheartedly as he tried to stifle the laughter. "Seriously, this is going to sound silly, but I've been worried for weeks that you'd think I was just some crazy guy they pulled off the streets for this job. I mean, it's not entirely wrong, but oh geeze, you wouldn't believe how long I've been trying to figure out how to break the ice here. In fact, the whole reason I even tripped was because I got up to say hello and stepped on those jacks I left on the floor."
He snorted involuntarily.
Then his face fell, and his eyes went wide.
"... And here I am, laughing and talking like a crazy person, oh, man, why did I just say that, what did I just do..?" He said shrilly and dropped the ice pack, then grabbed his hat from force of habit.
"No, no, no, its fine, really!" Claire reassured quickly, looking more like she was concerned about his state of comfort with the conversation than the fact that she was currently carpooling with one of St. Canard's former most notorious. "I know all about the rehabilitation program, and I think that's great that you're working on bettering yourself. I can tell that you're pretty popular around the office, so you're pretty serious about it."
QuackerJack gawked at her as he awkwardly reached for the ice pack from the floor space of the car, then plopped it back on his head.
"... Oh, so... You do know about all that..." There was a bit of a note of deflation in his tone of voice. "... Okay, then..."
He glanced out the car window and saw that they were pulling into the apartment parking structure now. Ten minutes went by pretty fast.
"... Thanks, by the way." He mumbled. "... I guess I'll probably see you tomorrow if I'm allowed back to work, otherwise it's probably when my supervisor says I've had a long enough break."
"Which apartment is yours? I hope you don't have to climb any of those stairs, some of those look pretty high up."
"... Um, I'm on the third floor, so it's not that far. There's an elevator, actually."
"I'll walk you there, then. It wouldn't be very polite of me to just leave you out here and drive off when you've still got the ice pack to your head."
QuackerJack felt his face heat up again. He hadn't expected the day to have turned out this way, all he wanted to do was talk to her, and now here he was, at the parking structure for the apartments, holding a rapidly melting ice pack to his head. The afternoon sun was gleaming off the parked vehicles and windows of the surrounding buildings, and he was squinting and wondering if the expression he was making against the light was flattering at all.
"... You really don't have to." He said.
"No, really, I should." She insisted. "At the very least, I should hang around until you get settled in. Just to be sure you're alright."
"I've had worse, honestly." He said, not exactly sure why he was trying to avoid her now. This was such a perfect opportunity to talk with her, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd been stricken with the worst case of social anxiety he could ever recall having. "... Thanks very much, but I think I'll be fine."
"You're very persistent, aren't you?"
"I could say the same for you." QuackerJack said with a faint hint of a laugh. "I'll give you that, most people would have given up by now and headed off."
"Really, that's a bit sad to hear." Claire said, causing QuackerJack to be taken aback. "No one should be left alone when they need help. Do you have a roommate who can check in on you, or do you just live here by yourself?"
"... It's a studio apartment, I'm by myself here."
"Well, now I can't just leave you here all by yourself, then."
The heat in his face was almost unbearable now. He wondered if blushing too much, too often, would start boiling his brain, because he was starting to feel giddy and he was not sure if that was due to conk in the head, or because this whole encounter was taxing on him emotionally.
It was then that he realized that he had made it to the elevator with her still in his company.
Well, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted to talk to her, and now you've got it. And look at you; this is going to be your first guest you've let in your apartment that wasn't management; you're socializing, how nice.
That was when it occurred to QuackerJack that he wasn't even sure if he had even left the apartment in a fit state for visitors. Not that he was incredibly messy, in fact he had a bit of a system to his chaotic organization, but he was very much sure that he'd left far too many blank sticky notes plastered around the apartment as an odd sort of therapeutic de-stressing that he couldn't even begin to explain. He just liked to peel the pages apart and hear the noise of the adhesive lifting away from a surface. And he liked to arrange the colorful squares in fun patterns, usually to help visualize a new idea forming in his brain that hadn't formed enough to be scribbled out.
To someone who probably didn't understand the concept of "stimming", this display would surely cause an eyebrow to be raised.
And sure enough, he had forgotten to take the sticky notes down, so he was left feeling embarrassed as he dropped the half melted ice pack to the floor and quickly scurried about to try and remove as many as possible before questions were asked.
"... What are you doing?"
"S-sorry, I, um... I just like to... I-It's therapeutic..." He mumbled nonsensically, realizing that hadn't explained anything at all. He cursed under his breath, and paused mid-removal on one sticky note when the dull ache in his head flared up more fiercely. This physically stunned him and the haphazard adhered stack of sticky notes in his hand dropped to the floor as he threw his hand to his head and clutched at the painfully bruised bump. "Ah! Geeze, that's not a good feeling, ow..."
"Are you sure you're alright? I could take you to the hospital if you think you need to."
Geeze, this is turning into a mess. I finally get a chance to talk to her, and I end up getting a head injury. Not how I imagined it was going to go...
"I really shouldn't have moved that fast, that's all." He said, squinting. Well, at the very least, his vision was still clear (despite the being a bit agitated by the glimmer of light through the window shades), so he didn't have to worry too much. So long as he wasn't seeing double or feeling nauseated or disoriented, he'd be fine. "I just have a low pain tolerance, really. I think I just have to sleep this off."
"Then let me at least give you my number, in case you need anything." Claire insisted. "I'd feel terrible if I didn't."
QuackerJack blinked. Was this really happening? Was he really being given her phone number, and he didn't even have to ask?
"... Alright, let me just find something to write in down on..." He said, opening a draw and shuffling around the contents for a pen. "... Darn it, I think I'm out of... pa... per..." He trailed off when he looked up at the wall in front of him and realized that the likely reason for that was because he'd taken all the sticky notes and plastered them all over the wall. "... Nevermind, silly me..."
"Actually, I could just put my number in your phone, then text mine and then I'd have your number."
"... No kidding?" QuackerJack hadn't even been aware that was a thing he could do. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and handed it to her. "I don't use that thing very much, I really just use it to make calls."
"You don't have any games on it or anything? This is a pretty fancy phone."
"... I don't like video games, they're the reason I went bankrupt."
"Oh, oh my, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." Claire quickly backpedaled when she realized how bitter and crestfallen his tone of voice was. "I guess something like that would definitely ruin the idea for someone..."
"... Eh, that's fine, you didn't know..." He sighed, then smiled weakly when he was handed his phone back once it was all set up. "Thanks, by the way, I probably wouldn't have been able to drive here by myself anyway, at least not very safely."
Look at you, making small talk, that's good, you're doing good, someone mentioned video games and you didn't have a fit, you're doing so good.
"Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?" Claire asked, eyeing his body language carefully for any signs of concern. "I mean, you were unconscious for a couple minutes, that thing had to have hit you pretty hard."
"Believe me, I've had worse. I've actually been under an avalanche of pretty much a whole stock of toys, that little thing earlier wasn't that bad." QuackerJack instead, waving a hand in the air as if to swat away the thought. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll check in with you, or you can call me if you feel like you should check on me."
"It just doesn't feel right to leave you all by yourself here."
"I'm used to it, trust me." He assured, laughing nervously under his breath.
After much back and forth, QuackerJack was beginning to wonder if this encounter had an end in sight (not that he was wanting to be rude about it, he just wanted to retreat to the quiet sanctity of his apartment after this harrowing day), but finally, he was able to wave goodbye to Claire, and shut his door.
He wasn't sure why, but he found himself pulling back the drawn shades of the window so he could watch her head to her car, and in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that his own vehicle was still parked at the office.
Whoops.
Aw, well.
He waited until the car was out of sight and then stepped away from the window to go ahead and take care of himself.
Partway through boiling water for tea, it suddenly struck him that he'd not only managed to learn her name, but he'd also managed to exchange phone numbers without realizing it. Out of curiosity, he tapped the icon for texting and saw that her test text had referred to him as "Jacky".
He didn't know why, but that made him smile.
The tea kettle whistled loudly and he dropped his phone in surprise, a bit baffled as to how he managed to ignore the kettle enough for it to get that loud.
And so ends the first chapter of who knows how many, of this little tale.
A couple notes:
1. QuackerJack's incident with the Magic 8-Ball is a bit of a personal tounge-in-cheek nod to my incredibly horrible luck in getting beaned in the head with the oddest things. More times to count than I have fingers, twice over. I got stories, ha.
2. After a few toss arounds, I decided to go with Claire's occupation in QuackWerks being mail room clerk. It allows for her to be active enough in QuackerJack's work floor, but vague enough that I don't have to think too hard on it. Plus, it gives the excuse for there to be a time window each day for encounters.