Resurrection


Chapter One

It had been a good day.

Jack hadn't gotten the raise he was hoping for (in fact, that attempt had fallen flat on its face), but they had said that Jack could cover FDR's speech tomorrow, and that was better than a raise: it was one step closer to becoming one of the team, and that was about all he cared about right now. Get on the team; raises would follow.

There was a spring in his step as he made his way back from the office, the domineering, bleakly grey The Washington Daily building, and to the café.

It wasn't far, and he enjoyed the walk, so it wasn't too long before he arrived, ordered a pint, and was relaxed on a chair, newspaper in his hands, beer at his elbow. Without really meaning to, he found himself listening to the two women behind him chat about children, marriage, the rising prices of coffee, and what have you. He was getting an annoying (albeit useful) habit: his ears were always open. There are stories everywhere.

The trees, tall and delightfully red, cast dappled shadows over the tables, burnt leaves rasping when the cold wind passed through them. From somewhere high in one of the apartment buildings, a slamming screen door reverberated back and forth between the skyscrapers, so solid and permanent.

Jack flipped open the newspaper. It was distracting to see names of people he knew beneath the articles; even more distracting to see articles that he had read before they had been printed. Soon my name will be in there, he thought, almost smugly. He read until he'd finished the story on the latest Cubs game—he hated Chicago, but their sports team was pretty dang good—took a final gulp of his pint, and closed the newspaper, folding it neatly in half. Cubs, he thought. After tomorrow, I'm going to be a cub. Jack Davenport, cub reporter. The thought made him grin. Jack was a realist. He wasn't the type to dream big and then get angry when fulfilling his dreams took time: people who planned on this kind of process and then got impatient were just idiots. You couldn't just skip steps on a journey. No, Jack was more than happy to take each step— office grunt to cub reporter to world-famous reporter— and take them slow and steady. And as far as he was concerned, grunt to cub was a pretty big step.

He glanced at his watch. It would be getting dark soon. Should be heading back.

The distant murmur of traffic blended perfectly with the serene sound of the wind rustling dead leaves across the cobblestone street. Bikers sped past, bells jingling to alert people of their presence. It all melded together, somehow; there was a kind of lazy rhythm to city sounds. Jack blew out a cloud of breath into the cold air, watching it fade away beneath the pale October sky. It was a good day, he thought happily, shoving his cold hands into the pockets of his cords.

/

It was six o'clock in the afternoon before Jack got home. The first thing he did was hang up his blazer and hat at the coat rack, and then run into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower, feeling the warm, pulsing water ease away some of the tension of the day. He needed to relax. He needed to take his mind off reporting. It would be hard, though. Especially when he needed this opportunity so much, especially if he was to go to Europe and cover the war before the bloody thing was over. It wasn't that he wanted the war to last longer: he just wanted his intern to be shorter. He would do just about anything for a plane ticket to Europe.

Jack got out of the shower, made his way to the mirror to shave, and surveyed his reflection across from him with satisfaction. He thought he was good looking, in a rugged sort of way: shaggy brown hair with a slight wave, serious hazel eyes, a strong jaw, which he was convinced gave him a strong, defiant air. Grinning to himself, he shaved, pulled on his bathrobe, and made his way to the kitchen, where he began pulling ingredients out of the cabinets and icebox, fully intending to make fried rice. He stared at the eggs and rice on the counter for a little while, wondering how long it would take to make fried rice, and then took out the frying pan and made fried eggs instead, and thought about how hopefully it wouldn't be too long before he got a wife. He heated up a saucepan of milk and made hot cocoa, and then turned on the radio and reclined on the sofa, sipping his drink.

After a while, Jack finally shut the radio off, flipped off the lights, and crawled into bed, curling into the thick, comfortable blankets. Even with his mind distracted, thinking about the war and his day and wishing for a trip to Europe, it wasn't long before his eyelids began to drift shut, and sleep overtook him.

It had been a very good day.

/

The sound of the phone ringing dragged Jack to groggy wakefulness. A small, indignant part of his brain tried to convince himself that he was just dreaming, but in vain; he was too practical for that. After a few moments spent fumbling for the phone in the pitch-black room, his groping fingers finally closed over the receiver. He clamped the cold metal to his ear.

"Guh?"

"Davenport!" The familiar voice crackled annoyingly cheerfully over the line. "How's my homeboy?"

'Homeboy' seemed like a bit of an overstatement, but Jack didn't feel up to debating right now. Apart from hanging up the phone and going back to sleep, he didn't really feel up to doing anything. "Uh… um, Harry. Haven't seen you in a while."

"I know, right? I heard you got a beat. FDR, right?"

He groaned internally. "Maybe." He picked up the alarm clock by his bed, as if the hour could gauge for him how he was feeling. After squinting at the face for a moment, he decided that the hour hand was a little past 4. He's calling me at 4 in the morning?

"Washington Daily?"

"Yeah." Annoyance was beginning to override his drowsy confusion, and he added, "Look, Harry, this isn't really the time to—"

"That's great! Because I'm covering for the Examiner, and I thought we could, you know, team up or something."

"The Examiner?" Jack blinked, adjusting his position so that he was leaning against the headboard of his bed. "You mean the paper with all that sensationalist crap?"

"Jaaaack…"

"Look, I'm not just going to share beats." He couldn't believe Harry would even try and suggest that. Who went around sharing beats? He knew the guy could be dumb, but that was just overdoing it.

"Just this once?"

"No, Harry. Look, I'm going back to sleep."

"Come on, man."

"No."

He didn't even wait for a further reply. The handset dropped onto the base with a satisfying click.

Groaning internally, he settled back into the bed, blearily looking at the clock again. 4:21.

Oh, man. Harry would hear about this tomorrow.

/

"So long sad times, go along bad times, we are rid of you at last…"

Jack absently hummed along with the choir and marching band as he made his way near the podium. FDR hadn't arrived yet, but judging by the military guard swarming to the podium, the man himself would be making his entrance fairly soon.

The podium was decorated with banners and flags and the kind of patriotic-themed paraphernalia that typically accompanied these sorts of occasions. He snapped a couple pictures out of a sense of duty.

"Happy days are here again! The skies above are clear again!"

Ironically enough, the skies above happened to be heavy and overcast and drizzling softly, but the choir sang on undaunted.

The camera was a huge weight around Jack's neck. It swung back and forth, hitting his chest with each step he took. It didn't help that he was dead beat after that morning's conversation. He hadn't been able to fall back asleep; he'd tossed and turned, waiting for sleep to come. But sleep had abandoned him: it had loved him and left him, as the saying went—and his entire body felt stiff and sluggish as a result.

But you'll have to get used to that.

Jack had heard all the horror stories about reporting, and for the most part, they had failed to daunt him. He'd never heard any about the cameras, though. He glanced down, regarding it with frustration. It was driving him insane, but he knew he'd have gotten used to it in the next couple of months. The thought of that made him able to almost forget about how annoying it was, banging against his chest, over and over, like a bratty little kid knocking at a door.

Part of Jack felt bad that he had been rude to Harry the night before. It wasn't that Jack disliked Harry Nieuport. Nobody could actually dislike somebody so genuinely stupid. Everybody just found him to be something of a bloody nuisance. Harry was also one of those people who sincerely liked everybody, and made you feel bad when you just couldn't force yourself to like him back. Besides: he had wanted to steal Jack's beat. That was simply unacceptable. And what on earth was he doing calling at 4 in the morning? Unacceptable.

"Davenport! Davenport, hey!"

Jack's heart clenched in terror.

Tousled red hair flying back by the breeze, Harry Nieuport came trotting towards Jack, a fingerless glove raised in salute.

Run.

Pressing his ivy cap further down on his face, Jack turned heel and began striding in the opposite direction, attempting his hardest at looking casual. Flipping up and buttoning the collar of his corduroy jacket, he tossed his cigarette on the ground and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to make as much distance between him and Harry as possible.

"Your cares and troubles are gone," warbled the choir, "there'll be no more from now on, from now on…"

"That's what you think," Jack muttered, inbetween pants for breath. He was so busy running, without any heed as to where he was going, that when he rounded the corner of the campaign stall, he didn't even see the man until their bodies were slamming into each other's. Jack fell backward onto the ground, his mouth a perfect 'o' of surprise. He was dimly aware of the man opposite doing the same.

It took a moment for his brain to gather what was going on. He was on the ground; his tailbone throbbed; and there was a man across from him who was stretched out on the cobblestones.

"Sorry!" he squeaked, picking himself up.

The stranger didn't say anything. He didn't even move.

I bet he's really hurt, Jack thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He leapt to his feet and reached out a hand, but the stranger didn't take it.

Slowly, painfully, the man picked himself up, getting to his knees, and then to his feet.

"You okay?" Jack finally asked.

"I'm fine," he replied hoarsely.

For the first time, Jack got a good look at the man. He was about Jack's height, perhaps a bit shorter, and maybe about twenty years older. It was hard to tell, though, what with that beard and shoulder-length hair.

"You homeless?" he asked casually, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could check them.

The stranger grunted, looking away from him and back towards the podium.

"What's your name?"

Jack had a feeling that the man wasn't about to answer, but before he even had a chance, the crowd around them began cheering.

"Oh!" he said. "I need to get to the stage. See you!"

He dove towards the stage, camera in hand, snapping pictures of the stage as he went. FDR was walking out towards the podium—well, limping out, anyway—and was halfway there before the shot rang out into the air.

The screams of excitement quickly turned into screams of horror. The crowd surged backward, like a wave going the wrong way, but didn't actually run: they weren't sure whether to run to their president, or run for their lives. Eventually, they decided to run for their lives. As the police swarmed towards FDR, who was standing there, quite fine, a giant, screaming mass of humanity dashed in the opposite direction. Everybody except for Jack.

He ran closer, camera in hand, taking pictures of the president. And when the police dove into the crowd, dragging forward an angry looking man holding a gun, he snapped pictures of that, too.

Yes, yes, yes, yes! He thought. I'm going to be all over the news tomorrow! Yes!

The president was being wheeled away, so he guessed he wouldn't get an audience. But someday. Someday soon: like when his story was the headlines of The Washington Daily.

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the stranger was still there. Just standing there, relaxing against the side of the stand, watching.

Huh.

Jack stood there for a while, watching the man watching. After a moment he shook himself mentally and walked closer to the stage.

This is going to be a good day.


Author's Note: Yay! Chapter one! I love writing new books!

Oh, and have no fear: this is indeed a Tintin story. I'll just warn you: it just might take a chapter or two for him to show up.

And guess what? I don't own Tintin! (Mind blown!)