A/N: Thanks to all those who are continuing to read this and leave messages of support.
A/N 2: I may have a thing about fit guys working out shirtless. This may become apparent a little later. Angry Jack ahead.
He can't look back.
Pushing past the startled look of both Clarissa and Thomas, now carrying and ice pack and the first aid box, he hoarsely demands, "Look after her."
Clarissa knows there is something wrong, he can tell, and she even goes as far as to question him. "Where are you going?!"
But he can't, won't, stop. So instead he keeps heading towards the door calling back over his shoulder, "Out."
And then he is gone, out into fresh air, as much as London air can be called that. There is a slight drizzle falling now, and he welcomes the feel of it on his overheated skin as he makes his way to his car. Slipping into the driver's seat, he finally lets the emotion he's been holding in for the past few minutes out with a fierce yell. His fists hit the steering wheel in front of him, and it feels good, so he does it again. And again. On the third time he hits the horn though, and he knows he can't stay here, taking everything out on his car.
Besides, Nikki might be right on his heels, and he can't deal with seeing her again, not right now. So, although not in the calmest of minds, he slots the ignition key in, turns the engine over, and is out the car park without a real destination in mind.
He drives around aimlessly for a good forty minutes before the weight of the traffic begins to annoy him, and he starts thinking about destinations. Looking out to see where he has ended up, he is surprised to find his autopilot driving, (if crawling along in rush hour traffic can be called driving,) has taken him into the neighbourhood of a gym he uses from time to time.
Another five minutes, and he is pulling into the car park. Reaching in to the back seat, he picks up the gym bag he always has stashed there, and heads inside. The receptionist glances up at the creak of the door, and gives him a warm smile. "Jack. Been a little while. Shouldn't you be at work?"
He can't go into why he isn't, not to her. Instead, he gives her a half-hearted smile, which fades before it has fully taken shape. "Hi. You got any bags free?"
"For you? Always." She gives him a flirty grin, but when his face remains still it drops quickly. "I'll get James to set it up for you. You go get your hands taped and what-not. Should be a few minutes, OK?"
He gives her a nod in reply, heading down the corridor to the changing room. Pulling his top off over his head, he pulls open the bag, removing a well-worn towel, and a faded work-out top. He sighs as a quick search tells him he's forgotten to put his tracksuit bottoms in, so he'll have to stick to the jeans he's already got on. A final rifle through the front pocket, and he pulls out he boxing tape, diligently taping up his knuckles firmly.
Entering the quiet gym area, he's pleased to see they have been true to their word, and there is a punch bag set up ready to go. James heads over when he sees him, giving a nod in greeting. "You want me to spot you?"
Jack gives the bag a quick look, before shaking his head. "Nah. I got it. Thanks though."
"Ok, well, you change your mind, you just give me a shout, OK?" James gives him a quick once over, checking his hands have been bound correctly. Satisfied, he gives him a nod. "She's all yours," he says, motioning to the bag before heading off.
Jack's too focused on it to respond. Stretching his arms slightly, he gives the bag a few test jabs. Happy with the way it reacts, his gives it a few more solid hits, before his body settles in to a routine he uses when he's training. A quick set of alternating jabs, before an uppercut, and then the set repeating with his alternate hands.
The solid hits he makes begin to settle him, and for the next fifteen minutes he lets the familiarity lull him into a calm he hasn't felt since seeing the bruises on Nikki's neck. But then the image comes back at him, and he feels his pulse rise in a way that has nothing to do with the exertion he's putting in to the bag.
Strangling someone to death is not an easy thing to do. It takes minutes, not seconds. The force behind it must be incredibly strong, and that someone could do that to Nikki... He can't get away from the thought once it's there. The fear she must have felt. The helplessness. And even now he's still not sure how she managed to get away. The thought of her having died makes him want to extract revenge, and his fists fly anew into the bag.
Eventually, breathing heavily, he pulls back, glancing down at his hands which have curled into tight fists, the nails on his fingers digging in to his palms. He can feel where the tape is digging in across his knuckles, and the sweat across his back and chest, his shirt beginning to cling to him, and suddenly it isn't enough.
Making sure James isn't in the vicinity, (he'd never stand for what he's about to do,) Jack pulls the tape off his hands, before rolling it up in his shirt as he pulls that off too. He gives his neck a quick rub over with the towel, before facing the bag once more.
The first punch this time brings with it a quick stab of pain as his bare fist makes contact, and he welcomes it. He wants more of it. So he hits it again. And again. The mocking face of Simon Forsyth flashes across his mind, and he wants nothing more than to go down to the station and wring that bastard's neck.
He doesn't know how long he's been hitting the bag when he feels her presence from across the room. Despite what everyone thinks, he's always aware of what is going on around him; he always knows when he is being watched, especially by her. But he doesn't let on that he knows she's watching him from the shadows, because he's still not sure he can deal with her yet.
He still feels angry, and his thoughts make him feel dirty, ugly. Too soon, though, she is approaching him, her heels echoing slightly across the floor. Still not able to look at her, ashamed at what must be written all over his face, he barks out, "Why are you here?" even as his fists keep up their flurry into the bag.
And when she replied, he wishes he had never asked. Because her voice is still weak from where a monster tried to crush her airway into a pulp. "Why are you?"
It is the weakness of her tone that finally makes him stop his attack with a last uppercut. He is surprised to find, with the sudden stop, he can't quite hold himself up, and sags against the bag in exhaustion. Spotting Nikki go to grab him, he goes to push her away, but the thought of putting his hands on her in anger repulses him, so instead he tries to push her away with his words. "You shouldn't be here."
He knows he's hurting her with his tone, but he cannot stand to have her touch him when he is feeling like this. Because it's not that she shouldn't be here. It's that she shouldn't be here when he's feeling this dirty. It's not the Jack he wants her to know. But she is resistant, even when she's hurt. "Wha-? Why not?"
He doesn't answer, instead reaches down to pick up his discarded top and towel, only to be stopped by her hand on his arm. His muscles spasm at the contact, and he wants nothing more than to grab her and hold her and never let go. But he feels too sullied to let her touch him. Letting some of the anger he still feels show on his face and leach into his tone, he demands, "Don't."
"Jack…" He feels himself flinch at the still weak tone of her voice, and this time his demand is more of a plea.
"I mean it, Nikki." This time the retrieval of his clothing is successful, but before he can revel in it and get the hell out of there, her hands are cradling one of his now battered ones carefully. He feels her trace across the broken and torn skin, and his eyes fixate on how she gently smooths a small film of blood away from one of the deeper cuts he's sustained from the rough material of the punch bag.
Tone now full of confusion and concern, she asks, "You should have wrapped these. You know that. Why would you…"
Her concern for him confuses him. It is all too much, all at once, and he explodes. "Because you could have died!"
The words hang in the air between them for an endless second, before her hand goes back to her throat. "I…"
But he is lost in the terror and the shame that has propelled him to this gym in the first place. Mindless of the tears he can feel welling, he drops his towel and top, instead grabbing both her hands in his, pulling her so they are pressed chest to chest. Searching her eyes briefly, he rests his head against hers, letting his eyes close as he confesses, "I want to kill him. I do. I want to go down to that cell and wrap my hands round his fucking neck and squeeze and squeeze until he can't breathe anymore, because I can't get the image of him doing that to you out of my head."
Releasing one wrist, he brings it up to the scarf she's used to hide the marks from the outside world, baring them to his gaze. "You could have died, and I can't…"
He can't bring himself to continue, the thought of her not being there too much for him. Instead, he lets his head fall to her shoulder, leaning slightly against her neck, breathing in the comforting scent of her skin, reminding himself she is still here. He pulls her a little tighter against him, wanting to feel the air she exhales on his back. He feels her arms slide around his torso a little tighter in response, and for the first time since he saw those awful marks on her pale skin he feels he might just get out of this in one piece.
Her next words, however, startle him. "So could you."
There is a hitch to her tone, and then it's like a plug has been released, because her words become a torrent. And he realises his pain and fear are equally matched by hers. "You were run over. Beaten and left to die on the side of the road. And then shot. And you could have been killed right in front of me, and then what would have happened to me, huh?"
She pauses for breath, and he begins to pull back from her. But her grip on him in strong, and he can't move more than a few inches back so they are face to face once more. "You made me need you, even after everything else when I promised I would never need anyone like that again, and I hate you for that. I hate that I need you. I hate that you have that power over me."
They have changed positions, and now her face is pressed against his neck. He hears her muffled, "I hate you," and he feels her tears as they fall against his skin. That she would feel like that, cry like that, over him, is humbling to him in the most profound way. He pulls back so he can take in her face. Her tears have made her eyes red, and her mascara is a lost cause. Her cheeks are flushed and her scarf is still askew and the bruising is still evident.
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
So he does what is the only sensible option left; he kisses her. And unlike last time, this one is soft, and slow, and this time, he shows her everything.
And this time, she kisses him back.
A/N 3: I'm quite tempted to leave this here. But I'm not sure. Any thoughts?