By the time dinner was over, it was all Jack could do to force himself to do the dishes. He hated doing dishes, the warm water burned his naturally cool skin, the food bits that floated in the sink grossed him out, and every so often a knife found its way into the murky depths and Jack would, without fail, find it sharp end first. He knew could have asked Pippa to do the dishes but Sophie was upset about something and jack knew Pippa would rather be there for her friend than doing dishes. He wouldn't deny her that; it was more important to him that she be a good person than his own comfort.

"Bugger," cursed Jack, pulling his hand out of the water as he found that missing knife, blood trickling down his palm.

His head swam uncomfortably, the blood acquiring a halo around it, like every other object in the room. With his other hand, Jack clutched the counter, groaning as his knees shook.

"No," growled Jack through clenched teeth. "Not right now. I am fine. Fine, dammit!"

With sheer amount of will, he righted the world enough to stumble to the couch and collapse there, pulling up a blanket, ignoring the blood still seeping out of his hand, and promptly fell asleep.

There was red and she was screaming and sirens drowned her words and the red drowned the sirens and something was crushing his chest and it hurt his ears more than her cries but then she shut up and that was black, made him wish for the noise to distract from all the red. Then he was moving and it was blue but that had to be the sky because he was still red. There was poking but that was dull and red blocked it out and he missed the black of the ground because black hid the red but also reminded him of the screaming stopped and he was still red and red swallowed her so he couldn't tell where she went and the black was fighting red but red was winning and he didn't know who to cheer for and he was red though he swore he wore white that morning.

Then he was sitting on the alter like a sacrifice, swinging his legs, kicking the marble sides with his bare feet yelling, "This is boring, can we talk about dinosaurs?"

Maybe it was the end of the world-but no one was crying, just staring at the picture of Pippa and him sitting on the front porch of the most recent house, laughing at a forgotten joke, taken months ago when they first moved in.

"How cruel to have two so young taken from us," said his father, his sparkling eyes looking like withheld tears but Jack knew it was only mirth. "He was an artist, she was the wind, both so in love with life. Jack cared the world for Pippa and would do anything for her, now he will spend forever with her, his arm around her like it so often was in life."

But that was not right, she was next to him in a separate coffin just far enough away that he couldn't hold her hand. She had to be scared but he couldn't reach her. She had gone first, which was why he had followed. Never one to give up, she'd never move on without him, but Jack was still there and she was in a box-so someone lied.

Jack moved to stand over the open caskets, wearing a black hooded robe, rusted scythe he found on the farm he visited when he was six in hand, staring but no one sees his face, just that girl on her back in a baby blue dress Sandy must have chosen to accentuate her eyes that are glued shut and even the mortician couldn't wipe the innocent smile off her face. Lipstick, ruddy rose, makes her look like a five year old played with mommy's make up then fell asleep. If he tugged the left sleeve he'd reveal stitches marking the removed organs, a gift to another who actually stood a chance at life.

He watched until a phone lit up three pews back with the news the ravens had left London, so he left too.

With a gasp, Jack woke up, hitting the ground as he rolled off of the couch. He couldn't have been asleep for long, the girls were still upstairs, Aster was just making his way down the creaking stairs. Jack tried to sit up, at least to lean against the couch and not face down on the floor, but it was too much effort, so he stayed where he was.

"Jack? You down here mate?" said Aster, peaking in the kitchen.

There was a long pause as Aster took in the undone dishes and bloodstained counter, then turned to inspect the rest of the house. He walked cautiously, balancing on his feet in case anyone jumped out at him that shouldn't be there.

"Jack?" said Aster as he approached the couch.

"I'm fine," groaned Jack, too late realizing that Aster hadn't asked if he was okay.

"What do you mean?" said Aster, storming around the couch to find Jack struggling to turn on to his back. "What are you doing on the ground?"

"Sleeping," said Jack. "Stop moving."

"I'm not moving, Jack," said Aster, concern coloring his voice.

Crouching down, Aster pulled Jack roughly in to a sitting position, surprised at the heat radiating off of the normally cool teen. Once Jack was leaning against the couch, Aster felt his forehead.

"You're sick," stated Aster. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I have to work tonight," said Jack. "I have to paint a window."

"It'll have to wait," said Aster. "Come on, let's get you to-you're bleeding!"

"Cut my hand doing dishes," grunted Jack as Aster hoisted him to his feet. "It's not bad."

Aster got Jack up the stairs and in to the shared bedroom. Sandy looked up from his homework, his slight fever from earlier a thing of the past. He eyed Jack and shook his head. Sandy felt bad, knowing his brother worked too hard and blaming himself for not seeing how sick he had clearly become. Aster got him in bed and bandaged his hand.

"He's not to go out tonight," said Aster to Sandy. "He's sick."

As if to prove the point, Jack groaned and curled under the blankets, shivering violently. It was going to be a long night.

*Again, it's been ages and again, I am sorry. I've been really busy. Like, really busy. And now terribly sick. Like, breathing is too difficult for me, get winded while sitting type of sick. And I don't have time to be sick.

Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Always-Ari