14. Not Whole and Perfect

Jack stares at the sweatshirt lying across his bed, fists clenching and unclenching at his side for a long time as he battles up and down the heaving breaths in his chest. He tosses his face back to the ceiling, breathing in—and then out—and in—and then out, before he finally shakes his head.

Stupid. He stifles the bitter chuckle that wants to escape him. It's all so stupid.

But he still doesn't want it.

No, it doesn't matter that it's blue. It doesn't matter whatever thought the man had behind it—it doesn't even matter that North had placed it there before…their…their argument—and it doesn't even matter that it's exactly like the one he's always had and always worn for the longest time ever since the twenty-first century, so he's actually really itching to put it on again—

—it's the fact that it's screaming North right now, while he's not very…while they're not really on any speaking terms right now—not after earlier today—that he just wants to ignore it. That he just wants to…

…wants to…

…wants to what?

I don't know—anything. Anything but just stand here right now one second longer.

So with a decisive last shake of his head, Jack sets his mouth and reaches out with one hand for his staff as the other yanks back to pull over his hood—

—oh.

Jack glares at the sweatshirt one last time, perhaps even more heatedly than before—that offending thing and the association it has with him right now that he'd rather not think about or whatever—as he then clenches his staff to himself harder, turns, and marches out of his room.

The others who see him leave Santoff Clausen say nothing to him about his departure. They just watch him go with sad, clouded eyes, and words on their lips that die before they muster the confidence to actually say them.

"Jack! What were you thinking?!"

"Y'know. A simple 'thank you,' would suffice."

"You could have gotten yourself—"

"—oh, please. It wasn't that bad—"

"—oh-h-h yes. It is. It is far more bad than you think—"

"—how so? As I see it, it worked. So we're fine."

"No we're not!"

He doesn't know what he's doing when he stops, really. Winter doesn't even belong in this part of Chicago at this time of year; in fact, winter doesn't even belong most anywhere on this side of the world. He, being himself, knows this avidly well. In fact, what with the warm weather lately, Jack's surprised he can even tolerate being huddled there in one of the inner-city's musky and damp alleyways. He should be feeling sick or something. Maybe.

But he doesn't. Or at least, maybe he doesn't realize it because he's still boiling a bit inside. Whatever it might be.

What remains is that he doesn't know what he's doing, but he stays there anyway, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pants pockets, head bowed as he replays over and over again the events from earlier that day—and in particular, the words shouted over roaring ears and flustered-red faces.

He doesn't realize it as he's recalling this, with disembodied voices echoing around in his cranium, but he's been staring for a really long time at the leather-jacketed back of this older teenager across the street.

And Jack doesn't realize it until the kid starts to move away, but the young man has been standing there for an awfully long while, just staring through the window and at the expensive vases inside.

Which…doesn't look quite like the kind he can afford…

...oh.

The conclusion snaps into place far faster than he can put it into words, and before he knows what he's doing, Jack's curious and has found himself starting for the teenager. He doesn't know why; it isn't the first time he's caught a thief about to make a bust, but he's…intrigued, anyway.

He darts around the other people on the crowded sidewalk—although it strikes him as strange that there are still so many people out and about at night—they all manage to squeal and giggle at the sudden bout of "Chicago wind" that has blustered by them and flung their hair to and fro—Jack just smirks at this, and manages to slip into place behind the taller male, trailing him quietly. Almost happily, really—because now his mind has something else to focus on rather than…today.

Are you going to steal it, kid? he can't help but think. Why? What use do you have for a vase? Or two?

The teenager takes a sudden left into another alleyway, and Jack follows him without thinking. When he takes another right, out onto another main street, and then crosses the road—the winter spirit remains with him, if only for distraction's sake.

"North, I don't understand what the big deal is—"

"—it was dangerous, Jack—"

"—you think I didn't know that?"

"I think you didn't know how we felt about that."

It's when the kid finally comes to a stop in another alleyway, and bends over, pulling up a cardboard box that had been sitting against a dark, rusty-red wall, that Jack becomes aware that no, this kid isn't actually going to steal anything.

He's…going to replicate it…?

He stares uncomprehendingly for several moments at the roughly-glued-and-taped together vase that the box had been concealing, face scrunching in confusion. The teenager, however, has no qualms with it. Pulling off his light jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he bends over to the vase, picks up a paintbrush and paint that the box had also kept hidden, and begins his work.

It's the strangest thing, and Jack doesn't know why he stays. He doesn't know why he leans against the wall and actually watches the teenager at work—but something about it is fascinating.

The little bristles, all soaked in color, brushing over cracks and ridges from the hasty healing—it doesn't make the entire surface look smooth and unblemished, like Jack had thought it would—it doesn't try to "even" anything out and make the vase look perfect again. In fact, the solid soft brown he's painting the vase actually brings out the lines of fracture and stress. It strains the entire thing, and Jack's confused—he doesn't understand—until the boy brings out another color, and as soon as the brown coat is finished drying, begins covering the lines of fracture with a stem-green, like vines crawling over an old house.

This time, Jack pulls closer and squats beside the boy who doesn't see him, watching up close the art at work. He's almost hypnotized by the effect the boy's brushwork has—and something about it—about the entire thing—about using the mistakes and the fissures to create something beautiful—seems somehow far more valuable than any smooth-surfaced porcelain the shop several blocks away tried to sell.

This one's telling a story.

"Not to be calloused or anything—but what does that matter? I had to do what I had to do—I don't understand why you're so angry—"

"What does that—does—Jack. Do you really have no idea?"

"No idea about what? Because as far as I see it, you're all being paranoid and frankly, annoying. It turned out all right in the end, didn't it?"

"That's not the point! The point is you had no regard for yourself!"

"But—"

"—and you know, it hurts that you apparently don't think you're worth trying to protect!"

"What is this? 'Make Jack feel guilty because he tried to be a hero' day?"

"Jack, do not try to—"

"Because that's sure what it feels like right now. Can't you all just appreciate what I did?"

"We would if we hadn't almost lost you!"

Jack pulls away sharply when the boy is finally finished—the once-broken vase somehow transformed into something elegant and flowery and breathtaking—something with texture and love that you could feel underneath your fingertips—and he watches as the young man grins with relief, before reaching out and cradling the fragile thing close.

Then, after stuffing his paints and other tools away under his cardboard box again, the teenager sets off down the dark alleyway once more.

Jack doesn't know why, but he follows yet again.

"Why do you care?! Why does anyone care? It's like not you're my actual family—"

"—Jack—"

"—and it's not like you're my actual father, North!"

Silence.

"I'm tired of being treated like a child—like every move I make to actually protect you guys is wrong—like I'm just not thinking enough when clearly I am—"

"—Jack—"

"—no! Don't—don't say a thing, because I'm so…done right now."

Braced silence.

Jack scoffs. "You know what? Forget you guys. All of you."

But the glare he sends North's way is the harshest as he marches off.

A knock on a seemingly-random door surrounded on either side by several others in a run-down Chicago duplex.

The woman who opens it is short and warm, round, large and beautiful but her eyes are wet as if she's been crying for a long time. Her stringy dark hair is pulled up hastily behind her head, small strands sticking out at odd angles, but nothing about her seems anything less than soft—or anything less than extraordinary.

It's the way her entire face melts in relief as soon as she sees the boy on her doorstep that reveals to Jack her identity.

Not that the teenager's words then do it in for him, too.

"Happy—Happy Father's Day, Mom."

New tears spill forth from the shaking blue eyes of the woman as she shakes her head, lips pressed together for a brief moment before she mutters, "Oh, but, dear—"

"—I don't…I don't care what anyone else says. You've been both a mom and a dad to me ever since that jerk left, and that's…that's all that matters right now, okay?" The teenager's voice sounds awkward, as if he doesn't like saying these things out loud—but wants to anyway—because this is important. Because this is so very important—that even imperfection can still be good. "It's all that matters—I don't care…I just…"

Then the boy lowers his head, and his voice is very small.

"…I just want you to know that I'm sorry…"

The woman's entire form shakes, and she reaches out with pudgy arms for her dear son and pulls him close and, "Oh, Eli—"

—Jack suddenly decides that that's the perfect time to go.

In the end, it's not that he and that teenager have a lot in common—because in fact, they don't. They're situations are actually quite completely different, after all. And it's not as if his artwork had spoken to him on some level—although it certainly was…powerful.

No. To be honest, it's not…anything else other than two simple things he had heard that strike him hardest.

Happy Father's Day.

And…

"I'm sorry."

North looks up from what he's working on, leaning over his desk. He looks very startled, with his wide eyes and his raised eyebrows, as if he hadn't been expecting this at all, and something in Jack is immediately afraid that this is the wrong moment to say this—that this is wrong moment to come back and try to sort things out—but he's feeling a bit…off, anyway. As if he can't function unless he gets this right.

He's a cog at the wrong angle, tick-ticking relentlessly against his other pieces and expecting them to conform or still work with him when really he's the one who needs to adjust. Just slightly—just so that they can work cohesively again.

North straightens and looks at him oddly. "Jack…"

There's an awkward silence for a moment as both try to reconcile words said so heatedly and without thought.

Jack abruptly bows his head. "I, um…I saw this kid…"

"…Jack…" North's voice is apprehensive, as if he knows exactly what the fellow winter spirit is trying to do.

"…he, um…he did something cool for his mom, y'know…?"

"Jack, you don't have to—"

"No—no. It's not that. It's just that…" The boy sighed, raising a hand to tussle through his hair. "…they weren't…perfect. And it wasn't…it wasn't ideal. But he…he gave her a present on Father's Day—today—and…" Face scrunching up in thought, he then added more quietly, as if this was most important, "…it meant something—because they...they both still cared for each other, were willing to make what was wrong work. Sometimes fixing it, sometimes twisting it...y'know?"

There was another soft silence that blanketed the in-between. It acted as the glue between porcelain pieces, sticking them together and holding them there as the healing began.

North softened just slightly. "Jack…it wasn't that you were trying to protect us."

"I know," came the quiet whisper. The winter guardian didn't realize it, but by this point he had brought his staff in front of him, clenching it tightly and resting his forehead against it as if to hide. The parts were hewn together, now. Paint was beginning to seal it shut.

The Guardian of Wonder stepped forward. "But all the same, I…I should not have shouted."

Jack's mouth stretches at the sides. The first coat is done.

Silence blankets them again.

Delicate brushstrokes finally begin to use the marrs on their surface to create something beautiful out of all their mistakes.

"…though I see you liked my sweatshirt."

"Oh—um. Yeah. Thanks for that."

"Am I forgiven, then?"

Jack smiles, lifting his head from his staff finally as their own vase is back. Not whole and perfect, but somehow, perhaps better. "Everytime."

North grins back.

Crystal's Notes: It's finally updated. ;A; And just in time for Father's Day, too, this weekend! So enjoy! And do dote upon whomever is the father figure in your life-whether it be your actual father or someone else-because it's always better to say more "thank you's" than "forget you's." x3 (I know, I know, I'm cheesy. Forgive me. It's like, midnight here right now. I'm tired.)

So I hope you enjoyed! And have a wonderful Father's Day weekend! x3