Chapter 12

When Jack's fever breaks, just after midnight, it's not in the way that Katherine had thought it might. She expects it to break like a shattering plate; Jack, after all, never did much of anything without a little showiness, a little style. But it's not that characteristic. None of this is. Instead, Jack's fever breaks like a wave on the seashore, climbing to a trembling crescendo before overbalancing, collapsing in on itself and down, down, into a steady undulation. It's terrifying, watching him plummet and not knowing whether he's going to stop or whether he's just going to keep on falling out of her reach. At some point, Crutchie grabs her hand and holds on tight, as if by holding on to her tight enough, he might be able to hold on to Jack too.

But then Jack's breathing settles into a steady rhythm. He isn't the picture of health by any means, but it's different, somehow, this sleep. His temperature is still sky-high, but somehow it's less feverish, possessing less of that teeth-chattering intensity about it. It's less dangerous. It doesn't remind her of everything she stands to lose. For the first time in days, she can look at his face and feel something of the calmness that his visage usually bestows on her. She can pretend that the yellowish smudges on his face aren't bruises, but the paint that's always streaked across some part of him. She can hope.

Within a week, Jack is back to his usual self, physically, if not mentally. Katherine can't justify taking much more time off work and he assures her that he doesn't want her to, that he's abjectly fine. Katherine doesn't think he dare be anything else now that Medda has taken up position as his full-time carer. In the commotion of his illness, nobody had really thought to let her know. When she found out, she'd been fuming. The boys, therefore, were back to hawking papes as usual and the Jacobs had been cleared of their responsibilities with begrudging thanks from Medda. Jack, for his part, is both grateful for and resentful of the constant coddling. Admittedly, when he couldn't even make it to the bathroom down the hall on his own for the first few days, he didn't have much say in the matter, but now that he's up and about he is making his displeasure known.

Katherine calls round on Friday evening, sprinting over to the apartment after work, hitching up her skirts in a manner that would make her mother swoon. Medda greets her at the door, but she hasn't seen him for days and he nearly died, for goodness sake, so the older woman doesn't even try to hold her back. It's only when she raises her hand to knock on his bedroom door that she realises that she doesn't quite know how to talk to him anymore.

"'S not locked." Comes a gruff, but slightly amused voice from behind the door.

Katherine pushes it open but stops in the doorway, unsure of herself. She doesn't like this, this feeling of being an outsider to him once again. She'd had enough of that during the strike.

Jack stands at the window in just his trousers, suspenders dangling uselessly by his sides. It's strange to see him like this, so unprepared for action. He's barefoot. She doesn't think she's ever seen him barefoot before. She can see every notch of his spine through the pale, scarred skin of his back. It very nearly breaks her heart.

"Hi." She says, dumbly, cursing herself for her sudden lack of words. Aren't words what she's supposed to be good at?

He turns around, having clearly been expecting Medda, and his face splits into a wide, Jack Kelly grin. Oh, how she's missed that smile. The bruises on his face have faded now, and the swelling on his lip gone down. He almost looks normal, if she doesn't drop her eyes to the bandages around his middle and the bruises which bloom out across his skin from beneath them.

"Kath." He breathes, like a prayer.

On Sunday, they'd had a reading from Genesis where God spoke the earth into being. Jack saying her name feels a little bit like that. She clears her throat.

"You're looking better." She kicks herself immediately. That's it? That's all she can come up with?

"Yeah," Jack reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, averting his eyes, "I's feelin' it too. Ribs still hurt, but I's had worse."

That's when she bursts into tears. There's no reason for it, of course, it's nothing he's said, but it's his voice, low and gravelly and grounding and there that reminds her quite how close she was to losing him. Jack, for his part, has absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on.

He crosses the room and sweeps her into his arms. She clings to him like he's some sort of lifeboat. His broken ribs burn inside him, but he can stand it. Medda wanders in through the doorway, but stops in her tracks at the sight of Katherine sobbing into Jack's chest. Medda mouths a confused question at him, but Jack just cocks his head to the side, flummoxed. He's as confused as she is. She backs out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Jack is, of course, baffled. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with this, with her, and he's never been good with crying, so he just holds her, rubbing soothing circles into her back. It's only when her sobs dissolve into sniffles that he dares to speak.

"Did I do somethin', Katherine?" He asks quietly, turning his head to press a gentle kiss to her temple. "Please tell me I ain't the one makin' you cry like this?"

"No, no," she shakes her head against his shoulder, her voice muffled, "I just – I thought I was going to lose you."

"Hey now," he pulls her closer despite the fire in his ribs and forces some lightness into his tone, "you can't get rid of me that easily."

"I don't want rid of you." She hiccups, half laughing at his response.

Jack stares over her shoulder at a mark on the opposite wall. There must have been a picture hung there before he moved in, a perfect eight-by-six inch rectangle of unfaded wallpaper set in the middle of the dulled pattern. It's cracked, though, this cleaner area, like the picture was hung there to cover it up. There's rot in the wall. He'll have to fix that.

"I's sorry, Kath." He sighs, eyes still fixed on that point. "I's sorry I hurt you. I jus'… I can't be the man that you's lookin' back on when you's eighty and thinkin' I's the worst thing that's ever happened to you." She pulls away from him then, swiping her hand across her face, and he's convinced he's blown it. Well done, Kelly. Gold star.

"Jack Kelly, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me." She snaps, looking up at him, eyes bright and wet and fierce. Oh. Well then. "Do you love me?" She demands.

Jack looks at her, running a hand through his hair and down to rub at the back of his neck. How had he lived this long without being able to touch her? How had he ever thought it was a good idea to subject himself to a life without her? He tries to remind himself of why he's doing all this, why he does anything he does. Better for her. Better for them. Better for everybody. This is how he shows he cares. Why can't she see that?

"Hell, Ace, 'course I do."

"And I love you. So I don't see a problem." She looks him dead in the eye. He doesn't want to argue with her. He's too tired. He wants her to look after him. Damn it.

"Girls like you-" He tries, more than a little resigned to his impending failure.

He'll never get anything past her, not with that look that she's wearing, her reporter face. The face she wears when she gets what she wants. He wants her back, of course. Why is he arguing? He can't quite remember.

"Don't wind up with guys like you. Yeah, you've said that already. When are you going to realise, Jack Kelly, that I'm not just some girl. I'm your girl. It's up to me to decide what is best for me, not you. And you are best for me. Now, are you going to listen to me, with an actual plan, or are you going to pretend to be boss again and make us both miserable?"

Here she goes again, with her plans and her dreams. He might have the city of Santa Fe all wrapped up in his mind, but she's got the whole world wrapped up in hers. If it's right, sometimes, when it's just the two of them, he can see it behind her eyes, the endless possibilities. He could have those, if he reached out and took them. Couldn't he?

"The first one." It's the same kind of resignation as that night up in his penthouse in the middle of the strike. Ostensibly his territory, but not, not really. They're just dancing the same dances, over and over. He doesn't want it to end.

"Good choice." She nods.

And then, because she's brave, braver than him, she steps up so that she's almost touching him and looks into his eyes, mouth a little open. He knows exactly what she wants. And damn him, but he's just a man, not a saint, and she's stood there like temptation incarnate, the devil, Eve, the apple, all rolled up in one. She's too good for him, and it's a sin, but it feels too damn good. He gives in. He kisses her.

It doesn't stay that way for long though – Katherine isn't passive in the way that other girls he's kissed are. It's not long that he's kissing her before they're kissing each other. She doesn't let him deepen it, seems almost afraid to touch him in passion, letting her fingers only trail lightly across his bruised skin. He knows that she's trying not to hurt him, but he thinks he could handle a little hurting just about now. She doesn't though – too good for him – and twines her fingers into his, going up on her toes a little to ease his stooped posture. Jack sends a quick prayer to whoever invented heels, because he's pretty damn sure that if they hadn't he'd have bought Katherine a step ladder at this point to save his aching back.

When they finally break away for air, Katherine is perfectly delighted with quite how ruffled Jack looks. She doesn't get away with that for long though.

"What happened to your hand?" Jack asks, his voice and fingers soft as he brings her bandaged hand up to examine it.

Katherine tries very hard to resist rolling her eyes. Here he is, broken ribs, broken wrist, healing from a serious wound infection and he's worried about something that is little more than a blemish. Still, she can't quite bring herself to remove her hand from his, something about his concern for her feeling like a warm blanket being wrapped around her shoulders.

"I snatched a cigar from my father." She shrugs. Jack looks up to meet her eyes, raising one eyebrow. "Because he was being horrible."

"A totally sane response." He deadpans.

"Hey, now we match!" She jokes, trying to keep her tone light as she gestures to his back. Jack's eyes darken. And oh, well, that wasn't what she should have said. That wasn't what she should have said at all.

"I never want you to match me, Katherine." He says, low and fierce. Katherine almost flinches at the anger in his voice.

"I was joking."

She suddenly feels very small, the way she does when her editor meets the eyes of one of the junior reporters over her head and gives them a story that should have been hers. She's been growing a thicker skin to that sort of thing, lately, able to hold her ground in a room of ten angry editors after the success of her articles about the strike. It's only really Jack that can make her feel so small now. It's a funny thing, that by caring about someone you give them power over you. If she doesn't care what people think of her, then there's nothing holding her back. But Jack? She cares about him, about what he thinks of her, for him. And it's like handing him her heart on a silver platter.

"Don't." Jack mutters, his voice dark, before remembering that he's supposed to be angry. He does that a lot. She's hard to stay angry at. "The hell did'cha father do now? If he hurt you, Ace, I swear-"

"I was yelling at him about you." She cuts him off.

"For Pete's sake, Kath." Jack drags a tired hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes closed in pure exasperation. "Why? 'S no point fightin' 'im on this."

"He nearly got you killed!" She snaps.

"I's fine, ain't I?"

"No, Jack, you're not fine, you nearly died!" Katherine snaps again. Can't he see that she's trying to help him? Doesn't he want her to? Jack visibly deflates, the tension collapsing out of his shoulders. He's exhausted. He can't do this; he's too tired.

"Look, I don' want to fight wi' you." He sounds broken. Katherine wonders if she's the one who broke him.

She can't bring herself to stop though. This is a fight and she's stubborn as all hell. She's not backing down, even if Jack has retreated inside himself.

"I don't want to fight with you either, Jack, but in case you've forgotten, he fired you."

"Believe me, sweetheart, I ain't forgotten." He lets out a dry, humourless laugh, turning himself away from her and walking back over to the window.

Jack braces his hands against the sill and drops his head, trying to control his breathing, every intake of breath shifting his painful, aching ribs a little more. Katherine collapses in on herself. She doesn't know what to do. He's locked her out again, drawn that curtain around himself to shut her out. Slowly, tentatively, she wanders up and rests her hand gently on his shoulder, trying to avoid thinking about quite how prominent his shoulder-blade feels beneath paper-thin skin. Jack squeezes his eyes closed before he speaks, as if the very words are painful.

"Hey, sweetheart, 's fine. I's handlin' it. 'M goin' down to the docks tomorrow-"

"Jack, you can't work there-" She can't help herself. She sees his face fall as she interrupts him. He'd been trying and she could just kick herself for pushing him away again.

The dockyards were rough work; rough work for rough men. Katherine thinks of Jack, her Jack, with his clever artist's fingers, using those hands to haul around cargo amidst the sweat and the smoke. Dockyard workers don't ever last long. If they escape the explosions in the flour warehouses and the severed limbs from falling cargo, the coal dust from the steamers gets into their lungs as badly as if they were down the mines. Just last week, Katherine had written a piece about three men who died when their supervisor decided to have a smoke leant in the doorway of a flour warehouse. One match and the whole building went up in flames. One match. That's all it took.

"'S an honest livin'." Jack tells her. It's as if he's reading from a script, monotonal. Like he's prepared it. Like he knew this argument would happen. Like he didn't have enough energy to win it with wit. She wonders where along the line it happened that the famous Jack Kelly ran out of his own words and started using other people's.

"You have broken ribs." It's a fact. She states it as such.

"Ribs heal." Jack takes on the same tone, but his answer is lower somehow.

"It's dangerous."

"So's starvin'."

Well. She can't argue with that. She still hasn't removed her hand from his shoulder. He still hasn't looked up and met her eyes. She tries very hard not to take it as rejection. This was supposed to be their reconciliation. Where had she gone wrong? Well, Katherine knows that it's about to go a whole lot more wrong. She opens her mouth, wincing even as she pronounces the words.

"Just let me help until you get back on your feet-"

Jack's reaction is immediate. She had known it would be, but it's almost worth it because he stands at looks at her again, finally. And then it isn't worth it, it isn't worth it at all, because he looks so heartbroken that she can hardly stand it. She wants to stroke his hair and tell him that it's all going to be okay and have him believe her. Katherine wonders if she's just blown her chance to ever do that.

"I ain't takin' charity, Katherine, you wanna throw your money around then you go to the lodgehouse an' feed them boys." His voice is calmer, more even than she expected. Hers, on the other hand.

"I am not throwing my money around," she snaps, exasperated, "I am trying to help you." Okay, now he's mad. She can see it in his face.

"I don't need help!" He yells. Katherine flinches. He never yells at her, never raises his voice to a lady. It's one of the many ways that this street rat is more of gentleman than half of the men at her family functions. Jack sees it, sees the way her face changes, and dips his voice lower, sounding a little sorry, a little tired. "I's the one who looks after everybody else. I's fine."

And then he realises what he's said, when her face changes again into some kind of pity that he can hardly stand. He straightens his shoulders. Why should he be ashamed? It's true, isn't it? He's always the one who looks after everybody else. That's his job.

"Jack, honey." The words are soft. They melt him.

"I know, I know." He looks down, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

Katherine takes a slow step into his space, reaching up and taking his hand in hers, twining their fingers together, then laying her palm flat on his chest. She can feel his heart beating, a steady thump thump under her fingers. It grounds her. He's here. He's alive. He's okay. They can do this.

"Listen, I'm not going to push this. But I'm with you, always, right by your side. We get through this together. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Jack nods slowly, his free hand, bandage still wrapped around his wrist, coming up to cover the one of hers that rests over his heart. "I'm sorry for bein' an idiot."

"That's okay. I haven't been entirely fair either." Katherine closes her eyes, trying not to worry, trying to relish the opportunity to just be close to him. "Just… please look for something else. Not the docks."

"Okay." Jack says. Her eyes flutter open and she looks up at him, surprised. He stares back down at her, open and honest. "If you's that worried, then, okay. I'll look for somethin' else."

She leans up, then, and kisses him like she's forgotten that he got beaten within an inch of his life less than a week ago. It hurts, of course, Jack's ribs are in agony, but it feels too damn good to care. He stumbles backwards, her hands still entwined with his, until his knees hit the edge of the bed and they topple backwards, her landing on top of him with a whoomph of petticoats.

"Fuck!" Jack loses his self-control, clutching at his abdomen like it's on fire. Katherine immediately rolls off him, terrified, and Medda bursts in. "I's fine!" Jack moans, throwing up a hand to wave them both away and pushing himself up into a sitting position, grimacing. "I's fine. Jus'… ribs."

"Okay." Medda nods, looking between the two of them. Katherine realises how this must look, with her, mussed and looking, she imagines, rather… well-loved, sprawled on his bed, of all things. It doesn't help that Jack is shirtless. She turns beet red. "Well," Medda says slowly, "you should probably get back to bed, baby, rest 'em up. 'S gettin' pretty late, Miss Katherine." When Medda finally looks at her, her eyes are full of meaning.

Duly chastised, Katherine gathers herself and presses a quick kiss to Jack's cheek, telling him that she'll be back tomorrow. Jack grunts out a quick, pained response and she makes a quick exit, edging past Medda to the doorway. She feels ashamed of something, though she's not quite sure what. But before she can even get out the front door to stew in her shame in peace, Medda calls out to her, pulling Jack's bedroom door closed behind her.

"Now," Medda comes up to stand before her in the hallway, her voice low, "this ain't none o' my business, but do I need to have a talk wi' Jack? Send him to the barbers, you know?" Well. That certainly wasn't what she was expecting Medda to say.

"Miss Medda, Jack's hair looks fine to me?" Katherine ventures, confusion written across her face.

"No, baby." Medda sighs, holding back a laugh. "I mean, do I need to send him there to get… somethin' for the weekend."

"Oh!" The realisation dawns, and with it a fresh wave of shame and heat rushing to Katherine's cheeks. "Oh no, oh my – no, Miss Medda, nothing like that."

"Hey, baby, there's no shame in it. I was young once too-" Medda raises her hands in mock surrender. Katherine quickly cuts in.

"No, no, really, nothing like that. He just fell over." Even to her, the excuse sounds lame.

"Okay, baby, if you say so." Medda shrugs, clearly disbelieving. "You get home safe now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Once Katherine has closed the door, Medda goes back to Jack's room and finally takes out the letter that had come for him nearly an hour ago. He's in bed, where she left him, looking simultaneously exhausted and begrudging. She holds it out.

"What's this?" Jack asks, taking the letter from between her fingers and shifting his legs across the mattress so that she can sit on the side of the bed.

"Open it and see, honey."

Jack tears the thick, heavy envelope open with clumsy fingers and extracts a letter typed on creamy, letterheaded paper.

"Dear Mista Kelly," Jack frowns, squinting at the paper, "my name is Mista Charles Dow, and I's the co-owner of The Wall Street Journal. My business partner, Mista Jones, and I has seen your work in The Sun an', more recently, The World. We is incredibly impressed with your talent an' would like to organise an interview with you at your earliest convenience to discuss the possibility of you takin' up a permanent position as an illustrator for our newspaper." Jack lowers the letter slowly. He hopes Medda can't see the way the letter is fluttering in his trembling fingers. "You's havin' me on, Medda. Tell me you's havin' me on."

"No, baby." She smiles. "For once in your life, I think you might just'a caught a break."