Chapter 14
Author's Note: In this chapter, have fun playing the game of 'spot the Peaky Blinders reference'. ALSO, there's a trigger warning for abuse – it's pretty light and vague and if you skip the paragraph that begins with '"Yeah." He chuckles.' then you should be fine – because I can't seem to stop torturing Jack. Reviews make me very happy xx
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Jacobi's is like she's never seen it before. Admittedly, she's only been in twice before, but the dejected newsboys she'd encountered the last time she'd walked in, clutching her front-page article, are nothing like the ones there now. The place is buzzing, about fifteen of the newsies tucked into three of the worn booths in the back of the place, elbows and sarcastic remarks flying as they all jostle for their place at the tables. The newsies erupt into cheers when Jack walks in, running up and slapping him on the back. Still, he doesn't loosen his arm around her waist – if anything, he pulls her closer – and she's grateful for its grounding pressure amidst the clamour.
"Well, well, look at you, mister fancy illustrator!" Race crows, jumping up to snatch the newsboy cap from Jack's head and pulling it onto his own, gesturing to Jack's suit with his free hand. "What's this eh, it part o' the job to dress like a toff?"
"Jus' 'cos you can't pull off a suit, Racer." Jack grins, snatching his cap back and ruffling the other boy's hair. Around them, the newsies hoot and howl like so many wild animals, bantering back and forth.
By the time they reach the table, Crutchie has managed to climb on top of it. He's looking around expectantly, but the newsies are, predictably, bouncing off the walls too much to even register his presence.
"Hey, quieten down!" Davey calls out over the noise. "Crutchie wants to tell us somethin'." Crutchie smiles gratefully down at Davey and raises his glass.
"I propose a toast-"
"Toast? Where? Who's makin' toast?" Albert perks up, peering around.
"Shut it! Not that kinda toast, you idiot!" Race hisses, digging his elbow into the other boy's side.
"Oh, I's the idiot? Huh, says you, mister the woild is yer erster!"
"That was one time!"
"Crutchie's tryna speak!" Finch shouts, cutting over the two bickering newsies. Crutchie waits until they have dissolved into quiet – well, at least as close to it as the newsies ever get – before he continues.
"I propose a toast," he grins, looking down at Jack, "to Jack Kelly. The best big brother any newsie could ask fo'. To Jack!" He lifts his glass.
"To Jack!"
Jack waves them off, of course, telling them to shut up good naturedly and lifting Crutchie down from the table real gentle despite the way it jostles his ribs. Katherine thinks, though, that she can just about see a pink tinge in his cheeks when he walks past the lamp mounted on the wall.
The newsies settle back into roughhousing and bantering like the toast never happened, so Jack squashes them all up in a booth and pulls Katherine onto the seat beside him. It's cramped, there's far too many of them all squashed up together, but they're only here on Mr. Jacobi's good favour and they can't take up tables he needs for paying customers, the men who are settling in for a drink and a hot meal after a long day's work. Katherine blushes when Race makes a comment about how she's practically sat in Jack's lap, but her boyfriend, the smug idiot, just grins and tugs her properly into his lap, sticking his tongue out at Race. It takes her a moment to process that she's sitting in a man's lap in a public bar (why had she been confused about those rumours again?) but when she does her cheeks burn even brighter. Her father would be mortified if he could see her now.
Jack wonders, for a second, when he sees her flushed cheeks, if he's overstepped a boundary, but he knows Katherine well enough to know that if he had then she wouldn't have had a second thought about slapping him across the face. If she just happens to be blushing, then that just makes her all the more adorable. He quite fancies kissing the blush right off her face – or making it worse, either will do, he's not picky – but he isn't quite that brazen. His boys already know he's whipped, it wouldn't do to give them any more fuel for that particular fire.
In the opposite corner of Jacobi's, a ragtag band of musicians strikes up a lively tune, all fiddles and banjos. Within seconds, the customers are pushing tables and chairs out of the way to clear a space for a whirling, chaotic dance, all stamping feet and outstretched arms.
Once the commotion is over, the dance still in full swing but the path to the bar clear, at least, Davey insists on buying them both a celebratory drink, despite Jack's many, many protestations.
"It's fine." The boy insists. "Dad's back at work now anyway, so any money Les and I make selling papes on the weekends is ours. I can afford to buy you a drink, Jack." He turns to Katherine, ever the gentleman. "Katherine, what would you like?"
"Lemonade, please, if they have it." She smiles. Davey sets off toward the bar, squeezing in between tables and customers lounging, languorous, in their chairs.
"Lemonade, Ace?" Jack pinches her side, gently, teasing. "Very… adventurous."
"Ladies don't set foot in public houses, Mr. Kelly, never mind consume alcohol in them." She says, exaggerating her pronunciation (her correct pronunciation, as she tells him all the damn time) in the way she did when she was seven and her governess had her learn and recite a new poem every week. She still can't look at a volume of William Blake without feeling queasy.
"God forbid!" Jack snorts, casting a glance over his shoulder at the dancers, then returning his teasing gaze to her. "Tell me, Lady Katherine, are ladies also not allowed to dance?"
"They're allowed." She suppresses a smile, tilting her head to the side, coquettish. "If they're asked properly."
Jack grins, opening his mouth to shoot back a response, but before he can say anything else, Davey is back clutching three drinks, two lemonades and a whiskey for Jack. They thank him as he doles out the drinks.
"How you can drink that stuff is beyond me." Davey shakes his head, handing Jack the tumbler of amber liquid.
"Oh, I hate the stuff," Jack grimaces, taking a gulp of it, "'s what my old man used to drink when he got real nasty, but I heard it's s'posed to be a real good painkiller." Katherine's heart stops.
"You're in pain?" She asks, before she can stop herself.
She doesn't want to think about anything in that sentence. Doesn't want to think about what Jack just implied about his father and doesn't want to think about Jack in pain. But damnit if he doesn't just take that choice away from her, if he didn't just take away all her choice in the matter the second the cocky sod waltzed into her life with a good mornin' Miss.
"Jus' my ribs, Ace; think I strained 'em a bit liftin' Crutchie down an' I don't wanna miss out on dancin' wi' you jus' 'cos I ruined 'em too early in the night." Jack smiles at her, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes. No, his eyes are begging her. Not here. Not now. "Ain't nothin' to worry about."
"Jack-" She starts to protest, Jack's pleading be damned, but he interrupts her.
"I's fine." He says, tightening the arm wrapped around her waist a little in an attempt at comfort. And then his gaze flies over her shoulder. "Hey, Mush, stop prattin' about an' give Elmer 'is cap back, 'fore I soak you!" Jack shifts her off his lap, ever-so-gently, and stands up to go and break the two boys apart.
The newsies suck away his attention then – they're having about ten different conversations and Jack appears to somehow be a part of all of them, breaking up fights and making snarky comments and telling stories. He's in his element here, among his boys, laughing and cracking jokes and rubbing his knuckles along their heads, landing playful punches left and right. Katherine thinks that she could watch him for a year and not get bored. Davey clears his throat and she turns to look at him, snapped out of her reverie, and sees the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Whoops.
"How are you enjoying being back at school?" Katherine manages, forcing herself to focus Davey. He looks a little surprised that anyone is actually paying attention to him amidst the chaos, but replies.
"Pretty well, thanks. Just in time, really, I have to sit my college entrance exam in January."
"Oh?" She leans forward, propping her elbows on the table in a delicious breach of manners. "Where are you going?"
"New York University School of Law." Davey chances a small, hopeful smile. "Or hoping to, at least. They have some pretty good scholarships so I shouldn't be costin' my parents money to go there."
"That's an excellent school! You must be excited."
"I'll be excited once I get in." Davey snorts, taking another sip of his lemonade.
"Like there's any question o' that." Katherine looks up to see Jack, who, it appears, has managed to escape the band of newsies, probably due to many of them having left the tables to head over to where several people, including, now, some of the barmaids, are dancing a raucous jig.
He's ditched his suit jacket somewhere and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There's something about him, half undone like this, warm and pliable from the whiskey, that is completely intoxicating.
"Lady Katherine, would you care to dance with me?" He grins. She thinks about protesting, thinks about how much his ribs must be hurting him, but there's a challenge in his eyes that she can't pass up.
"I would be honoured." She puts her dainty hand in his large one and he leads her over to the dance floor.
It's a bit intimidating. Her mother had, of course, instructed Katherine's governess to train her in all the key styles of social dance. In fact, Katherine's ballroom dancing is something she has received a good number of compliments on. This, however, does not seem the sort of dance where her impeccable technique will be of much use to her.
None of the dancers, be they barmaids, newsies, or customers, seem to have any sort of idea what either they, or the other dancers around them are doing at all. All of them are charging around the wooden floor with bouncing, skipping steps, twisting in and out of one of another, leaning out to spin one another around before pulling back in to turn together, bodies pressed together scandalously close.
Jack, however, seems unconcerned, taking hold of her waist and plunging them into the melee. It takes her a few moments to get her bearings, and even then it's a while before she manages to stop treading on Jack's toes. He doesn't seem to mind, though, throwing his head back in laughter. Jack catches hold of her hands, spinning them in endless circles before pulling them back close together all in a rush, her chest pressed flush against his as he twists them out of the way of the other couples. It's strange, but she quite enjoys it, the push and pull of it, the way that it's rough but Jack leads her through it unbelievably gently. And once she gets the hang of it, she can enjoy the shouting and clapping and stamping of feet, even Race's wolf whistle when Jack pulls her in particularly close, fitting one of his legs between hers as he sweeps them out of the path of a drunkard stumbling past. There's pleasure in it, exhilaration, and she lives for the pride she sees gleaming in Jack's eyes as she hitches her skirts up in one hand to match his steps.
It's several hours later when they stumble out of Jacobi's, laughing and flushed and breathless. The newsies head back to the lodgehouse in a cloud of noise, whilst Jack insists on walking her home, one arm slung loosely across her shoulders.
The night is cold, mid-October bringing with it a frigid breeze that wafts off the Hudson and through the streets, cutting through alleyways and side streets, rustling the linens left out to dry on the washing lines strung between windows in the slums. It's not so bad once they start walking toward Katherine's house – she lives in the nice part of the city, after all, but it's still cold and Jack can feel her shivering. It's almost automatic, the way he drops his arm from around her shoulders and shrugs off his jacket only to drape it around her.
"Jack, you'll get cold." She says, trying to hand it back. His hand on her shoulder stills her.
"I's done more than one New York winter in jus' a shirt, Ace. I's sure I'll manage one more night." He smiles, but it's a little sad, and he looks down, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
Resigned, Katherine tugs his jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. Already it smells like him, like ink and whiskey. She looks up at the moon that casts her shadow, long and sharp and cutting, across the pavement.
"I hate that." She mumbles.
"Hm?" Jack looks up at her, eyes bright in the darkness.
"The thought of you, out without a coat in the winter."
"Wasn't much fun livin' it, I'll admit." Jack shrugs.
The whiskey has softened him slightly, made him muted and mellow in the yellow glow of the streetlights that they pass. The wind whips at him, mussing his already messy curls and tugging at the fabric of his shirt where it isn't covered by his waistcoat. She falls in love with him a little more. But she has to ask. She has to. Even if it breaks them both.
"When you were ill, you talked about the Refuge." She says, tentative. Jack stiffens, but doesn't respond, so she presses on. "You said it was cold. You said you had blue fingers."
Jack doesn't respond for a few moments, both of them continuing to walk in slow, scuffing steps. Katherine is starting to wonder whether she's messed up when he finally speaks, his voice warm and heavy-accented and lighter in tone than she had expected.
"Sounds like I's a mouthy bastard when I's ill."
"You think you aren't normally?" She grins, bumping him with her hip so he's forced to step off the pavement and into the road to keep his balance.
"Hey!" His eyes fly up to her face, grinning, as he gently pushes her back and steps back up onto the curb to walk beside her.
"True, though, isn't it?" She laughs.
"Yeah." He chuckles. There's a pause and then he starts to speak. "'S the reason I got blue fingers. Me runnin' my mouth, I mean." Katherine looks up, surprised, but Jack isn't looking at her, he's looking straight ahead, his eyes not quite focused on something far distant. He's hunched a little too, shoulders forward and fingers churning in his pockets. He continues, his tone flat. "I'd made Snyder angry, real angry, angrier than usual. Worse than the beatin's, though those ain't no picnic. He 'ad this room, called it the boathouse. It was this flooded cellar, black as pitch, full o' this stinkin', freezin' cold water right up to your neck. Even the rats wouldn't live down there. He chucked me in, it was winter, water was cold. When I come out, my fingers was blue. Couldn't move 'em. I think the only reason they didn't drop off was I kept stickin' 'em in my mouth to keep 'em warm. Never really liked cold since."
Katherine doesn't know quite what to say. What is there that she can say? She remembers his words that night, that first night of them, up in his penthouse. What? A little different from how you were raised? Should she say sorry? She wants to. But sorry won't do Jack any good; so she reaches out and slides her hand into his pocket, finding his hand inside and pulling it out to twine their fingers together. Jack looks down at their joined hands and then up at her, something unreadable in his eyes.
"Thank you. For telling me." She says, barely a whisper.
Jack stops and looks at her, then takes a step backward into the middle of the empty street and spreads his arms wide.
"Dance with me." A laugh bursts from her throat at his words, but is cut short when she realises he's serious. Jack just stands there, arms outstretched, ready to receive her if she just steps forward.
"I've been dancing with you all evening." She manages.
"So?" Jack shrugs.
"Here?" Katherine asks, looking both ways for unseen traffic before wandering out into the street to join him.
"Why not?" He asks, quiet, wrapping one arm around her waist and taking her other hand in his to pull her into a loose sort of dance hold, closer and more intimate than any way he'd held her in Jacobi's.
It's ridiculous and Katherine knows it, as he starts to guide her, turning them in a slow circle as he stares into her eyes. This is nothing like the perfect frame that has to be maintained throughout a waltz or any other ballroom dance. They're not even dancing, for goodness sake, not really, just sort of swaying and turning, slowly shifting their weight from one foot to another.
"There's no music." She whispers, unable to hold up under the intensity of his gaze any longer, dropping her head to rest against his chest.
He presses a kiss to her temple and starts to hum, quietly at first and then a little louder, but still only enough that she can just hear it, pressed up against him as she is, letting him hold her. They're in the middle of the street, but Katherine can't bring herself to care.
Her mother had once quoted Oscar Wilde and described dancing, at least the type of dancing that they're doing now, not the ballroom dancing that is fit for a lady, as a vertical expression of a horizontal urge. At first, she'd thought her mother had meant the kind of raucous, chaotic, passionate dancing that she and Jack had engaged in earlier that night, but somehow she's starting to believe that her mother had meant something rather more like this. Quiet, loving, Jack humming tunelessly in her ear. She thinks that she could dance like this, with him, for the rest of her life and not be discontent.
At some point they break away from one another, not in anger, but in mutual acknowledgement that they are out of time once again. Jack holds her close to his side the whole way back to her house and it's only when she turns to hand back his jacket that they speak.
"I'd like to do that again." Katherine says, suddenly feeling very shy. "I had a great time with you and the boys."
"Yeah?" A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Well, sure, Ace. We ain't got much celebratin' to do right now, but – hey, my first day at this new job. We'll go out that evenin', the whole lotta us. How's that?"
"That sounds wonderful." She smiles, going up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his cheek, and she means it.
That particular celebration never happens.