Chapter 42
Jack discovers that he loves waking up to Katherine's face in the mornings, the way that the morning light turns her chestnut curls into a halo and carves out the nuances of her features so intricately that only he can truly know them. He loves the way that her skin feels under his hands, softer than anything he's ever felt, and the way that the sheets drape across curves the likes of which he's never seen. He loves the way that she grumbles if she wakes up too early and the way that she pulls him back to kiss him when he tries to get up to fix them some food, long and languid and open, and how nine times out of ten they don't end up eating anything at all when she does that, because Jack's spent the last year controlling himself and he doesn't care to do it for even one more day.
Katherine's heard stories from her married friends, covert whispers about their relations in between giggles, and, frankly, this is not what she had been expecting. In fact, it's quite the opposite. She's always known, of course, that despite his coarse exterior her Jack is tender and caring, but he seems to get more of a kick out of watching her pleasure than he does out of his own. That, at least, is the reason Katherine's giving for not physically being able to get out of bed. She's tried, in the rare, loose moments when Jack's arm isn't tight around her, but her legs feel like jelly and aren't exactly cut out to support her weight right at this very moment.
Jack, for his part, seems delighted that he's managed to incapacitate her for the best part of three whole days. The hospitality of Medda and Esther, who had stocked their cupboards and their icebox before they moved in, had made her blush with the implicit message: that there is really nothing for her and Jack to do for the next whole week except enjoy one another, in every sense of the word. But now she must admit that she's grateful for it, because Jack is insatiable. She's told him so a number of times and he isn't denying it. She doesn't exactly mind very much.
She doesn't know whether it will wear off, this desire that burns deep in her gut to have his hands on her constantly, but she's going to enjoy it while it lasts. And boy, his hands. His everything, really. She's always known that Jack has a wonderful mouth, one that's quick off the mark with witty comments and banter, but marriage has certainly made its virtues more… apparent. So, when he reaches for her across their mattress and pulls her close and she can feel the pillows rippling with his teasing laughter, she bats at the side of his head with her free hand and then lets him kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.
It takes them, therefore, until the fourth day of their honeymoon to drag themselves out of bed – their bed – for any significant length of time. Jack is pretty sure that significant just means over an hour, because Katherine is now pottering around the kitchen – their kitchen - in his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows because of how oversized it is on her, and he's almost certain that she isn't wearing anything underneath it. And really, you can only expect a guy to take so much.
She fixes them both mugs of coffee because she's a terrible cook, but coffee she can manage, and sets his on the table in front of him. Katherine was, of course, intending to walk away and sit an appropriate distance away from him, across the table, seeing as she hasn't really nailed the whole sophisticated lady thing in their marriage up until this point and she probably at least ought to try, but when he looks up at her with a wide, bright smile and tugs her into his lap, she's not going to refuse. She's starting to get the feeling that Jack has a thing about her wearing his clothes, which is unexpected, but certainly not unpleasant. She has a thing about him not wearing his, so it probably all works out for the best.
They don't speak, there's not so much to talk about when they've spent the past three days so closely twined together, but Katherine is content to just sip at her coffee and feel Jack's chest rising and falling against her side. He's leaned back in the kitchen chair and she's slung her bare legs over him, resting her head in that crook of his neck that she's claimed as her own. She breathes him in, strength and ink and just a little bit of her perfume buried there somewhere, and thinks mine.
They stay like that, throwing the occasional glance out of the kitchen window. It isn't much of a view, looking out toward the high brick wall which separates the back of their house from the neighbours', but Jack had knocked some nails into the chipped mortar and hung birdfeeders which appear to be quite the hit with the local wildlife. There are, of course, plenty of New York's inescapable pigeons, but there are also smaller birds, robins and blue tits and song thrushes. They're running low on bird seed already. The thought of helping Jack fill them, doing something so wonderfully domestic, makes something warm rise her chest.
And then there's a knock on the door. Katherine looks up, surprised, and looks to Jack, her eyes questioning. He shrugs back. Normally, the appearance of random newsies on the doorstep wouldn't faze her in the slightest, she's long ago resigned herself to the fact that Jack is a package deal with his brothers, but she knows for a fact that he had threatened the boys that the two of them weren't to be disturbed for at least a week, on pain of death. The past three days have clued her in as to why, but the boys don't disobey Jack. It just doesn't happen. So who the hell is at the door.
Jack eases her off his lap and she scurries upstairs to try and get dressed and make herself vaguely presentable as Jack pads toward the door. Of the two of them, he's definitely the one more kitted out for answering the door, in trousers and undershirt and suspenders and socks. If it wasn't for the fact that her husband's hair (which is unruly normally, never mind after three very, ahem, active days in bed) has very clearly had her fingers running through it, he might even look presentable. Oh well, Katherine thinks, taking the stairs two at a time, if that's the only indication of recent activities, we're doing pretty well.
Meanwhile, Jack opens the door to, frankly, the last two people he was ever expecting to see. Mainly because he has no idea who they are. One of them is an elderly woman, of probably around seventy, and the other is middle-aged somewhere, around forty. The younger one has a kindly face and ruddy, round cheeks, and she's holding the most delicious smelling pie that Jack has ever had the privilege of smelling.
"Ah, you must be Mr. Kelly! I'm Mrs. Chavers and this is my mother, Mrs. Ross. We live just next-door and heard that you'd recently moved in so we just thought that we'd pop round with some housewarming bits and introduce ourselves."
"Mornin'." Jack manages, then clears his throat of sleep when he realises quite how gruff he sounds. "I- uh, please come in, ladies, that's real nice o' you."
The women need little encouragement, marching straight past Jack and in the hallway and into the kitchen, setting the pie in the middle of the table, the lean of which has been rectified by stuffing a pile of old newspapers under the offending table leg. Katherine has told Jack more than once already that they need to do something about it. She doesn't seem to be buying his excuse that the newspapers add character. (Character is something I want in my fiction, Jack, not in my kitchen.)
Jack isn't exactly sure of the protocol for having guests round, as the nearest thing to it he's ever done is had the newsies round to his apartment. Somehow, he doesn't think that their standards are representative (Is it warm? Yes. Does it have food? Yes. Then they'll be there.), so he offers the women coffee. That's clearly the right thing to do, because they both gladly accept mugs and, without prompting, migrate to the living room to ensconce themselves in the armchairs there.
And then, just as Jack's starting to flounder, Katherine appears in the doorway, a little rumpled with an enormous woollen cardigan over her skirt and blouse and hair just a little askew, but decidedly more presentable than when Jack last saw her.
Katherine, of course, is in her element, introducing herself to the women and beginning small talk, tugging Jack down onto the sofa beside her.
She's forgone her corset, Jack realises, which is the reason for her enormous cardigan despite the heat, as it's difficult for her to lace up without his help. It's distracting. Because now he knows what she looks like without it, and she looks even better then than with it on (and she looks damned good with it on, he would hasten to add). He shakes his head. They're in company. Still, can he really be blamed? He is, after all, nineteen and newly married to the woman of his dreams. He's allowed to be a little distracted, surely.
"Thank you so much for the pie, it was really too kind of you." Katherine smiles sweetly even as she jabs her elbow into Jack's side, at which point he promptly realises that he's been staring at her for a solid thirty seconds.
"Oh, you're very welcome, dear;" says Mrs. Ross, settling herself in the armchair, and her daughter has to bite her lip to stop herself from pointing out that it's all very well and good her mother saying you're welcome when all the old woman had done was sit and watch her make it and criticise her apple-stewing technique, "we know what it's like in your first home. How long have you been moved in?"
"Three days?" Katherine looks to Jack for affirmation. "Four?" He nods. He's pretty sure it's four. Honestly, it's all just been a thoroughly pleasant blur of talking, sleeping, and, well, not sleeping.
"And you're recently married?"
"Sunday jus' gone." Jack confirms, grinning and twining his fingers with Katherine's to hold up her hand, displaying the delicate gold band on her ring finger that matches the wider one on his own.
Men, at least in Jack's world, especially those who do manual labour like the dockyard workers, don't usually wear wedding rings, instead investing in something like a pocket watch. Katherine, however, had insisted. Jack doesn't exactly mind. Sure, it's probably the most expensive thing he's ever owned, but there's something grounding about it, down-to-earth. He finds himself rubbing his thumb across the warm metal when he starts to feel jittery, when he wants to run or hide or punch something.
Katherine tells them about their jobs at the papers and Jack's thankful for it, feeling a little bit out of his depth, adding in little jokes whenever he can think of something witty to say. He doesn't have to do it often though, because Katherine's just so damn charming. So, Jack sits there, listening to her talk, and realises that listening to Katherine is maybe one of his favourite things in the world to do. And if when the cardigan slips off her shoulder with a particularly animated gesture, he reaches over and tucks it back up where it's supposed to be, meeting her eyes with a small smile as he does so, then who can really blame him? Frankly, he's proud of himself for not just melting into the couch at the smile she gives him in return.
"Ah, so they're your friends, are they?" Mrs. Chavers asks, turning to Jack, and he has to try and pick up the thread of conversation. "I must admit, we were starting to wonder who all those boys coming and going into the house were!"
"Oh, yeah," Jack chuckles, stuffing his hand in his already unkempt hair, "they's my responsibility, I's afraid. They's been helpin' me fix up the place."
"I must say, you've done a very nice job." Mrs. Ross says, looking the living room over approvingly.
Jack almost falls off the sofa. Nice? They think that the house is nice? With its mismatched cushions and bare floors and second-hand furniture? Well, sure, he thinks it's nice, but he's spent half his life sleeping outdoors, so he hasn't exactly got high standards. And he's sure, even though she's never said anything, that Katherine must be disappointed in their little home, with its lack of servants and fancy furniture. She wouldn't ever say anything, to spare his feelings, but it still makes his chest hurt when he thinks about how little he has to offer her.
"He didn't do a half bad job, did he?" She lays her hand on his knee, giving it a little squeeze.
"Well, Ace, you did do the paintin' in here." He grins. "You oughta get the credit, I think."
Katherine raises her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips. "Joint effort?"
"I'll take it."
…
"It's scandalous." Mrs. Ross exclaims, later, over the dinner table, following in the time-honoured tradition of mothers-in-law aggravating their sons-in-law. "You should hear the noises coming from their bedroom!"
Mr. Chavers, to his credit, keeps quiet and continues chewing over his pork chops. His wife resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead sending her husband a significant look. It would surprise exactly neither of them to discover that Mrs. Ross had her ear pressed to a glass against the wall that separates the two houses every night to hear the specific noises she's referring to.
"They're newlyweds;" Mrs. Chavers says mildly, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and regretting immensely the decision to ask her mother to accompany her earlier that day; the poor Kellys will doubtless be the talk of the street at this rate, "let them enjoy each other."
"They're certainly doing that;" Mrs. Ross says, and Mr. Chavers can't quite work out whether she's gleeful or appalled, "they're like rabbits, every hour of the day and night-"
"I think it's sweet." His wife states, directing a firm glare at her mother. Mr. Chavers is a little disappointed. He'd thought, for a moment, that the presence of these new offenders might have removed his mother-in-law's scrutinising gaze from his own actions. No such luck. "He looks at her like she's hung the moon."
