Chapter 43

Author's note: Jack has a panic attack in this chapter. He also says fuck a lot. Just so you know.

...

Marriage, Jack decides, is the best decision he's ever made. It takes him exactly twelve days before he screws it up.

The thing is, he's really, really enjoying the whole being married thing, even now the honeymoon is officially over. They both go back to work, though now that Katherine's got an eye on his comings and goings, for substantially less hours, before returning to their little house to dance around one another as they cook dinner in the kitchen and then intertwine themselves on the couch for Jack to draw and Katherine to write, or her to read aloud while he listens, his hand stroking through her hair. Within days, it's become routine, usually with one or other of the newsies turning up on their doorstep for dinner or just to talk or to sleep on their couch overnight, or Davey bringing Jack union paperwork to fill out. Jack has never been happier. Neither has Katherine.

Jack should have known, though, that it was too good to last. He evades the nightmares for the first twelve nights that he has Katherine in his arms. Thirteen, it turns out, is his unlucky number. On the thirteenth night of their marriage, Jack wakes up screaming.

He's been running, or trying to, his heart pounding, the pumping of his own blood so loud in his ears that he can hardly hear his own screaming, blood, blood in his mouth, is he missing a tooth, blood on his stomach, some of that blood pouring out of him, though, the pain excruciating, his skin, burning, burning in a way that makes him want to scratch it off, to flay himself alive, because that's what he's doing, Snyder, he wants Jack skinned, or at least he's doing a pretty good job of it, because Jack feels like he hardly has any skin left, stripping it away, the whip, the belt, the fucking cane, fucking cold, it is, water, the water's cold, and his head is under it and he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe-

A hand on him. There's a hand on him, on his arm. Oh fuck, there's a hand on him. Hands hurt, fists hurt, the room is dark, why is the room dark? Why is it spinning? Skin burning, hands shaking, someone's fucking hand on him.

Jack does what he always does when he's scared. He runs away. Except his legs aren't working, not properly, they're tangled in something, or somebody has hold of him, but either way, his legs aren't working and before he hits the floor something sharp hits him just next to his right eye and yes, he's definitely going to die. Can't even run away properly. Fucking idiot.

Somehow, he's in a corner. Corners are good, sometimes. It gives people less places to hit you. But you also can't run away when you're in a corner. Well, he's in it now, no going back, not when they're chasing him, not when he's running. Cover your head, Kelly, cover your head. Arms up, curled over his head.

"Jack?"

That's his name, isn't it? Though they never used it, not in the Refuge. He was Kelly, there. Or something worse.

"Jack? You're scaring me."

Katherine. That's her name. He doesn't want to scare Katherine. No. Don't scare Katherine. He lowers his arms, eyes searching in the dim light. He doesn't want to scare Katherine.

"Sorry."

It's pathetic, he's pathetic, but most other words aren't exactly within reach right now. Normally they're clear in his head, the words, even though they aren't on paper, but tonight they're like they are in the newsprint, all shifting around and jumbled up and topsy turvy. He wants to grab hold of them, make them stop moving, but every time he reaches out they just slip between his fingers.

There's a sigh. He hopes it's relief, not annoyance, not anger. He doesn't think he can deal with anger right now.

"That's okay, my love, you're okay."

He doesn't feel very okay, but if Katherine's saying it, then it must be true, right? She looks like an angel in that nightgown in the darkness of the room – their bedroom, he realises. Jack always thought she was one.

"Can – can I touch you? I just want to make sure you're okay."

Jack doesn't think he has the energy to say anything, not when everything he's got is going into the trembling that his limbs have decided to start doing, so he just nods his head and hopes that that's enough. Katherine seems to think so, because she comes towards him. She approaches him like someone does a wild animal, and that nearly sets him off again because she's afraid of him and he's a fucking idiot. He flinches when she touches him, but her fingers are gentle as they pry his hands away from his face and tilt his head to look at the place where he's bleeding. Jack's vision has gone funny in one eye, but he doesn't want to ask whether it's real and he's got blood in his eye or if it's just his brain screwing him over again.

"We need to get you cleaned up, my love. Do you think you can make it down to the kitchen?"

That's a lot of words, so it takes Jack a minute to process. If he's being totally honest, he doesn't think that he can make it down to the kitchen. His limbs feel heavy and useless, like they belong to somebody else, and his head hurts. Everything hurts. But he can't say that, because Katherine will think that he's weak, then. So, he nods.

"Okay. Come on then." She sounds relieved, which means that he's said the right thing. Jack's pretty sure that knowledge is the only thing that persuades his feet to carry him down to the kitchen. Katherine looks at him like he's some sort of swooning maiden who's about to fall into a dead faint, so Jack straightens his shoulders and makes it down the stairs before collapsing into a kitchen chair and leaning his head back, eyes closed.

He can hear Katherine rummaging around in the cupboards, trying to find where they keep the bandages and the rubbing alcohol. Jack wonders whether you can drink rubbing alcohol. Being drunk sounds rather attractive at this exact moment. That said, he isn't exactly sure that his shaky hands would be able to get a glass to his lips without spilling half of whatever is inside, so maybe it's best to avoid that altogether.

It stings when Katherine cleans the cut, but she says that it doesn't need stitches, so that's nice. Jack fucking hates stitches. He figures, now that his mind is marginally clearer, that he must have smacked his face on the bedside table when he tumbled out of bed. Pathetic.

"Done." Katherine says, giving a final press of the handkerchief to his eye and rising to put the supplies back in the cupboard. "So, do you want to tell me what all that was about?"

Fuck. She's going to hate him. She's going to think that he's weak. Why does he have to be so fucking pathetic?

"Nightmare." He says, and his voice sounds like it's being spoken through a throat lined with shards of broken glass.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay." And, well, he wasn't expecting her to agree to that so readily. "What do I need to do next time?"

"Whaddaya mean?" Jack blinks, feeling slow and stupid.

"How do I help? Next time it happens." Katherine says, as if it's obvious.

Hell, how is he supposed to know that? He barely understands how to get through these… episodes himself, never mind knows enough about them to explain to her how to help him. And that's even saying that he needs help, which he categorically doesn't, as much as he wants to bury his face in her shoulder and sob right at this moment in time.

"Oh. Uh, not much you can do. Jus' don' touch me straight after."

"Ah." She winces. "Is that what set you off? I'm sorry. I should have thought on, it's just that… well, it was a bit of a shock."

"Sorry." What else is there to say?

"Don't be." Katherine says, quiet and fierce, wandering back to him and looking him up and down, assessing. "Are you alright to be touched again now?" Jack nods.

"Come on then, let's get you back to bed."

"Good morning." Katherine says, when he blinks open his eyes, half gummed shut with sleep. "How are you feeling?" As she asks, she reaches up and presses the back of her head to his forehead, as if searching for a fever, then brushes his hair back off his forehead. Jack closes his eyes again, revels in her touch, in the way that her fingers are gentle and don't want to hurt him.

"Yeah, alright." That's a bald-faced lie. Jack feels like shit. He wants to sleep some more, for a week, preferably, or maybe forever. He opens his eyes again. "You want breakfast?"

"Are you offering to make it? Yes, please." She laughs, light and airy, and it's difficult to stay so completely downtrodden when she sounds that happy with him. Maybe, if he makes breakfast, if he's really, really great today, then she'll forget about the shitshow that was last night. He sits up, swings his legs out of bed.

"An' what can I get for the lady today?" Jack asks, with lightness that he decidedly doesn't feel, turning back to press a kiss to her forehead before he stands.

"Coffee." Katherine hums, stretching languorously beneath the sheets.

Sometimes, Jack can't quite believe that this is his life, in a house that he owns, Katherine in his bed, nothing better to do on a Saturday morning than make his wife coffee.

"As if I'd risk comin' near you 'fore you's had your mornin' coffee."

"Rude." She pouts, then adds, thoughtful: "Have we got bacon?"

"Think so."

"Bacon sandwiches?" Katherine shoots him a hopeful glance as he shrugs on his shirt, the material almost transparent in the golden light of summer morning that filters in through the gap between the curtains.

"Comin' right up."

They do have bacon in the icebox, it turns out, so Jack stokes the fire and sets the bacon to sizzle in the pan, slicing bread as he stares out of the kitchen window. The birds have come back to the feeders, long-tailed tits this morning. Their backyard is still a mess, other than the bird feeders, with weeds growing up between the flags, but he reckons with a bit of work he can get it right. He's really just glad that they got the inside of the house looking something like homely before they moved in. Jack makes two bacon sandwiches (because Katherine will say that she wants one, but actually she wants two) and takes them back upstairs along with the mugs of coffee.

The feeling of walking back into their bedroom and seeing Katherine sprawled across their bed (because you can tell that she's not used to sharing one by her inability to sleep neatly on her own side, Jack swears) in her nightgown, hair braided to keep it out of her way while she sleeps and tied with a little ribbon; that feeling still hasn't gotten old. Jack doesn't know why every time he comes in there's a little part of him that thinks she'll be gone, that this was all just a dream, but if it is a dream then he never wants to wake up. It's almost enough to make him forget about last night. Almost.

"Where's yours?" She frowns, as he hands her the plate.

"Had 'em downstairs." Jack replies, nonchalant, easing himself back into bed beside her. Eating, after a night like the last one? Not usually a good idea. Katherine, apparently, didn't get that memo, as she merely gives him a disbelieving look and then plonks one of her sandwiches in his lap. "Kath-"

"Eat it, or you're the one washing the grease out of the bedsheets." Jack frowns, but obeys, taking a reluctant bite and praying that he'll be able to keep it down. This is not the hill he wants to die on. "I have an article to finish this morning, but maybe we could go for a walk this afternoon? Before Davey comes over?" Katherine suggests, sipping at her coffee.

"Sure."

And, to be fair, the walk does him more good than he expects. Katherine seems to be taking her cues from him as to how they're going to deal with the whole big mess that is his screwed-up head, and that is just fine by him. If he ignores it, then it goes away. Until the next night, at least.

So, they hold hands as they walk through the park, and Jack lets himself be soothed by the sound of her voice as she tells him about the piece that she's writing for the Sun about under-fed schoolchildren in the rural areas outside of the city. And then she breaks off, swearing under her breath in a way he's never heard her do.

"We live in a city of three and a half million people, how the hell do we keep running into her?" Jack follows her line of sight and spots Rose. His heart sinks even as his muscles tense.

"'Cos this is a posh folks' park?" He mutters.

"It's not a posh people park." Katherine frowns up at him.

Jack glances around. The trees are planted in neat rows, lining the immaculately maintained paths which weave their way around lawns. Lawns that have blades of grass that are all trimmed to exactly the same length and have fountains in the middle of them. He resists the urge to laugh. He'd never have been seen dead in a place like this before Katherine.

"'S so a posh folks' park."

His wife doesn't have time to retort, because Rose has noticed them and is hurrying over, the frilled edge of her parasol fluttering in the late summer breeze.

"Katherine."

"Rose."

"You look well. Marriage becomes you." The other woman nods. Katherine doesn't reply. "I wish to apologise. I was… less than tactful at our last meeting."

Jack snorts quietly and Rose's eyes, hurt and concerned, flick to him over Katherine's shoulder. The fact that Katherine doesn't elbow Jack in the ribs for his indiscretion betrays just how angry she really is.

"I didn't mean…" Rose pauses, shaking her head, "my husband believes that I should remove myself from your acquaintance, but I do not wish to. May I be so bold as to request your new address, so that I can call on you?"

Rose's face pales when Katherine gives her the address, but she doesn't say anything. Katherine's almost disappointed at the lack of postcode politics as her friend – former friend? acquaintance? – walks away.

"Did I do the right thing?" Katherine asks, turning to Jack. "Giving her a second chance?"

Jack wants to say no. There are few things, to him, that can strike a person out of his life completely, but making Katherine cry is one of them. But he's made Katherine cry himself, occasionally, and whilst it's something he'll never forgive himself for, it's enough to make him reconsider his answer.

"I dunno, Ace. D'you think you did?"

She bites her lip. "I think so."

"Then you did the right thing. You's got pretty damn good judgement when it comes to people. Else you wouldn't o' married me."

She does elbow him in the ribs for that, though he's not wrong about it.

Katherine's been teaching Jack a lot about the etiquette of having people over to the house, over the past week or so. All of that goes out the window when Davey arrives for dinner, because the first words out of Jack's mouth are:

"Dave – what the hell?"

On the doorstep is one Davey Jacobs, with several sheaves of paper clutched to his chest and one hell of a shiner on his right eye.

"It's nothin'." David shakes his head, plastering on a smile as he steps inside, dutifully wiping his feet on the doormat. "I brought union paperwork for us to fill out, I need your signatures on some stuff for the newsies."

"You's got a black eye." Jack says.

"Really?" Davey shoots Jack a derisive look over his shoulder as they troop into the kitchen. "I thought a facemask would fix these undereye circles right up."

"Don' gimme that, what happened? Do I need to soak someone for you?"

"This," Davey points at Jack, hefting the paperwork onto the kitchen table, "this is why we're not talking about this."

"What? Why?" Jack throws his hands up, halfway between surrender and irritation.

"Because violence isn't the answer."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Exhibit A, the strike."

"Was won by you negotiatin' with Pulitzer, not the time we turned over the wagons. That ended poorly, if you recall."

One thing is for sure, David Jacobs is going to make one hell of a lawyer. Jack Kelly, on the other hand, knows when he's beaten. He will never win an argument with Davey. He knows this. Therefore, he elects to slump into a kitchen chair opposite his friend and level him with a concerned look.

"Davey, seriously."

Davey shrugs a little pulling off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of his chair. "I'm not very popular at law school."

"Wait," Jack says, his fingers tightening on the table edge, his nails turning white, "one o' the toffs at the university did this?"

"James Rawlings didn't like that I beat him in the first test." Davey scrunches his nose, licking the pads of his fingers to more easily flick through the stacks of papers, searching and sifting for the particular page he needs. When Jack doesn't answer, he glances up. "I'm used to this stuff, really-"

"I'll kill him." The words are spoken in such a low growl that they're almost inaudible, but Davey hears them. He hears them loud and clear.

"Jack-" Davey sighs.

It's no use. Jack's chair scrapes backwards across the floorboards as he stands, fists clenched. "I'll bloody well kill him."

Davey thanks his lucky stars that Katherine chooses that moment to clatter down the stairs and walk into the kitchen. "Katherine," he sighs, by way of greeting, "control your husband please."

"What's happened?" She asks, laying a hand on Jack's shoulder and gently pushing him back down into his seat.

"A fellow student and I had an altercation and I came out rather worse off. Jack would like to return the favour."

"How's you not bothered by this?" Jack snaps, his fist hitting the table.

"Why are you so bothered by this?"

"Because you's family, Davey, an' ain't nobody hurts family."

And, well, what to say to that? What is there to say? David certainly doesn't know, and Katherine neither, and maybe it's everything, and maybe it's nothing at all. Jack closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched. He's aware, perfectly aware, that he's got an almighty temper on him, when the mood strikes, but the anger isn't for Davey. Jack focuses on Katherine's hand, it's still on his shoulder, her thumb stroking slow circles in the notch below his shoulder blade.

"I promise, Jack," Davey says, quiet, soothing, unbearably so, as if he thinks Jack's some sort of bomb about to explode, "I can handle it."

"You'll tell me?" Jack hisses, through gritted teeth. On the stove, steam escapes from the kettle. "'F he gives you any more trouble?"

"Yeah." David nods, slow, handing a piece of paper across the table to him. "Now, I need you to sign this."