Chapter 44

Author's note: There's a pretty nasty anti-Semitic slur used in this one. Don't worry, the character who says it gets what's coming to him.

...

It's difficult, Jack discovers, to disentangle himself from his wife (and no, the excitement of being able to call Katherine that has decidedly not worn off yet) while still letting her sleep. It doesn't take her long to drop off, luckily, but she does so cuddled close to him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck and throwing one of her legs over both of his. It's like sharing a bed with a barnacle. The thing is, he doesn't usually mind sharing a bed with this particular barnacle, except for the fact that he really, really doesn't want to wake her up with any more of his pathetic screams. Thus begins his attempt to slither his way out of their bed without waking her. Honestly, he's quite impressed with himself when he manages it, padding softly down the stairs to the landing and then hopping over the creaky floorboard at the top of the other stairs to head for the living room.

Their couch isn't the most uncomfortable place he's ever slept, that prize would have to go to the bench in Central Park he slept on one December when he couldn't afford to stay at the lodgehouse. However, it's not exactly what you'd call comfortable. It's too short for him to stretch out properly, his long legs dangling off the end and his neck awkwardly cricked against the sofa arm, but he can deal with it. And if he wakes up at three in the morning shaking and screaming, then that's okay, because he hasn't woken Katherine.

Katherine actually wakes up at their normal Sunday morning time of eight o'clock, rather rudely, she might add, because the alarm clock is on Jack's side of the bed. She goes to elbow him to turn it off, except her elbow meets with nothing but sheets and empty air, and so she rolls over and turns it off herself. And then she realises how strange this is. The bed feels wrong without Jack in it, too large, too cool, exposed somehow, without his arms wrapped around her in a little haven that's just hers.

She's relieved, then, when she creaks down the stairs and into the kitchen, to see Jack there, half dressed in his trousers and undershirt, with a mug of coffee set on the table dangerously close to his elbow considering that he has his sketchbook out, bent over it.

She isn't scared of him leaving, she's long ago processed the fact that Santa Fe isn't what he wants anymore, but still. It's nice to see him, solid and here. Wandering over, she shifts his coffee mug away from his elbow (because he will definitely knock it over if she doesn't) and presses a kiss to his cheek. Still absorbed in his drawing, he hums a good morning, trailing the fingers of his right hand, free from holding a pencil, down her arm, skimming over soft skin and downy hair.

There's still coffee in the pot, so she pours herself a mug and leans against the sideboard, sipping it as she watches him, hunched over, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he sketches. It's adorable.

"I missed you in bed this morning." Katherine remarks, taking a sip of coffee.

"Yeah?" Jack looks up.

Of course that gets his attention. Katherine forgets sometimes, with all of the responsibilities that fall on Jack's shoulders, that he, like her, is just nineteen. And, well, he's a nineteen-year-old boy. She knows exactly how to push his buttons.

"The bed feels too big without you in it."

Jack grins at that, setting down his pencil and standing up to wrap his arms around her waist. "Well, I's sure we can fix that, Ace."

Katherine sets her coffee cup down on the side, fully prepared for it to sit there, going cold, for the remainder of the morning. She looks up at him, a smirk on her lips.

"You missed your chance, Kelly. We have church to get ready for."

He groans, but then, a wicked glint in his eyes, says: "In church they tells you to submit to your husband. I'd quite like you to submit now, please."

Katherine's quite glad that Jack has lowered his head to start mouthing at her neck, just so that he doesn't see the amused twist of her lips. "And they also tell you to honour your wife."

"I's honourin' you right now." Jack mumbles against her skin, and, honestly, she can't really disagree, not when the sound of his voice, dark and sweet like treacle, sends vibrations through every inch of her.

"Church, Jack!" She gives the back of his head a gentle, affectionate smack. "I don't want to go to heaven and find that you're not there with me because you'd rather stay in bed than go to church."

"I feel like I's in heaven when I's wi' you."

She rolls her eyes. "Did Romeo teach you that one?"

Jack pauses in his work on her collarbone, glancing up at her. "Could you not talk 'bout Romeo when I's tryna seduce you, sweetheart?"

"He did, didn't he?" Katherine crows, earning another very pointed look from Jack. "Trying to seduce me, huh?"

"Pretty sure I's succeedin'." He grins.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

With that, Jack grabs her and throws her over his shoulder with all the delicacy that would be afforded to a sack of potatoes (except he is quite gentle with this particular sack of potatoes). She squeaks at that and feels him laugh, the trembling in his shoulders, so reaches down and pinches his side. Despite that, they're both laughing by the time they get to the top of the stairs.

They end up sneaking into a pew at the back of the church halfway through the second hymn of the service, slightly rumpled and giggling like schoolchildren. It's totally, one hundred percent worth it.

…

The halls of residence for New York University School of Law are surprisingly easy to find, considering that Jack has never been in this particular area of Lower Manhattan before. The particular ones that a Mr. Rawlings is staying at, according to a very reliable directory (according to Miss Rhodes, earlier that day, at least) are clearly for the very wealthy. They're made of stone, big blocks of it, with arched entrances and some sort of footman or porter or such who sits behind a curving desk. It's him who looks up and smiles at Jack when he walks in.

"Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"

"Good evenin'." Jack returns the man's smile, wandering over to the desk and leaning against it. "I's lookin' for a Mista James Rawlings. Any chance you knows where he is?"

"Mr. Rawlings usually returns from his final classes around half-past five, sir. If you go along that passage to your right, outside the building, you're almost sure to meet him. May I take a name, in case you miss him?"

"Nah," Jack smiles pleasantly, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets as he backs away from the desk, "he'll know who it is."

The passageway the porter referred to is not difficult to find. Jack only has to hang about in the entrance to it for around five minutes before a group of four or five young men, around his age, the picture of high-class mirth in their smiles and neatly pressed suits, round the corner. Jack pushes off the wall he's been leaning against, approaching them and calling out.

"One o' you a Mista Rawlings?"

Confused glances are exchanged before one of the men steps forward. He's blond, about Jack's height, clearly athletic. The kind of boy who would be into boxing, except that it's clear he's never had a broken nose in his life. Jack's pretty sure they can remedy that real quick.

"That would be me." The man says, eyebrow quirking. Jack's eyes flick to his companions.

"Mind if I has a private word?"

Rawlings looks taken aback, but jerks his head in permission for his little entourage to continue. "Gentlemen, please go on without me." Both of them watch as the other men shuffle away, somewhat subdued, until they've rounded the end of the passageway and disappeared from view. Then the man turns back to Jack. "Yes, Mr…?"

Jack doesn't bother to dignify the man's question with an answer. Better, despite what he may have said to the porter, to stay anonymous in affairs like this. You never know.

"I's heard you ain't be bein' over friendly wi' some o' your fellow students." Jack says, his hard tone at odds with the casual set of his body, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other dangling lazily by his side. "Beatin' on some o' 'em."

Realisation, closely followed by amusement, dawns across Rawlings' face. "I presume you're referring to that kike some of us sorted out last week."

"You," Jack says, "can call him by his fuckin' name. Or didja not even bother to find that out 'fore you soaked him?"

As he does, he shoves the man up against the alley wall, blond head hitting stone with a painful thud, Jack's hand, large and calloused, pinning him to the wall by his neck. Rawlings' eyes bulge, terror, anger, something there that Jack can't quite pin down, and then the other man's foot connects with his side, the one where he was stabbed almost a year ago, and though the wound is long since healed, those ribs remember what it was like to be broken. Jack finds himself on the gravel, hands scraped up and bleeding, fire at his side.

"My apologies," Rawlings sneers, in a voice hoarse from the pressure at his throat, stepping right up to Jack, looming over him, foot coming back to aim another kick at him, "David Jacobs. He's certainly drawn attention to himself. Teacher's pet, that one is, can see it from a mile off. That said, it's hard not to see him coming with a nose that size-"

Jack grabs hold of the man's foot, yanking his legs out from under him and pinning the man to the ground. They tussle for a second or two, Jack struggling to get a grip on the slimy devil as the gravel embedded in his palms burns, bright and sharp like stars behind his eyelids. And then he's got him, bloody hand fisted in blond hair, a knee against his spine, and yanks the man's head up to speak his threats directly into his ear.

"Such a shame your nose ain't goin' to be so pretty no more, huh? Now listen here. You leaves David Jacobs alone from now on, an' you makes sure your friends do too. Got it?"

When Rawlings doesn't answer, Jack tugs his head further up, bending the man's neck further backwards. One twitch of his hand, and he could snap it. He won't, but he could. With a whimper, Rawlings attempts a nod, the movement spreading fire across his scalp. Jack nods, satisfied, then makes good on his promise, slamming the man's face into the ground with a sickening crack.

He gets up, walks home. If he's lucky, he won't even be late for dinner.

Honestly, he's expecting Katherine to ask why he's late when he walks in the door, but, in fact, he gets something rather better than that, which is her darting out of the living room to twine her arms around his neck and press a very affectionate kiss to his lips. When she pulls away, he looks a little bit dazed.

"Hello, Mr. Kelly." She giggles at his expression, fingers going to his throat to loosen his tie.

"Well," Jack coughs, trying to regain something like composure, "'s a nice welcome."

"What do you expect when you leave my breakfast ready for me before you go out to work, hm?"

Jack has to suppress a wince. If he'd woken up in bed with her, there's no chance that her breakfast would have been made and on the table, but he's sneaking out of bed again and had woken up this morning with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the sofa. He misses it, her face being the first thing he sees when he wakes up, but there's no sense in tormenting the both of them with his nightmares.

She looks so damn happy about her breakfast being left ready on the table before he'd headed out to work though, smiling up at him like that, her hands popping the top two buttons of his shirt, a relief after a long day.

"I'll hafta start doin' that more often." He grins, then flinches as his gravel and blood encrusted hand brushes against her.

Katherine, sharp as a tack, as always, even after a full day out chasing stories, doesn't miss it, snatching up his hand. "What've you done to your hand?"

Jack's normally quick off the mark with his lies; he's had to be, growing up on the streets. With that kind of childhood, you learn to lie fast and you learn to lie well. Katherine, though? She's thoroughly disarming, almost impossible to lie to. In a way, he's kind of glad of that, though, as he's pretty sure if he did ever lie to her then the guilt would eat him alive.

She frowns at him, her tone accusatory. "Jack."

He caves. Jack lets her lead him into the kitchen and pick the tiny shards of gravel out with tweezers, lets her bathe his hand and douse it in rubbing alcohol, all the while listening to his story of what exactly he'd been doing after work. She waits until he's done before she comments.

"Did it occur to you that this might make things worse for David?"

She doesn't look up, engrossed in pinning the bandage around his hand. It's hard to process her question when she's holding his hand like this, which is stupid, Jack knows, he's touched far more of her than her hand, now, but it's true. The way that she's cradling his hand in hers, his so much larger, hers so much gentler, it makes it hard for him to breathe, never mind think.

"O' course it ain't goin' to make things worse." Jack finally pulls himself together enough to answer. "They knows now that he's got boys to back him up, that's all."

She sighs. "At school - it doesn't work like the newsies do. There's… politics."

And that? That's just uncalled for, really. "Oh, an' o' course I ain't goin' to understand, 'cos I's too stupid to go to school." He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. Why can't he just keep his mouth shut?

"I didn't say that, don't put words in my mouth." Katherine says, giving him a look, tight-lipped and frowning. "I'm just saying that next time, maybe you should listen to what Davey wants." She secures the safety pin, returning the first aid supplies to the box and letting go of his hand. "There, done."

Jack feels something sick twist in his stomach. He's an idiot. He shouldn't have snapped like that. He just hates it when she brings it up, the thousands of miles that stretch between them across their little kitchen. At the age of ten, Katherine was being given lessons by a governess in a schoolroom, learning French. When Jack was ten, he was living on the streets and could barely read English.

Katherine stands up to put the medicine box away, but Jack's hand on her forearm stops her in her tracks. He looks up at her eyes wide, lips wet, a little pleading. "You mad at me, Ace?"

"No, Jack," she sighs, setting the box back down on the table and stepping into his space, allowing him to wrap his arms around her waist as she cradles his head against her stomach, "I'm not mad at you."

I'm not mad at you, but I was worried. I'm not mad at you, but I can't stand you being injured. I'm not mad at you, but what if next time it's more than a scrape. I'm not mad at you, but I can't lose you. She doesn't say any of things, doesn't suppose she really needs to. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet and fierce.

"But as your wife, don't you ever make me clean you up after a fight again."

He mumbles an apology against her stomach, breath warm even through the fabric of her dress. Jack doesn't say sorry if he doesn't mean it, she knows, and he's suffered enough, really, so she bends to press a kiss to the top of his head, that dark, unruly hair of his ghosting across her face.

"As Davey's friend," Katherine levels a look at him, stepping away to put away the box, "I hope that you knocked half his teeth out."

Jack barks out a laugh, shaking his head. How the hell he got so lucky; he'll never know. "I guess I's just lost all o' the brownie points I earned this mornin', huh?"

"Not quite." Katherine smiles at him, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Oh?" Jack's eyebrows rise in interest, pupils widening, and he eases himself to his feet.

"You've got a few left." She smiles at him, wandering over and pressing a feathery kiss to his jawline, before whispering: "Also, I may have burned our dinner, so I was hoping to distract you."

Jack pulls away a little, looking down at her. "How bad?"

Katherine internally cringes. This is not the kind of humiliation she needs today. If she didn't know that Jack would be so damn nice about it, she wouldn't even show him, but, as it is, she turns to get the stew out of the oven. And, wow, Jack hasn't ever seen anybody decimate leftovers quite that badly. Upon closer inspection, which reveals bones, meat, and various unidentifiable vegetables (a feat in and of itself, seeing as this stew consists purely of leftovers from yesterday's roast) cremated at the bottom of the cookpot, he discerns that his wife – beautiful, smart, independent, terrible cook – has forgotten one rather important element of stew: the stock.

Jack turns back to see a very red-faced Katherine peeking out at him from between her fingers. He chuckles, spreading his arms wide.

"Distract away."