MANHATTAN - OCTOBER 1899
"Did I do something to you?"
"Relax, it ain't that bad."
Atlas gripped Jack's shoulder tighter, pushing the ink-dipped needle into his skin.
It hurt. A lot. But Atlas had been doing this for years and was far more experienced than other amateurs. He knew his trade. He was adept at how hard to poke the needle without having to go back over the lines multiple times. All that was left was the shading.
He was as brilliant with a needle and ink as Marquette was with a sketchpad and pencil. In fact, as Jack described the design, Marquette had drafted it on the back of a paper menu from Tibby's and gave it to Atlas.
As Jack sat in the chair with his back to Atlas, shirtless and bracing himself, Z and Lion urged Jack to do a few shots to ease his nerves. Then Z and Lion took shots. Atlas, however, waved the offer.
The outline was precise and clean, save for the light blood that followed. He was using sewing needles.
Jack was in so much pain, the feeling became euphoric. It felt like Atlas was continuously rubbing and scratching one spot of his back, while inserting needles. The soft burning sensation was almost hypnotizing. His skin was humming.
And it took so goddamn long, despite the design being small. But time felt somewhat distorted to Jack. Twenty minutes felt like an hour. Time had stopped. It was like a trance, with Jack feeling disconnected from his surroundings.
He floated in and out of conversations with Atlas and the others, not processing what was being said. He remembered cussing out Z and Lion for refusing to give him laudanum for the pain, hence the whiskey shots, and Atlas laughing. The rest was a blur.
He felt the needles. He felt Atlas' hands. When Atlas paused to break every now and then, Jack felt the artist's breath on his skin for a fleeting moment. He felt Atlas behind him, going back to work on his skin. There was a weird kind of intimacy that developed all too easily and then it stopped once the tattoo was complete. A kind of trust. A bond. It left an indelible mark on Jack's soul.
Here was a person Jack had only known for three years. Met him in the Refuge. Atlas had seen Jack beaten, beg, break. And now Jack was willingly subjecting himself to more pain at the hands of a friend. But he was comfortable around Atlas. He didn't like him enough to consider him a best friend, but he knew Atlas had a good heart.
Maybe Jack didn't really have a friendship with Atlas. Maybe he had a deal. A firm, loyal deal. But that was enough for Jack.
Atlas had been one of those inmates that Jack wasn't sure he liked. At least, not at first. Jack likened him to the self-righteous reformers who stood in the middle of the street, selling Bibles to the poor. Sure, Atlas was devout, but he was far from a saint. Jack reckoned he clung to his martyrs and scriptures because that's all he had left – as if holding a rosary to Snyder would somehow repel him. Well, to Atlas' credit – Jack thought – it was a damn good try.
Jack never thought he'd let Atlas, of all people, mark his body in a way that would stay with him until he died. And yet he trusted him with the task. After all, Atlas was the best. He'd tattooed plenty of sailors, prostitutes, convicts, and even the odd policeman. He'd been the one who did most of Muggs' tattoos.
Jack trusted him to use sharp needles. Trusted him to do an immaculate job.
Suddenly, it was over.
When Atlas finished, Jack felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. He couldn't explain that. He almost wished he could've sat there for the rest of the day.
Atlas wiped down the sensitive skin with soapy water, throwing away the ink and needles.
"You wanna take a look?" Atlas asked, finally accepting the shot Lion offered him.
Jack got up from his chair and crossed to the bedroom of his flat, turning his back to the small mirror above the dresser, and looking over his shoulder. He marveled at Atlas' detailed work, having captured Marquette's illustration perfectly, and bringing Jack's vision to life.
"Atlas, you're a genius," Jack said, marveling at the art etched into the raw skin. Black ink neatly swirled in a beautiful simplicity. The image was an exact replica of the design on his mother's St. Philomena medal. The art was about medium size, on the upper right of his back, just below the shoulder: a portrait of a youth in a flower crown, holding an anchor.
"Keep it clean." Atlas gathered up his kit of supplies, tossing Jack a stern look. "Don't want it to get infected."
"How much do I owe you?"
Atlas waved a hand. "Please. First one's on the house."
Jack laughed a little, shaking his head. "First one? This will be my only one. I don't think I have the strength to get another."
"Just wait," Atlas muttered, rolling his eyes.
Lion collapsed into a chair. "What is Sarah going to think of the tattoo? Now you'll have two dames on your back."
"It was her idea," Jack said, shooting Lion a smirk. As he turned back to the mirror, he frowned a little, his eyes growing distant. "My ma would faint if she saw this. I'm doing it for her though. The least I can do after I lost her medal…"
"Hey, you didn't lose it," Z said definitively. "That son of a bitch smashed it."
They were quiet for a moment, each lost in his own memory. Jack's hands ran cold at the thought of Whalen taking a hammer to his medal, shouting at the boy as it broke into pieces. He ran a hand through his hair and then winced at the sore spot below his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Z mumbled. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay."
"…bring it up."
"You didn't bring it up. I did," Jack said with a shrug.
As soon as he said that the door opened, and Sarah appeared with a basket of food from the market. She looked startled at the three young men in her flat, meeting Jack's eyes with somewhat of a 'you should have warned me' face.
Jack smiled at her, and she couldn't help but return it.
"Well, let's see it," Sarah said, spinning Jack around to see Atlas' handiwork. She gasped at the detail, the neatness. "Oh, Jack it's incredible." She turned to Atlas. "You're very talented, Atlas. Very talented indeed."
Atlas nodded. "You want one, Sarah?"
Sarah laughed, looking from Jack to the artist. "My father would kill me."
"Not your mother?" Lion asked.
"Mama wouldn't mind as long as it were small. Easily hidden," Sarah said after a moment. "She's more…bohemian than Papa." She rubbed Jack's arm. "You oughtn't show Les. He'll be wanting one, too."