Jagged Edges
By: Dark Draconain
Rated: R, for language
Feedback: Would be lovely, cheers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summery: (Sequel to "Behind Broken Glass") Shattered glass leaves sharp edges.
A/N: Written in July/August 2004. A continuing exercise in "show, don't tell." Also, I blow my nose on your silly suggestion of "romance".
-
Jagged Edges
-
The couch was worn out and faded, its once garish colours dimmed to a duller shade. It was the first piece of furniture he and Teri bought together, and it had made every move with them. And while Jack had never really liked it much, there was something that kept him from getting rid of it. Some lingering fear of being reprimanded for violating the decorating treaty. He was never allowed to choose anything alone except the electronic equipment. Everything else was Teri's territory: a strict line that was not to be crossed.
He flopped down on the sagging cushions, flexing his fingers under their blood-stained bandage. A few more hours with his hand bound probably wasn't a bad idea, thought it was far from necessary. Whatever skin had been ripped from his knuckles was nothing compared to the damage they'd seen before. He hadn't really cleaned them; just run them under cold water before wrapping them, but his hand would survive.
Jack reached around for the remote control, rummaging under pillows until his finger tips fell on the plastic device. There wasn't a lot on TV in the day. Soap operas were crap. The sports highlights were the same for hours. The only other thing that you could guarantee seeing was Star Trek. If not one incarnation then the other. It was baffling how much air time William Shatner still had. Not that Jack had ever been much of a 'Trek guy. It just wasn't his style. Growing up TV had never been his style. Surfing was his style. That was a long time ago, though, and Star Trek was decent enough. Beautiful escapist, idealistic science fiction.
The doorbell, ringing in a persistent monotone of off-key chimes, drowned out Pickard's monologue on the importance of the Prime Directive and the danger of Cultural Contamination, driving Jack to flick off the television and stalk over to the door, mentally cursing whatever smiling con-artist was likely to great him this time. He could see their mocking, shit-eating grin as they happily explained the virtues of the product they were selling now.
He flung open the wood paneled door, ready to berate anyone stupid enough to stay in his line of sight after he politely told them to fuck off.
"Look, I'm really not—Chloe?"
"Well I'm glad you haven't forgotten me yet," replied the short computer expert. She stepped inside and wrapped her arms around Jack.
He stepped back a little too quickly and reached around her to shut the door. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he gazed over her casual attire of jeans and non-descript blouse, noting that she was doing the same to him.
"You look good, Jack. How've you been?"
Jack barred his teeth in a gesture that could, in desperation, be interpreted as a smile. "Fine."
"Great. You know, it's been awhile and I just wanted to see how you were. Nobody's heard anything since you left. Well, I guess except for Kim but she—"
"Yeah."
"Okay," said Chloe, walking into the small apartment-like house and plopping herself down on the couch. She ran her fingers over the fabric. "Wow, how long have you had this couch? It looks like its seen a few lifetimes," she said with a smile.
"A while," said Jack, sitting next to her on the only piece of furniture in the living room. He looked down, pressed his bound right against his thigh, well out of Chloe's view.
"So, anyway," she beamed, "I looked up your address the other day, you know, routine check and all, and I thought hey! I'll go and see how you are."
Jack didn't say anything.
"How are you, Jack?"
"Fine."
"So you've said. Look, Jack, if you want me to leave I will, but I just thought it might be kind of nice to—"
"Sure. Look, you want something to drink? I'm going to get something to drink."
"Water would be great," called Chloe as Jack disappeared into the kitchen. "With ice, please."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, popping ice cubes into an empty cup. The blocks fell, little pieces shattering against the glass walls, chiming as they broke. He walked back out a minute later, a drink in each hand. As he handed Chloe her water, he caught her gapping at the bloody bandage pulled against his knuckles.
"Thanks."
"Sure."
"What happened to your hand Jack?" she asked, still staring at them from across the sofa.
"Nothing."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"That's funny because it doesn't look like nothing."
"Oh. Excuse me, I guess I was confused. Yeah, actually no. I wasn't. Nothing happened, Chloe," he growled.
"Well I'm sorry for taking an interest in your well-being, Jack, but I want to know what happened. I hope it doesn't offend you too much that some people still care about you."
"Let me say this really slowly: nothing happened. Should I try that in another language? Would that help clarify my meaning?"
"Don't tell me nothing happened. I'm not blind, you know. I can see the blood just as well as you."
"You're not blind?"
"No."
"Oh. Okay. Just terminally stupid then?"
"What?"
"Never mind, Chloe," said Jack, taking a long sip of his drink.
"No."
"I'm sorry?"
"I said no. No I won't 'not mind'. I mind. I mind a lot. And I would appreciate it if you told me what happened to your hand."
"You want to know what happened to my hand?"
"Yes, Jack, I would."
"Okay. Alright. What happened? I'll tell you what happened. I threw a punch at my mirror. But I tell you, you should have seen the other guy."
"Jack?" she asked quietly.
"What! What the hell do you want?" he got off the couch, meeting Chloe's eyes with a glacial stare ablaze with bitterness.
She shrunk back against the pillows, then thought better of her retreat and leaned forwards. "Are you okay?"
"Am I—am I okay?" he put his drink on the table, slamming it with a dull thump. "Yeah, Chloe, I'm fucking peachy. How are you? Still living in your socially inept void, I see? Well that's lovely. And how's it been working for you? Good? Great. I'm glad to hear it. No, really, ecstatic. I mean, I haven't been this happy since my wife was murdered by a double-agent I trusted my life with! Because those were good times. Yeah, they were spectacular. I mean my wife, my pregnant wife, was shot by the same woman I'd had an affair with! And then there was the time I was tortured to death. That makes a good story at all the parties. But not as good as the heroin. That stuff was great. Load it up and you don't have to think. Ever. Blocks out all the nightmares. The visions of the people I've brutally murdered. Because there are a lot of those. Innocent people, guilty people, people I just couldn't protect. The heroin worked well on those.
"Stephen Saunder's was another highlight. I thought he was dead. I left him behind in Kosovo because I thought he was dead. But he came back to bite me in the ass didn't he? And how many people did he kill because of what I did? Gee, another award winner for me! We're up to three national crises—is that a record? I don't know. I don't really care. It doesn't matter anymore anyway now does it? I don't work for the government anymore. I don't do anything anymore. Because I ran the hell away like a goddamned chicken-shit, so now I'm just your average fucking American with some extra baggage on the side.
"You want to know if I'm okay? Yeah, Chloe. I'm fucking fantastic!"
Jack paused, stopped yelling and gesticulating, and looked down at Chloe. She didn't say anything. Her face was blank, eyes wide, fixed on his still form. Her knuckles had turned white from the grip she had on her water. She leaned over to try and place it on the table, struggling against her shaking hands. The soft thump it made when the glass hit the table was loud, echoing against the heavy silence that had so quickly filled the room.
Jack sat back down on the couch. He stared forwards, running his hands over his face. The TV was off, and he could see Chloe's distorted reflection in it. He clenched his eyes shut and ran his hands through his hair, clutching it in trembling fists.
He felt Chloe's hand against his back, and heard her shuffle closer across the sofa.
"Jack," her voice was barely above a whisper.
He turned to look at her.
"Let me see your hands."
fin