Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
Author's Notes: Okay, I don't even have to say it because you guys know it, but I will anyway: I am SO sorry about the length of time it took to produce this chapter. You can see my profile for the details if you're interested, but needless to say, things have been pretty hectic. Hopefully there won't be as much space between chapters from now on, but I'm not in the habit of making empty promises, so I won't say anything for sure. All I hope for now is that you enjoy the (long-awaited) Chapter Four!
It was ten p.m. and Jack still hadn't shown up.
Lisa told herself it didn't matter and that she was certainly glad he had chosen to leave her alone that night. She was overly tired. It had been a trying week at work, a not-so restful weekend, and she just couldn't handle the stress of him. Now she could enjoy some peace and quiet and catch up on some reading and, more importantly, her sleep.
She inwardly scoffed at her attempts to convince herself of something that wasn't true.
Three Sundays had gone by since the kiss and, although he hadn't tried again, something had shifted between them. Suddenly, the silences weren't so awkward. His appearance didn't strike dread in her heart. She didn't scream anymore, or cry. Instead, they actually talked. Well, she talked, and he listened. She told him about the stresses of her job, about annoying customers, and funny things her co-workers did. Line-ups at the grocery store, the state of the world, good shows on TV, and the weather. Inane things. Safe things.
He, in turn, gave her nothing. She asked him questions about his life, both subtly and forthrightly. Wondered about his job, his friends, his parents or other family. He continuously said very little in response to her enquiries and so she had stopped asking. But she hadn't stopped wondering.
The previous week, she had questioned if it was true, what he had said about killing his parents. She knew he prided himself on never having told a lie, but she found herself praying that this had been the exception. He hadn't answered of course, merely given her a sardonic look, one eyebrow slightly cocked, his mouth pulling into a smirk that more resembled a grimace. She had her answer then, the only one he'd actually ever given. Even now, she could barely suppress the shudder that ran through her body.
There was something about him, something that both terrified and thrilled her. She had given up trying to make sense of it, because if she thought about it for too long, her mind would convince her of something that her heart wasn't ready to accept. The fact of the matter was that she had gotten used to him being around. She didn't want to think about who he was, or what he had done. All she wanted to know was who he was becoming to her.
Lisa was aware that she was being irresponsible, but she simply didn't care anymore. Every other day of the week, she was Lisa Reisert, hotel manager extraordinaire. Capable businesswoman, loving daughter, casual friend. Sundays, she was Lise. And she was with Jackson. And that's all she knew and cared to know on Sundays. Only on Sundays, but it was all she had, and so she would take it.
She knew she wasn't in love with the guy. She was too logical for that. But he provided companionship that she simply hadn't found in anyone else yet. As soon as she discovered it elsewhere, this nonsense would simply have to end. She tried not to think about the dates she'd turn down that week. She also tried not to think about the fact that Jackson would probably only stop showing up when he was ready to not show up anymore.
On Sundays, she chose to feel instead of think. And it had been going alright so far.
Except this Sunday, she had too much time to think, because Jackson had yet to show up. It was quarter to eleven now, and for someone who usually showed up around eight-thirty, nine (despite the planned meeting time for ten), this was uncharacteristically late. Worrying would be ridiculous, as she knew that very few people were as dangerous as Jack. So, if she were to worry about anyone it would be the people that he encountered, not the other way around. Despite this, she found herself pacing. Then, when she caught herself doing that and sat down, she began wringing her hands. When she sat on her hands to stop fidgeting, she found she was nibbling on her lip.
"Lisa, stop," she muttered firmly to herself. "You're being ridiculous." Sighing, she put her head in her hands and tried to organise her jumbled thoughts.
"Lise…"
The voice came from behind her. She looked up and allowed a private, relieved smile to spread across her face. Slowly turning around, she remarked, dryly, "And here I was looking forward to a quiet—" Her words got stuck and died in her throat.
He was head to toe covered in blood.
"Oh, my God," she breathed, wide-eyed as she watched him exert all his energy just to remain standing. She sped over to him just as he swayed dangerously one side, positioning herself under his left arm to support him. She felt a lump rise in her throat that she quickly smothered. Where the hell was she going to put him?
"Bathroom," she decided abruptly, saying it out loud so that he knew where she was leading him. She took him through her bedroom into the bathroom, grabbing a large, decorative pillow off her bed along the way. She tossed the pillow in the bathtub so that he wasn't leaning straight back onto the hard porcelain, and then helped him into it.
"What the hell happened?" she cried as soon as he was settled in.
"You should see the other guy," he croaked, avoiding her questions as always.
"Jack, Jesus Christ, just tell me where you're hurt," she said, her voice between a command and a plea. "Is anything broken? Have you been shot?"
"A lot of the blood isn't mine." He paused. "But a lot of it is, too." He didn't say anything more, just closed his eyes in a grimace of pain. Even his face was covered in blood. Lisa thought she was going to be sick.
"Where are you hurt, Jackson? Just tell me, tell me so I can help you." He looked at her warily and his distrust infuriated her. "Don't you know me by now? I'm trying to help you! For the love of all that's holy, tell me where you're hurt."
Her vehemence startled him, she could tell. He clenched his jaw and looked away.
She shook her head in disgust. "Fine. Then bleed to death in my tub." She turned to stalk out, and then paused before she reached the door. "But if you didn't want my help, Jack, why did you show up?"
"Couldn't miss out on the Sunday night meeting," he deadpanned, before letting out a low groan and folding into himself slightly. Then he did the last thing she expected Jackson Rippner to do.
He fainted.
For a heart-stopping, agonising second, Lisa was certain he had died. Perhaps it wasn't the most logical conclusion to have drawn, but for her to see him simply go limp like that, she hadn't known what else to think. She was at his side again in two strides and dropped to her knees beside the tub. It was then that she saw the laboured rising and falling of his chest beneath his bloody and destroyed shirt. A wave of relief swept over her body.
She only allowed herself that moment to gather her inner strength before she started with his shoes, carefully removing the Italian leather footwear, and then taking off his socks. After she placed them beside the tub, she began to carefully peel off his suit jacket, trying hard not to jostle him too much. It was difficult, as he was pretty much dead weight, but she summoned every ounce of patience in her body to just do it, and do it right. Slowly but surely, she took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Both articles of clothing had been torn and slashed beyond repair, and her fingers were already sticky with blood. She tried to ignore the smell of it and the sweat forming on her brow as she assessed his body for injuries. Various cuts riddled his chest and arms, a particularly deep and nasty one on his right bicep. He also had an assortment of discoloured bruises all over his body, in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There were several old scars evident as well, two in particular that she recognized quite well.
"What kind of life do you lead?" she breathed, feeling an inordinate amount of sadness for this young man with no future.
She brought her eyes back up to his face, also smeared with blood, most of which seeming to come from his nose. She gingerly felt the bridge of it to discern if it was broken or not. Having experienced this before in her years as a field hockey player, she was quickly able to determine that it had in fact shifted, but was not severely damaged. Taking a bracing breath, she slipped her other hand behind his head and sent up a small prayer of thanks that he was unconscious before carefully but swiftly cracking his nose back into place. A fresh torrent of blood poured out just as Jackson jerked awake. He let out the filthiest curse she had ever heard in her life.
"Don't move," she commanded in a voice that didn't even sound like her. It was so powerful, it resonated throughout the bathroom. He merely looked at her dazedly, as if to say 'Where would I go?'.
She reached across to the cupboard underneath her sink, and took a handful of clean washcloths out from the basket of them she kept there. She ran them under warm water from the sink and brought it back to him, wiping the blood off his face with a gentleness she didn't even know she possessed. She ran it over his forehead like a caress, bringing it down over his cheekbones and under his chin.
"Tilt your head back," she murmured. He silently complied, and she wiped the fresh blood away from his mouth and under his nose, which had thankfully stopped bleeding as profusely. She gentled her touch as she wiped on either side of his nose and under his eyes, as though she could erase the dark circles with her touch. He watched her the whole time with a heavy-lidded gaze and an expression she couldn't discern. They were both silent. Soon, she was out of washcloths and there was still too much blood on his body.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
He looked away. "My knee."
"What happened to it?"
He shrugged. "They busted it, with some sort of club, or bat. I don't know, I didn't see."
She let out a shuddering breath, not even bothering to ask who "they" were. "Is it broken?"
He shrugged again.
Fed up, she leaned forward and began unbuckling his belt. "Not a word," she told him, before he could even open his mouth. She saw his head loll back in a gesture of defeat and fatigue. Summarily, she stripped off his pants to look at his knee, ignoring the puncture-wound scar on his thigh. It was definitely swollen and discoloured. Cocking her head to examine it further, she gently prodded it with her hands, ignoring his sharp intake of breath.
"Well," she said finally. "I don't know that it's broken, but we'll have to ice it and wrap it, and then hope for the best." She ran her eyes over his tired, beaten face, carefully avoiding looking at his semi-naked body. "Jack, you're going to have to stand up, I need to wash the rest of this blood off of you and clean your cuts."
"How are you going to do that?" he rasped, tilting his head up to look at her.
She sighed. "You're going to take a shower."
He smirked and she saw a hint of the old Jackson, for just an instance.
"Oh, stop," she said, even though he hadn't spoken. "I'm doing this for you."
"Why?" he wondered simply, asking the one question that she hadn't wanted to even think about, let alone answer.
She forced herself to be flippant. "Because I only like seeing you hurt when I'm inflicting the pain. Now stand up," she ordered, ignoring the soft smile that had crossed over his face. When he still didn't move, she decided to take action. "Here." She took off her socks, rolled up her track pants, and shrugged out of her zip-up sweater. He merely watched the action unfold, until she stepped in behind him into the tub and crouched down behind him, trying to get her arms underneath his.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Trying to get you to stand up! A little help?"
He shrugged out of her grasp and moved forward a bit, bracing his arms on either end of the tub. He gritted his teeth as every bone and muscle in his body screamed in protest while he stood, trying not to put pressure on his knee. Finally, he managed to stand all the way up, before promptly swaying forward. Lisa caught him just by the convenience of standing right there. He swore at himself, his body, and her for being there and witnessing it.
"What do you do when this happens and there's no one there to take care of you?" she wondered aloud, her arms still around him, supporting him. He was silent, but he didn't need to respond. She already knew the answer.
Refusing to look him in the eye, she debated what to do next. She knew that her clothes were going to get wet—that was fine, she had plenty to change into. He, on the other hand, had nothing. She glanced down at him, only clad in his boxer-briefs. If he got them wet, she could put them in the dryer, but by the time they actually became dry… the thought of a completely naked Jackson Rippner in her apartment did not sit too well with her. So, she forced herself to be brisk and matter-of-fact. "You gotta take off your underwear."
He pulled away and looked down at her like she had lost her mind.
"It's either be naked now in the shower, or be naked in my cold apartment for much longer."
Jackson thought back to the day that she spilled juice all over him and how he'd had to stand shirtless in her apartment for that brief period of time. Then he considered having to be completely naked in that atmosphere. "I can't bend my knee," he said finally.
She bit her lip, and he knew she was wrestling very strongly with herself. "Fine," she said, finally, surprising him. Turning her head, she crouched down and undressed him in one swift motion, dropping the item of clothing on the other side of the tub and pulling the curtain across. He had to admit, he was impressed by the fluid motion. Luckily he wasn't the type to be concerned with nudity, particularly his own. Still, she refused to look anywhere as she leaned forward to turn on the tap and adjust the temperature. Once it was sufficiently heated, she yanked the shower knob and a cascade of water came down on them, causing them both to let out a surprised shout. Jackson's back was to the showerhead and his body took most of it, but Lisa's tank top and pants were quickly getting wetter. She ignored it though, in favour of taking care of Jackson and his injuries. He let out a hiss of pain as the hot water pelted his open cuts.
"Can you do this yourself?" Lisa asked, unsure if she should be there at all.
His response was to sway into her more, clearly unable to hold himself up for too long.
"Okay," she said to herself, making a decision then and there to stop pussy-footing and help him as best as she could. "Turn around and face the water. I've got you from behind, but we need to clean off your front side. That's where most of the injuries are as far as I can tell." Surprisingly, he obeyed. She noticed that he was slowly falling more and more into a pain and blood loss-induced stupor, and she tried her best to keep him conscious and upright as she slowly cleaned out all his cuts and other injuries. She turned him to face her again. By now, he was fully leaning onto the hard, wall-tiles, his eyes only slits but still watching her. As she ran the soap over his arms and chest, she looked up and noticed his nose had slowly begun to bleed again. She reached up and cupped his cheek, gently running her thumb and then her fingers under his nose to clean it up, letting the running water take care of the rest.
Jackson watched Lisa through hazy eyes, watched her as she carefully cleaned his injuries, watched as she gently ran her hands over his body, wiping away his blood and his pain. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that someone had actually taken care of him. The first time he had had real, human contact. Not in the sexual sense, of course, but in the way where it actually meant something. There was nothing sexual about what she was doing now, despite the fact that he was naked, and her clothes were plastered to her body. He hardly noticed either of those things. It was just one human being taking care of another. He was glad he didn't have the strength to move, because almost every part of him was telling him to get the hell out of there. What she was doing to him scared him, actually scared Jackson Rippner. Because the smallest part of him, a part that he thought was long dead, liked it. Liked it very much. And was very tempted to grab her and yank her to him and hold her there forever. He clenched his jaw against the pain in his body and in his heart. Oblivious, she continued to bathe him.
"Enough," he muttered through clenched teeth. "That's enough."
She looked up in surprise, then down at his body. A blush rose on her cheeks as she looked too far down, and then forced her eyes back to his chest, scanning his injuries to see if the bleeding had stopped and if they were sufficiently clean. The deep cut on his arm still bled, but that was it as far as she could discern.
"Okay," she agreed, finally. She leaned forward and turned off the water, then stepped out of the shower, leaving a puddle on the floor at her feet. "Sit," she commanded, helping him down to the side of the tub, making sure his injured knee didn't move too much. Then, she ran into her hallway and grabbed two large, fluffy white towels from the linen closet, coming back just as quickly. He was shuddering violently, so she immediately came up behind him with the open towel and wrapped it around him, holding it there so that her body was pressing into his back. She could still feel him shaking and tried to absorb the chills into her own body by holding him even tighter. They stayed like that for a moment, silently, both trembling with the force of his shivers. She pulled away from him after a beat, and wrapped the other towel around him as well.
"Don't move. I'll be right back." He merely leaned heavily against the wall, and she left the bathroom, quickly stripping off all her wet clothes as soon as she crossed into her bedroom. She went to grab another towel from the linen closet, a beach towel this time, and quickly dried herself off before dressing in a heavy sweater and flannel pyjama bottoms. She was sure she looked horrendous, but couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. She went back to Jackson, still leaning against the wall, and helped him out of the tub and into her bedroom. He limped heavily, trying hard not to put too much pressure on his knee, and allowed her to direct him to her bed. When she began to towel-dry him off, he moved away.
"I can do it myself," he muttered, attempting to keep a hold on the remaining shreds of his dignity.
She rolled her eyes. "Does it honestly matter at this point?" One look into his eyes told her that it did. "Fine," she conceded after a beat. "I'm going to go put on a pot of tea and get bandages for some of those cuts. You probably need stitches but, let me guess, you're not exactly a hospital person, are you?" He didn't answer her. "Of course you're not. Lord knows you weren't there long last time." She shook her head. "I'll be back."
"I hate tea," was all he said as she left the room.
She came back in record time with two rolls of gauze bandage strips and some medical tape. He raised an eyebrow, impressed at her resourcefulness. She noticed his assessing gaze and merely shrugged. "It's always good to be prepared."
He would have laughed in different circumstances, because it was such a "Lisa" thing to say. The resourceful lady in question approached him on the bed and carefully cleaned the blood off his arm with the white towel, then slowly began to wrap the bandages around his cut. She muttered to herself the entire time about how he needed stitches and this was a poor substitute for proper medical care and mostly how he was insane. She finished his arm and secured it with the tape, then went to work tearing and placing strips on the more critical areas on his chest and side. Finally, she gingerly wrapped his busted knee to try and control the swelling slightly. The tea kettle had been whistling from about halfway through, but she was so absorbed in her work she hadn't noticed, and Jackson was so absorbed in watching her work he hadn't told her.
"There, I think that's—" She'd finally heard the whistling. "Shit, shit, shit!" She sped out of the room, and he heard a louder, "Dammit!" from within the kitchen. Followed by several yelps of pain and a crashing noise. She stayed in the kitchen for another few minutes, making a new pot he assumed, before coming back. Her forefinger was in her mouth and she had a disgruntled look on her face. She carried a Ziploc baggie of ice in the other hand.
"Tea?" he questioned sweetly.
"I burned myself," she muttered in response. "Here, put this on your knee." She went over to him and carefully positioned the ice bag over his swollen leg, stretched out on the bed. He sucked in a breath at the coldness. She looked at him assessingly.
"You need clothes."
He looked down at his towel-clad form, and had to agree.
She debated what to do. "I honestly have nothing for you besides Todd's t-shirt that you wore last time and whatever clothes you had. You could also try wearing a pair of my track pants, some of them are pretty baggy." She sighed. "Let me grab your clothes and see what's salvageable."
In the end, it was pretty much just his underwear and socks, which he accepted with as much dignity as possible. His pants weren't too destroyed, but they were stiff and coated in blood. Disgusted, Lisa took the rest of his clothes, her ruined pillow, and all the bloody towels and washcloths, and threw them in the washing machine. The tea whistled once more, and this time she was ready for it. She was back in the room in no time, two steaming mugs in her hand.
"And I don't care if you hate tea," was her way of greeting, "because it's good for you, and will warm you up." She placed both mugs on the bedside table. "I'll get you Todd's shirt, you get under the covers."
"This is ridiculous," he spoke, finally. "I'm not a child."
She turned to him with fire in her eyes. "Who just took you in, destroyed her bathroom, bathed you, tended your wounds, permanently stained all her towels, leant you whatever she could, and made you a goddamn cup of tea? Who? Because it wasn't your precious company or your precious self, I'll tell you that's for damn sure."
Properly chastened, he looked away. "Who asked you to?" he couldn't help but mutter.
She shook her head in disbelief. "You did when you showed up at my door, Jack, and you know it. So stop playing tough guy and get under the damn covers." She dug through her dresser for her brother's shirt, which he'd surprisingly returned freshly washed the week after he borrowed it, and a pair of big track pants and threw them at him when she produced them. "I'll bring you another blanket." And she stalked out of the room.
He sighed and put on her brother's shirt and her track pants, wincing as he maneuvered his knee into the baggy pants. They fit embarrassingly well enough, although they were a bit short. Adjusting the pillow so that his head could rest comfortably against the headboard, he let himself think about her obvious anger towards him. Stupid, Jack. Stupid. He knew he would never be able to properly make sense of his gratitude towards her, let alone voice it. He also knew she deserved more, much more, than that.
She returned with an extra blanket in each hand, and spread one over the bed. "Just sleep here tonight, Jackson, okay? I'll feel much better if you just…stay here, for tonight." She didn't look at him as she spoke, and he berated himself even more for not being able to say the things he knew he should. Things that he wanted to say, but which years and years of stifling had made impossible to express.
Finally she did look up, taking in the sight of him underneath the covers of her bed, wearing her brother's shirt. She sighed. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything. Goodnight," she added as an afterthought, making her way out.
"Lisa, wait," he said. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. She turned to look him. Thank you. Thank you. "Stay."
"I don't think so, Jack…"
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. "Please." Thank you.
She gnawed her lip indecisively. Finally, the irrational side of whatever internal battle she was waging won, and she crossed over to the bed and got under the covers with him. He shifted slightly to reach out to her with his left arm and she hesitated only a moment before scooting beside him and resting her head on his uninjured arm and shoulder.
"Are you comfortable?" he murmured after a moment of shifting and adjustments. Thank you. Thank you.
"Yes." Her voice was muffled, as it was buried in his shirt. Her feathery hair tickled his nose.
Thank you. "Lisa?" Thank you.
"Yeah?"
Thank you. He tightened his hold on her and swallowed convulsively, before heavily pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Goodnight." Thank you.
He felt her tense slightly, then relax completely. She put her slender arm over his stomach, being careful to avoid his cuts, knowing where they were, and snuggled closer to him still.
"You're welcome, Jack."