A/N: Hey, hi, hello! My sleep schedule has gotten absolutely fucked while I'm switching medications, which is a big reason why I did not update last week. I'm thinking that for the foreseeable future I'm going to switch to an every-other-Friday updating schedule, rather than every Friday. I think that is where I can more comfortably work at the moment, and maybe at some point I can go back to every week. But, in the interest of making more realistic goals for myself, we're gonna try this new schedule.
This chapter is a bit short but it didn't feel like it fit at the end of the last one or the start of the next one, so I wanted to let it be its own thing. Hope you enjoy.
He had never really gotten to participate in history, to be a subject. He was always just adjacent to it, a silent, invisible witness.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Routine
Jack hadn't been aware that there was decaf coffee in the cabin at all. Rowan had, apparently, looked through the cupboards one morning while he was still sleeping and found that there were a few bags of it left behind by North and the Yetis.
It would have been a safe assumption that Jack and Rowan would not make use of the bags. What was even the point of decaf coffee, really? Surely it made more sense to not have coffee at all if one did not want caffeine.
But, it was dark now, and the coffee that Rowan had made was largely meant to be a comfort after the stressful day at Ganderly. So, she had grabbed for the decaf.
(Perhaps that was the point of decaf coffee, Jack relented.)
It likely made little difference, however. Jack had truthfully not noticed a change in his energy levels after drinking coffee since he properly acquired the taste for it. The first few times, sure, he had been more alert. Now, it was just for the ritual, for the comfort, for preventing a headache.
Rowan was sitting across from him at the small table. She was staring at her coffee, fingers fidgeting with her necklace.
He was watching this with elbow propped on the table, chin rested in his hand. His other hand grasped his mug.
They hadn't spoken in several minutes, exhausted from the events of the day.
Jack wondered if this would soon become routine for them, sitting at this small table, too exhausted to continue to discuss whatever terrible thing had just happened, too exhausted to try and find something less terrible to focus on.
He didn't want this to become routine. He was tired of collecting new problems, new reasons to feel confused at best and devastated at worst.
Rowan took a drink of her coffee.
Had they done this before? Had Katherine and Nightlight made a habit of sharing warm drinks, of using it as a means of spending a few more precious moments together each day?
How quickly had Nightlight been taken in by Katherine's storytelling?
How often did Katherine roll her eyes at Nightlight, trying not to smile and failing in her attempts?
After countless battles and close calls, how far away could Nightlight walk from Katherine before feeling the need to turn back and check on her?
How many times had Katherine declared that they were leaving, and ushered Nightlight away when things were getting to be too much?
How much of this had they done before?
How many times had they done this?
Did it matter?
Jack didn't want it to matter. There were only going to be more and more direct comparisons to Nightlight now, more opportunities for him to fall short.
There were going to be more sentimental glances from everyone who remembered and loved Nightlight and Katherine, wanting something from Jack and Rowan that they hadn't signed up for.
Jack didn't know what to do with the knowledge that he and Nightlight shared a soul, or whatever the technicalities of these things were. Once more he was handed an instrument he had never seen before and being told to play.
Rowan slid her free hand across the table. He released his mug to grasp it.
Identity crisis aside, something about the whole thing felt like remembering an obvious answer to a trick question.
Her hand fit well in his, and, well, of course it did. They had spent centuries before either of them was born hand-in-hand.
Talking to her had always been easy, had always been comfortable, and of course it had. They had spent centuries before either of them learned to speak, talking about nothing and everything.
Loving her had come naturally, and of course it had. They had spent centuries before they would ever meet standing at the other's side.
He had meant what he had said earlier. He never wanted to live without her again. It just didn't feel correct.
She was supposed to be there. They were meant to be a pair, carved in such a way to be best placed side-by-side.
It didn't matter what they called it, if they were "soulmates" or not.
Sap. Wait until Bunny hears about this.
Jack had barely considered if this was something he needed to discuss with Bunny when a loud noise left each of them jumping in surprise, grip tightening on one another's hand.
Something had hit one of the windows. The wind picked up and another loud whack was heard.
"It's coming from there," Rowan said, pointing to the window behind him. Jack released her hand and got to his feet to investigate. He pulled back the drapes in time to see a paper airplane whack against the glass again.
He slid open the window and the airplane glided inside, landing on the table.
"Bit of a dramatic way to get mail," Rowan said.
"Only one person ever sends me messages this way," said Jack.
"Who?" Rowan asked, and Jack was surprised that he had never mentioned it to her.
"Jamie," said Jack, sitting back down at the table.
Rowan seemed to brighten at mention of the boy, but the moment was fleeting, and soon her shoulders were slumping as she gazed back to the letter.
They both knew very well that Jamie wouldn't have a message for her. Jack was painfully reminded of the way Rowan had been counting down the days until she would get to go home before her death.
Once more he found himself feeling guilty that he was able to spend time with her again while her other loved ones continued to mourn her.
"Well, read it," Rowan said, managing a soft smile. "Jamie at least won't be discussing Nightlight and Katherine."
"That's true," Jack said, picking up the paper airplane and beginning to unfold it.
He eyed the handwriting, obviously Jamie's, and began to read the letter aloud.
"Dear Jack,
"I hope you are doing well. The one-year anniversary of Rowan's death was last Tuesday, and I wondered how you were doing that day. Parts of the day felt like something important should be happening, but then parts of the day felt normal. Can 'normal' feel weird? I know that doesn't make any sense. But I think it did feel weird that it felt normal."
"God," Rowan sighed, fiddling with her necklace, her expression full of regret. Jack frowned, having not expected the letter to mention Rowan at all, much less so soon.
"Do you want me to stop—?"
"No, no, keep going."
Jack nodded, hoping that would be the end of any mention of mourning, and continued.
"I presented my shoebox book report that day. Everyone loved my light post and Mrs. Kelly gave me an A+. She has them on display around the classroom now, but I can show you when I get to take it home."
"A light post, did he do Narnia?" Rowan asked.
"Yeah, you should have seen him, he was working to get it to actually light up," Jack said, managing a smile. Jamie and Rowan were both incredibly determined in their creative pursuits, and it was something that Jack enjoyed being allowed to watch.
"Mm, he's really handy, actually. You know, he made that little robot nightlight he has," Rowan said, smiling as well. "He even fixed the garbage disposal once. Aunt Lorelei said he's saved her quite a bit of money she would have otherwise spent on handymen."
"He's a bright kid," Jack said.
"I think he takes his status as 'man of the house' very seriously," said Rowan. She gestured to the letter. "Go on."
"Today, at school, I was talking to the guys and found out that there's going to be a new museum with an exhibit on you."
Jack paused again, re-reading that line, brow furrowed. His mortal life had been brief and largely unremarkable. What was even there for an exhibit?
"A museum exhibit?" Rowan said, eyebrows raised. When Jack didn't respond for a few seconds, she said, "Well, don't stop there."
"Right," Jack said, shaking his head slightly. He started over with the line he had already read.
"Today, at school, I was talking to the guys and found out that there's going to be a new museum with an exhibit on you. You made the town a lot of money when the ghost hunters were here, so the historical society wants to set up an exhibit about the life of Jack Overland. Cupcake's aunt is in the historical society, and she said there will be some information on the ghost story, too, and the rest of the museum will be about the early settlers and the Native Americans."
"I met Cupcake's aunt when I visited over last—the summer before last," Rowan said. "Jack, they've been wanting to get a proper museum going for ages and were having a hard time proving there would be interest in one."
"I'm just—I never figured that I'd be historical," Jack said. "Or, rather, a historical figure that anyone knew about or would want to know about."
It was already strange that people online had taken an interest in his death certificate, had run with the story of him being a ghost. Jack had never considered that anything more academic would come out of that.
He had never really gotten to participate in history, to be a subject. He was always just adjacent to it, a silent, invisible witness.
"It's too bad you can't talk to the historical society, I'm sure you'd have a lot of really good input for them," Rowan said.
"Maybe I'll stumble upon one of them playing with a Ouija board," Jack shrugged.
A museum exhibit.
A tourist attraction.
If he was still short on believers, perhaps this would feel more like a blessing. But he didn't feel like he needed more believers, and it still felt strange that so many people knew him as Jack Overland, a person he hadn't properly been in centuries.
Who even was Jack Overland? What did it mean to be Jack Overland? Even without all the added confusion of Nightlight, Jack had no idea.
If Jack didn't know who Jack Overland was, how was the museum going to figure it out?
"Is there more?" Rowan Rowan asked, pointing to the letter.
"I don't know anything else about the museum yet. I will let you know if I find out more.
"The guys and I miss you. I hope you're having fun spreading winter and that we can see you again soon.
"Sincerely, Jamie Bennett."
"I miss him so much," Rowan sighed as Jack set the airplane aside. She picked it up, eying the handwriting with a frown. "I need to learn to become visible to mortals."
"Were you trying to inspire me earlier? At Ganderly?" Jack asked, suddenly remembering. "Telling me to decide if we should stay or go?"
Rowan glanced up from the letter, eyes wide. "I… I was thinking of that, and hoping you knew what I meant, I—I wasn't specifically trying to inspire you, but maybe I did?"
"It felt a lot like when you would inspire me accidentally," Jack said.
"Oh my God. Maybe I'm figuring this shit out?" Rowan said, brow furrowed. Suddenly, she was eying Jack in concern again. "And you didn't feel weird or anything?"
"I felt weird about the whole situation, but not that," Jack said.
He still felt weird about everything. He was just trying to keep his mind off of Manny for now, trying not to become obsessive about a situation he saw no real way out of, trying to ride out "not actively holding back tears" as long as he could.
So, he focused on Rowan, as best he could.
"Maybe you were just over-thinking it every time before, maybe that's why it was so clear this time," he said.
"Me? Over-thinking?" Rowan said, pretending to be appalled.
Jack smiled. Rowan, over-thinking, worrying, stubborn, teasing, sarcastic, wonderful Rowan, was truly back in his life again. Sometimes it hit him all over again.
Were there other lifetimes in which she would appear and settle into his life and leave him relieved and grateful for her presence? Did she always find her way back, clicking into a place that was always supposed to be there for her?
Sap, sap, sap!
"Maybe we can practice some more tomorrow," Rowan said, rising to her feet to take her empty coffee mug to the sink.
He wondered if she was aware of his sentimental thoughts that had been taking hold of him, if it was obvious on his face and she was just being polite by not pointing it out.
"Yeah, definitely," Jack said, finishing off his own mug.
He was looking forward to the fact that neither of them had anywhere to be the next day.
They were both in desperate need of a break, of time to breathe.
Jack got to his feet, mug in hand, and Rowan gestured for it.
"You know, you don't always have to do the dishes," Jack said. She took the mug anyway. There was always a certain amount of discomfort when others took care of him in some way, even something this small.
"I appreciate that you feel that way, my Seventeenth-Century-Dearest, but I'm the one that won't freeze the water in the process," Rowan said.
"That's really only when I'm not paying attention. I can manage," Jack insisted. "It's not like I freeze the coffee."
"Already done," Rowan said, having set his now-clean mug aside to dry and shutting off the sink. "You can get the next ones, then."
"Sounds good," Jack said.
Soon they were squeezing into the small bathroom, brushing their teeth in what had become routine. Jack had missed these mundane, domestic moments while she was gone.
He had been deprived of company, of a consistent place to live and sleep, of boring everyday activities for so long that it was sometimes hard to believe that he was allowed to have it at all.
Rowan taking floss from the plastic container and then passing it along to him was pretty objectively not a big deal. Other people probably had the same interaction all the time, and never thought about it much, if they thought about it at all.
Rowan insisting, not for the first time, that he use some of the face moisturizer that the Muses had given her, that the cold was certainly drying out his skin, was such a small concern considering everything else that had happened that day.
His question of why there needed to be a distinction between moisturizer for your face or for anywhere else had surely been uttered by many people that had found themselves in a relationship with someone that bothered with skincare.
His reluctance to admit that the moisturizer seemed to have actually made his skin feel better surely was not new either.
It was all so easy. The stakes were all so low.
Jack could feel part of himself growing bitter that he had to wait so long for this. He supposed that in other lifetimes, these insignificant interactions between people sharing living space were a given.
He supposed that in other lifetimes, he had likely taken these moments for granted.
It felt so unfair that what should feel like a given had become something that he feared could be taken away at any moment, because he was never supposed to have it in the first place.
(It had all been taken away for a year, after all.)
Jack's tired, tired mind had landed on Manny again despite his best efforts.
Why was Manny so okay with the idea of depriving Jack of even these seemingly insignificant things?
Would it have really been so hard to help him have company, if nothing else?
Rowan had been heading for the ladder to the loft when she began floating toward the ceiling again, doing her best to steer toward the bed before landing clumsily, half on the mattress and half over the edge.
A bit of teasing about the landing, was then followed by some more mundane preparations to finally go to sleep.
The lights were dimmed, but not extinguished. Jack's head hit his pillow heavily.
"Good night, Frost," Rowan said through a yawn, resting her head on his chest. The weight immediately smothered some of his anxieties. He wasn't sure how that worked, but was grateful that it did.
He was grateful to feel her warmth. He was grateful to put his arm around her and feel each breath she took.
"Good night, Sawyer," he replied, ever aware of every night he hadn't been able to say it.
He never wanted to have a night that he couldn't say it again.
He was utterly exhausted, and was finding that even his racing thoughts could not keep up the pace anymore.
It was all too much for one day.
Very quickly, Jack was asleep.