[ Is she surprised? A little. He didn't seem terribly excited about Valentine's Day, and she'd been ready to chalk it up as either dudely ambivalence or disappointment that she couldn't get the day off in time. But he pulls out the box, and — yeah, that's a box.
Smiling, she accepts it. ]
Cool, thanks.
[ Impulsively, affectionately, she reaches out to ruffle his hair. ]
I can probably beg off closing duties if you want to come over later. Like, around one. [ And yes, that's the AM variety. ] I left your present upstairs, anyway.
( She ruffles his hair. He passively accepts this, wondering if he ought to be feeling some type of way about it — then ultimately deciding he doesn't really have the energy to get all that hung up on it one way or the other, and moves on with his life. )
Sure, that works. Wait- present?
( He gets a present? Why does he get a present? Was he supposed to know he was getting a present? It isn't his birthday. What is happening.
Thus, the first tiny red flag inkling that he might be missing something important. )
[ He brought her a giant, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Obviously he knows what day it is. She files away his surprise in guy wasn’t expecting a girl to reciprocate — which, sad, if he’s only dated girls who sat around like queens expecting tribute — or guy thought girl forgot and, yeah, she’s busy, bouncing between her two jobs. But she’s not so busy as to forget what day it is.
”Hey, miss, can we get some refills?” ]
I’ll be right with you!
[ Jack gets a smile and a quick bye! as she vanishes back into the chaos. He won’t see her, other than from across the room, for a couple of hours.
But he will see something. At the next table over, in fact, when a man in a smart dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his splashy full sleeves of tattoos, kneels down in front of another man — shorter, softer — in a scholarly cardigan with patches on the elbows. Pulls out a band with small encrusted rubies through-out, brandishes it with a flourish. Speaks from the heart.
”Esteban, will you marry me?” “Of course!”
There’s some scattered applause, a few awws. A few tables away, a ginger haired woman glares at the man she’s with, who rolls his eyes— ”Don’t fuck with me on that, Bridget—” before sliding over a large, three-wicked candle with a little bow wrapped around it. Bridget is mollified. ]
( That's weird, he thinks, there sure is a lot of romance going around tonight. He doesn't necessarily count himself among that number, it's not like he's on a date right now or anything. This is literally her place of work. Just kind of a strange coincidence that one couple proposes while another presumably celebrates something. Birthday? Anniversary?
Oh, well. It's none of his business.
The string of reflective hearts hanging in droops across the ceiling also goes unnoticed. Also the fake roses dotted around the tables.
Quite frankly, a great number of things go ignored as Jack pulls out a notebook and spends Nash's next few work hours scrawling something down on the pages. )
[ Roughly forty minutes after Nash disappears, someone else slides into place at Jack's table. He might recognise her, he might not; she has neatly plaited brown hair, slightly crooked teeth, and her abbreviated outfit is quite tonally similar to Nash's own terrible "work uniform" — denim cutoff shorts and a low cut black camisole. In February. If none of that gives her away as an employee, the nametag with Carrie scribbled across it.
At Jack, she smiles brightly, revealing a dimple in her cheek.
"Hey, dishwasher. Wanna come back to my place?"
So, that's happening. Nash sidles by, carrying a tray of drinks, and is unbothered. There, my character is still involved in this scenario. ]
( She sits. Jack fully, fully does not notice for several log seconds. Not until Hey, dishwasher- which visibly startles him out of whatever writing-fueled fugue state he'd slipped into. He bites back an alarmed Jesus Christ-, barely swallowing it before the words escape.
[ To her credit, Carrie isn't remotely deterred by Jack's flat, confused reply. In a pretty and high pitched voice, she chirps out, "to hook up!" And then forms a circle with her thumb and pointer finger, before jabbing the pointer of the opposite hand through up and down a few times.
It is, of course, a test. A stupid test! But a test nonetheless.
Nash is over there somewhere. She was not told this was going to happen. ]
( To hook what up- is the initial thought, until that rather crude hand gesture. He's intimately familiar with it. Jerry does it All. The. Time. )
Oh. ( A beat. ) No thank you.
( He does not look even remotely tempted. Not even for a second. Not a hint of consideration. It is, quite frankly, more than a little rude to Carrie. )
[ Carrie is pleased. Or is she? She sits with her pleasure for a second. Testing a fellow server's new boyfriend is something of a bar rite of passage, but normally there's, like, a second or two of indecisiveness. She glances down at her own cleavage, wondering if she's broken or something.
"Okay. Cool. Bye!"
And then, as suddenly as she appeared, she's gone.
It's another two hours before the throng starts to disperse. Tables go from crushed with bodies to empty, covered in abandoned drink glasses and ripped fragments of wrapping paper, fallen pink and red petals from holiday-appropriate bouquets. Nash is able to toss on a hoodie, for which she's profoundly grateful, but there's an apologetic bend to her smile as she pushes across the bill for his drink. ]
Saw you made a friend. [ Said with a smile, with barely suppressed amusement. ]
It's a thing they do, whenever one of us starts seeing someone. Sorry, I should have warned you.
[ Truthfully, she doesn't love it. She prefers to assume she can trust someone. Get too far in your head about ifs and maybes and cheating horror stories, well, that's a one way street. But she'd be lying if she said she'd never been the Carrie in one of these conversations. ]
You doing okay? All the Valentine's day stuff isn't scaring you off, right?
[ It would be understandable. They've been dating for roughly five minutes. ]
( Ladies and gentleman, lightning has finally struck the ground. His head whips around, quickly taking in the decorations and the couples as though seeing them for the first time — a dawning sense of understanding passing visibly across his face. )
[ The look she gives him is simultaneously disbelieving and amused, but there's nothing combative in the way her eyebrows quirk.
With two fingers, she pushes the heart-shaped box of chocolates a few inches across the table. Not to give it back to him, of course, although she fully intends to share it — but as an unspoken why did you give this to me today?
( It is with utmost oblivious sincerity that Jack shrugs and says, )
I just thought you might want some candy.
( Getting into the whole story about Ron and the security drones and the lady with knives for feet is a little too much to bother spelling out right now and is, ultimately, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things except for being the source of the candy box. The decision to give it to her was unrelated to either that or any holidays he may or may not have forgotten.
[ He isn't wrong about that, especially going from a morning shift at the diner to an evening shift at the bar. Sugar is a short term solution, but damn if it isn't a delicious one. ]
So, should I remind you a week ahead of time next year?
[ Said with a smile.
Behind them, a glass is hurled noisily to the floor. Bridget grabs her purse off the table, throws the strap over her shoulder, and practically jumps out of her chair. "Fuck you, Omar! You can kiss these goodbye!" Does she lift up her shirt and show him the goods? No, but she does remove a shoe and, with spectacularly impressive flexibility, puts her whole bare foot on the table in a single fluid swing. This is a woman who does yoga at least twice a day. ]
Want to bet how this is gonna end for them? — Loser buys breakfast.
( Immediate, unapologetic confirmation. He'll need the week in advance, and also probably a three day reminder, and maybe even a day-of reminder. Maybe he should set up some alerts on his phone, actually... he should find out when her birthday is. Also, put in something for Christmas, probably. Satisfied with that mental note-to-self, his brain checks it off as complete without actually doing it, and he promptly forgets all about it.
And then there's a foot on a table, which seems... grossly unsanitary, and excessively dramatic. )
...I think I'm good. I'll take the L and buy you breakfast if we can leave before they figure it out.
[ Nash might be thinking she kind of wants to stay and rubberneck along with the rest of the growing audience, but then Bridget yells, "suck on them, Omar! Suck on my fucking toes," and — actually, her stomach is a bit less stable than it was a moment ago. They certainly don't need a repeat of her throwing up everywhere like at the wedding, so — ]
Yeah, let's go.
[ Once upstairs, Nash sets the chocolates down on the table. Doesn't rush to wash off her makeup, but does pull her hair out of her face, tucks it in a scrunchie. ]
Here.
[ The book she offers him is roughly seven hundred pages, the cover design pulpy, the corners frayed, the pages slightly yellowed. It is called Director with a Space Ship and is about a film production on an intergalactic cruise liner where the financiers and cast members start being picked off one by one. Book reviewer Grackle Lyn's blurb says, "I kept reading until the end and found no spelling mistakes. Loved the tentacle scene." ]
I promise I didn't get it from the workplace lost and found. You know that bookstore on 10th? Every book you buy, you get a coupon for half off a sandwich at the shop next door. [ Yes, she left the coupon inside the book for him. ]
( Of all the days to have ears, Jack regrets this one the most. He could have gone the rest of his life without ever hearing anyone say Suck on my fucking toes, Omar and died a happy man. Or, okay, well — he'd have died an apathetic, moderately depressed man, but still.
Although, happiness seems like it might actually be an attainable goal when she presents him with an absolute unit of a tome. By the expression on his face, you'd think she just presented him with his firstborn son. He hugs it to his chest with all the equivalent reverence, and blurts out: )
Is it cool if I kiss you now?
( Because based on title alone, it sounds like the stupidest book ever, and he absolutely loves it. It's perfect.
Nothing says romance like a coupon for half off a sandwich. )
[ He's — so pleased by the gift, and that feeling, that warmth, soothes every last little ache and jolt she'd felt over the course of a long shift at work. All of it melts away as she enjoys his delight. By the time he gets around to the question, she's already quite close: one hand clutching his sleeve as she balances on a foot, fighting for her life to get one high heel off. It lands with a dull thud, the other one follows, they're back to being the same height again —
Yeah, this is pretty perfect. Even her upstairs neighbours are being quiet, hopefully laid low by Valentine's Day. ]
Only if you promise to share that sandwich with me.
[ Said as she's stepping even closer into his space, reaching for the hem of his shirt. ]
( He vows solemnly, and then clears the distance between them.
It's a slow, tentative, careful thing. The lightest brush of lips on lips, his eyes fluttering closed, a barely-there pressure. Skin catching skin, dry and soft.
It's been... so long since the last time he did this. He forgot, genuinely forgot, what it felt like. The sparking nerve endings, the world narrowing down to a single point, a hand absently finding her waist to anchor himself steady. The hyper-awareness of barely millimeters of movement when his head tilts. It feels like entire lifetimes ago, but it all comes rushing back in an instant, familiar, nostalgic. Like riding a bike.
He always liked kissing. He just... never had anybody else he wanted to do it with, after Sabine.
Now he does, for the first time in... seven years?
It's good, he thinks. Surprisingly, unbelievably, he feels ready for this. Woah. Holy shit. )
[ She meets him halfway, tilting her face just so for a smoother angle. Her nose brushes against his cheek as faint static floods from the softness of his lips and down to her knees. For Nash, it’s unusual for things to take this long — she tends to barrel forward with little provocation; most first dates end in sleepovers. Since the wedding, the shifting dynamic between her and Jack has been characterised by a back touch here, a kiss on the cheek there. Falling asleep cuddling, fully clothed, on the couch. It’s a bit like being a young girl again, coaxing the shy boy out of his shell.
(Does she mind the pace? Okay, maybe a little at the beginning. This helps. Affirms it isn’t because there’s anything wrong with her.)
This— this helps, definitely. Her hands remain clutching the hem of his shirt as she fills his immediate space. A moment or three or four more, and then she’s smiling up at him. Warmed by his kiss; the room not really existing beyond him. ]
Stay the night.
[ It’s somewhere between a murmur and a plaintive, hopeful purr. ]
( He agrees, after only a beat of consideration, and then leans down to kiss her again — just as soft, just as slow.
And he does stay the night. They don't have sex, not this time, but for the first time in years he does wind his arms around another person, and he manages to fall asleep for real an hour or two later. With the feeling of another person's weight pressing against him, the regular sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, Jack manages a rare full night of sleep.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Smiling, she accepts it. ]
Cool, thanks.
[ Impulsively, affectionately, she reaches out to ruffle his hair. ]
I can probably beg off closing duties if you want to come over later. Like, around one. [ And yes, that's the AM variety. ] I left your present upstairs, anyway.
no subject
Sure, that works. Wait- present?
( He gets a present? Why does he get a present? Was he supposed to know he was getting a present? It isn't his birthday. What is happening.
Thus, the first tiny red flag inkling that he might be missing something important. )
no subject
[ He brought her a giant, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Obviously he knows what day it is. She files away his surprise in guy wasn’t expecting a girl to reciprocate — which, sad, if he’s only dated girls who sat around like queens expecting tribute — or guy thought girl forgot and, yeah, she’s busy, bouncing between her two jobs. But she’s not so busy as to forget what day it is.
”Hey, miss, can we get some refills?” ]
I’ll be right with you!
[ Jack gets a smile and a quick bye! as she vanishes back into the chaos. He won’t see her, other than from across the room, for a couple of hours.
But he will see something. At the next table over, in fact, when a man in a smart dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his splashy full sleeves of tattoos, kneels down in front of another man — shorter, softer — in a scholarly cardigan with patches on the elbows. Pulls out a band with small encrusted rubies through-out, brandishes it with a flourish. Speaks from the heart.
”Esteban, will you marry me?”
“Of course!”
There’s some scattered applause, a few awws. A few tables away, a ginger haired woman glares at the man she’s with, who rolls his eyes— ”Don’t fuck with me on that, Bridget—” before sliding over a large, three-wicked candle with a little bow wrapped around it. Bridget is mollified. ]
no subject
Oh, well. It's none of his business.
The string of reflective hearts hanging in droops across the ceiling also goes unnoticed. Also the fake roses dotted around the tables.
Quite frankly, a great number of things go ignored as Jack pulls out a notebook and spends Nash's next few work hours scrawling something down on the pages. )
no subject
At Jack, she smiles brightly, revealing a dimple in her cheek.
"Hey, dishwasher. Wanna come back to my place?"
So, that's happening. Nash sidles by, carrying a tray of drinks, and is unbothered. There, my character is still involved in this scenario. ]
no subject
When the hell did she get there?
And also, what?
He blinks. Stares at her blankly. )
Why would I want to do that?
no subject
It is, of course, a test. A stupid test! But a test nonetheless.
Nash is over there somewhere. She was not told this was going to happen. ]
no subject
Oh. ( A beat. ) No thank you.
( He does not look even remotely tempted. Not even for a second. Not a hint of consideration. It is, quite frankly, more than a little rude to Carrie. )
no subject
"Okay. Cool. Bye!"
And then, as suddenly as she appeared, she's gone.
It's another two hours before the throng starts to disperse. Tables go from crushed with bodies to empty, covered in abandoned drink glasses and ripped fragments of wrapping paper, fallen pink and red petals from holiday-appropriate bouquets. Nash is able to toss on a hoodie, for which she's profoundly grateful, but there's an apologetic bend to her smile as she pushes across the bill for his drink. ]
Saw you made a friend. [ Said with a smile, with barely suppressed amusement. ]
no subject
I did? Who?
( On the bright side, it comes back to him like three seconds later, so. At least there's that. )
Oh! Her! I think friend might be a really... really strong word for- whatever that was.
no subject
[ Truthfully, she doesn't love it. She prefers to assume she can trust someone. Get too far in your head about ifs and maybes and cheating horror stories, well, that's a one way street. But she'd be lying if she said she'd never been the Carrie in one of these conversations. ]
You doing okay? All the Valentine's day stuff isn't scaring you off, right?
[ It would be understandable. They've been dating for roughly five minutes. ]
no subject
( Ladies and gentleman, lightning has finally struck the ground. His head whips around, quickly taking in the decorations and the couples as though seeing them for the first time — a dawning sense of understanding passing visibly across his face. )
Yeah, I guess that... explains a few things...
no subject
With two fingers, she pushes the heart-shaped box of chocolates a few inches across the table. Not to give it back to him, of course, although she fully intends to share it — but as an unspoken why did you give this to me today?
Hell of a coincidence, certainly.
Is he just born lucky, or — ]
no subject
I just thought you might want some candy.
( Getting into the whole story about Ron and the security drones and the lady with knives for feet is a little too much to bother spelling out right now and is, ultimately, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things except for being the source of the candy box. The decision to give it to her was unrelated to either that or any holidays he may or may not have forgotten.
In other words: yes, Big Coincidence. )
no subject
So, should I remind you a week ahead of time next year?
[ Said with a smile.
Behind them, a glass is hurled noisily to the floor. Bridget grabs her purse off the table, throws the strap over her shoulder, and practically jumps out of her chair. "Fuck you, Omar! You can kiss these goodbye!" Does she lift up her shirt and show him the goods? No, but she does remove a shoe and, with spectacularly impressive flexibility, puts her whole bare foot on the table in a single fluid swing. This is a woman who does yoga at least twice a day. ]
Want to bet how this is gonna end for them? — Loser buys breakfast.
no subject
( Immediate, unapologetic confirmation. He'll need the week in advance, and also probably a three day reminder, and maybe even a day-of reminder. Maybe he should set up some alerts on his phone, actually... he should find out when her birthday is. Also, put in something for Christmas, probably. Satisfied with that mental note-to-self, his brain checks it off as complete without actually doing it, and he promptly forgets all about it.
And then there's a foot on a table, which seems... grossly unsanitary, and excessively dramatic. )
...I think I'm good. I'll take the L and buy you breakfast if we can leave before they figure it out.
no subject
Yeah, let's go.
[ Once upstairs, Nash sets the chocolates down on the table. Doesn't rush to wash off her makeup, but does pull her hair out of her face, tucks it in a scrunchie. ]
Here.
[ The book she offers him is roughly seven hundred pages, the cover design pulpy, the corners frayed, the pages slightly yellowed. It is called Director with a Space Ship and is about a film production on an intergalactic cruise liner where the financiers and cast members start being picked off one by one. Book reviewer Grackle Lyn's blurb says, "I kept reading until the end and found no spelling mistakes. Loved the tentacle scene." ]
I promise I didn't get it from the workplace lost and found. You know that bookstore on 10th? Every book you buy, you get a coupon for half off a sandwich at the shop next door. [ Yes, she left the coupon inside the book for him. ]
no subject
Although, happiness seems like it might actually be an attainable goal when she presents him with an absolute unit of a tome. By the expression on his face, you'd think she just presented him with his firstborn son. He hugs it to his chest with all the equivalent reverence, and blurts out: )
Is it cool if I kiss you now?
( Because based on title alone, it sounds like the stupidest book ever, and he absolutely loves it. It's perfect.
Nothing says romance like a coupon for half off a sandwich. )
no subject
Yeah, this is pretty perfect. Even her upstairs neighbours are being quiet, hopefully laid low by Valentine's Day. ]
Only if you promise to share that sandwich with me.
[ Said as she's stepping even closer into his space, reaching for the hem of his shirt. ]
no subject
( He vows solemnly, and then clears the distance between them.
It's a slow, tentative, careful thing. The lightest brush of lips on lips, his eyes fluttering closed, a barely-there pressure. Skin catching skin, dry and soft.
It's been... so long since the last time he did this. He forgot, genuinely forgot, what it felt like. The sparking nerve endings, the world narrowing down to a single point, a hand absently finding her waist to anchor himself steady. The hyper-awareness of barely millimeters of movement when his head tilts. It feels like entire lifetimes ago, but it all comes rushing back in an instant, familiar, nostalgic. Like riding a bike.
He always liked kissing. He just... never had anybody else he wanted to do it with, after Sabine.
Now he does, for the first time in... seven years?
It's good, he thinks. Surprisingly, unbelievably, he feels ready for this. Woah. Holy shit. )
no subject
(Does she mind the pace? Okay, maybe a little at the beginning. This helps. Affirms it isn’t because there’s anything wrong with her.)
This— this helps, definitely. Her hands remain clutching the hem of his shirt as she fills his immediate space. A moment or three or four more, and then she’s smiling up at him. Warmed by his kiss; the room not really existing beyond him. ]
Stay the night.
[ It’s somewhere between a murmur and a plaintive, hopeful purr. ]
no subject
( He agrees, after only a beat of consideration, and then leans down to kiss her again — just as soft, just as slow.
And he does stay the night. They don't have sex, not this time, but for the first time in years he does wind his arms around another person, and he manages to fall asleep for real an hour or two later. With the feeling of another person's weight pressing against him, the regular sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, Jack manages a rare full night of sleep.
It's good.
It's really, really good. )