Chapter Text
Jackson tossed the bottle in his hand in the general direction of the bin. It hit the counter instead and shattered. Fuck. At least he’d had better aim when he’d tossed it at that bastard’s head. Before he had a chance to decide that he could just leave that for someone else to clean up, someone else hurried anxiously into the kitchen with brush and dustpan in hand.
She glanced at him, the shards of glass on the floor, and then back at him. She didn’t say anything out loud, but her eyes cursed him fluently. Kneeling to begin the clean up of his mess, she reached for a few of the larger bits instead of using her brush.
“Watch it,” he warned sharply, finally finding the energy to stand. “You’re liable to get…”
“Oh,” she pulled her hand back quickly, and he was instantly squatting beside her reaching for the damaged finger.
He took her hand in his, her strong but gentle hand. She was bleeding. She was bleeding, and he had caused it.
“Fucking hell, Catherine. Do you always have to charge in? You could’ve really been hurt,” he snapped, taking out his anger at himself on her. As usual.
He pulled her to her feet by the hand that was bleeding, took her to the sink, and ran cool water over her finger. Studying the wound carefully, he ran his calloused, yellow thumb over it and found the offending bit of glass. He had it out in the next moment and studied the wound more carefully. It was a thin jagged line, no need for stitches, but it did need something.
“This needs a plaster,” he said. “I’ll get the first aid.”
“No,” she stopped him with hand on his arm. “It’s upstairs.”
Yeah. He didn’t really want to go there again today either.
“I have some in my handbag.” She nodded toward the chair where it lay. She washed off the wound again while he brought her bag to her. He had no problem dropping things into it, but he wasn’t going to rummage through it. At least not with her watching.
She pulled out a package of plasters and passed one to him. Too tricky to put one on her own hand, he supposed.
He pulled out the plaster and studied it for a moment before putting it over the cut.
“Does this have unicorns farting rainbows? I didn’t think I’d drunk that much yet.”
He caught the hint of a blush on her cheeks, and he studied the faint redness making her freckles stand out with fascination.
“One of my neighbors has a little girl. I watch her sometimes at the park. These make her laugh.”
He nodded thoughtfully as he smoothed the plaster down. “What would unicorn farts smell like?”
“Not a dead animal that ate three day old Chinese,” she said primly, fixing her eyes on his.
He grinned at her, “Better out than in.”
“Maybe for you, not for the rest of us,” she said crisply, but left her hand in his.
He released her hand reluctantly and took a step back. He clenched his hand tightly, trying to hold on to the feel of her for a few more moments.
“Yeah, well, leave this. I’ll make Ho clean it tomorrow. Serve the wanker right for hiding in the lav while you…” His voice trailed off, that was a bit more than he wanted to say, more than he wanted to think even.
She looked down at the glass reluctantly for a moment and then back at him. She was done in. He’d seen that look enough on others to know it. She hooked her handbag over her arm and started toward the door. She looked back in surprise when he followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t get excited. I’m not going to invade your flat. Just going out for another bottle. I don’t really feel like fetching the one upstairs.”
She studied him carefully for a moment, making him want to squirm a bit. Catherine knew that there was no way he wanted to see that sight again tonight. First Sam, then Marcus. At least she probably didn’t know about the overwhelming terror that he’d felt as he charged up the stairs that he would be a moment too late. That it would be her lifeless on the ground with blood obscuring the blue stripe on her scarf. If that had been the case, it wouldn’t have been Coe emptying the gun of all but one bullet into that monster.
“And then you’ll go home?”
His lip curled in a snarl. Home was the next to last place he wanted to be. He didn’t really care where he ended up, just not here and not home.
“Jackson, it’s cold out. Please tell me that you’re not just going to drink in an alley somewhere.”
“If you want to mother someone, there’s always River,” he said gruffly. “Leave me out of it.”
She hesitated, sighed, started toward the door again, and then turned back. “Come to mine.”
“Ready to jump off the wagon? I’m not sharing. You’ll have to buy your own. Or is it my body you want? I mean, I’m knackered. Not sure how active I’ll be, but…” he shrugged.
She gave him a steady look. The look that meant she would gladly stab him and watch him bleed out on the floor. “You can drink yourself into oblivion and sleep on my sofa. I just don’t want to have to come identify your body after you’ve frozen to death behind a dumpster.”
He studied her for a moment. The prospect of just existing in the same space as her for a little while longer actually sounded like the most appealing option. That alone might help calm the rage inside him. It usually did when she sat with him in the dark, secret hours.
She drove them in the battered cab to her street, parking it conveniently in an alley beside an off license and far enough away from hers that there would be no questions. He reluctantly acknowledged to himself that she might actually be the best spy among them, present company excluded of course.
Once they were actually at the door to her flat, he waited for her to tell him this had all been a monumental mistake after all, and he could fuck off to the previously mentioned alley. Although he was reasonably certain that she wouldn’t say fuck, the sentiment would be there. Instead, she stepped through the door and looked back over her shoulder. “Well? Are you a vampire? Do I have to expressly invite you in?”
He stepped through, set the bottle on the table, and then proceeded to prowl through her flat, not wanting to take chances on any more surprises today. By the time he’d inspected her flat and taken off his coat and shoes, she was in the kitchen whisking something in a bowl with the hob on.
“You making up a witch’s brew?”
“I’m making scrambled eggs on toast,” her voice sounded nearly as tired as he felt. “I need something more than biscuits and crisps, and it’s…”
“Easy,” he finished for her.
“There’s enough for you if you want.”
Without another word, he took plates from her cabinet, got flatware from the drawer, glasses. She filled one with water, from a filter pitcher he noticed. She’d given him tap. He fetched the bottle and poured himself a healthy measure. They ate in silence. It was much better than any takeaway would have been. Easy and comforting. He, of course, finished long before her and leaned on his elbows to watch her eat.
“I’m finishing this,” she said archly. “No need to stare as though you’re going to pounce. You can make more toast if you’re still hungry.”
“I’m not going to pounce,” he said softly. “Why’d you really invite me here Catherine?”
Instead of answering, she glanced at his knuckles as though she’d just noticed the bruise. In an instant she’d fetched a bag of frozen peas and passed it to him. He thought about making a quip, but actually his fingers did hurt like hell so he just held the package to his swollen hand. She went back to eating. He sighed. No answer then, just back to how they’d always been.
She took the last bite and set her fork down. “I don’t want you to die.”
“Frozen in an alley. You said. I have been around the block a time or two.”
“I like the world better with you in it. It’s safer.” She pushed back from the table, rose to her feet, and turned away, taking her plate with her to the sink.
He carried his plate to the sink and passed it around her elbow into the running water. Then, he pulled out a cigarette and made his way over to the window so that he could smoke without dirtying her air.
“World’s better with you in it as well,” he said after he’d finished half his cigarette. “Cleaner.”
She laughed softly. He tossed his stub out the window and followed her into the lounge, picking up his bottle on the way.