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The very first time Jack’s on stage, front and centre, lit up by so many lights, he doesn’t say a single word. No, see, it’s simple, he says several words. It’s just that he can’t hear any of them. He adjusts his bowtie for the fourth time in the past minute, steps to the mic, leans down out of necessity, opens his mouth and freezes.
Just like he’d practiced back in the bathroom mirror. Not a one-time fluke then.
“A guy walks into a d-d-doctor’s office--” Jack possibly chokes out, trembling so hard that he’s gotta let go of the mic stand, and then, miraculously, proceeds to exit stage left. Well. He makes a run for it.
Later, when he’s throwing up in the trashcan behind Smilin' Shecky Rimshot, one of Gotham’s more dubious comedy clubs, it occurs to him he’s failed to earn the bus fare he’d been counting on. Jack wipes his mouth, no stranger to panic-induced nausea, and peers around the corner. Nothing and no one. There’s a hint of raucous laughter from inside and he’s sort of glad at least someone’s having a better night than he is.
So.
First order of business? Walk home through the Narrows. Alone. Past midnight. It’s a daunting prospect in itself, some vague measure of experience in the matter notwithstanding. He waits up for Jeannie sometimes, meets her at Al’s Diner when she’s working late, though Jack can’t imagine he’d be much use in a pinch.
She’d-- Jeannie had wanted to come tonight, up since 3AM and on the wrong end of a particularly long shift as she’d been. Jack’s glad he had talked her outta it. Frankly, he’s relieved.
---
An excited How was it? is all the warning Jack gets before he’s tackled into a particularly tight hug. He laughs, can’t help it, wet from the rain that hadn’t failed to catch up to him in the last half of this miserable walk home and a few unnoticed tears. It’s easy to relax against Jeannie’s small form, dressed in sweats and an old shirt of his.
And then Jack goes stiff, takes a step back and closes the front door behind him. No need to wake up Mrs. Burkiss. The rest of tonight comes crashing down. There he is, buried under the rubble. “Um, y’know, it was-- okay,” he manages, pushes himself into a half-hearted laugh, “Were you waiting for me?”
“Yeah?” Jeannie looks surprised, a flash of confusion here and there, until she breaks into a smile. “It was your first gig, Jackie! ‘Course I was waiting for you.”
Of course.
“No, yeah, sorry, I’m just tired.”
Jeannie knows how he gets. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch. He can’t tell her. There’s been a growing distance here, between the job Jack’s just quit and-- something he can’t quite place. He’ll practice more. It’ll be fine. It has to be.
“Okay.” Jeannie, up on her tiptoes, kisses his cheek. “Let’s just go to bed then.”
Jack doesn’t flinch away when Jeannie’s arms wrap around him in the dark.
---
The thing about not planning on living past senior year of high school is that there’s a distinct lack of… dreams. Jack’s made it past the unthinkable and he’s been left empty. Drifting. Sure, there’s the vague notion of fame and fortune, everyone’s thought of that, even twenty-two year olds who’ve done nothing and are going nowhere, but there’s no hint of anything resembling potential in any crevice of a body that’s ninety percent anxiety. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do.
What Jack does know, ardently enough that it occupies his every waking hour, is that there’s very little chance of ACE Chemicals missing one of its janitors when he vanishes into thin air. That’s mostly hope talking.
It starts on a rare night out.
He and Jeannie can’t, generally, afford much beyond their designated bi-monthly movie night. Truthfully, it suits Jack just fine. The not-so-vast category of people he can successfully look in the eye starts and ends with Jeannie. That night’s different. Jack finds himself dragged along to a cafe somewhere in Park Row to watch one of Jeannie’s friends from work participate in some sort of poetry-adjacent and/or spoken word event. The details escape him but it’d required half an hour on the skytrain and a whole lot of talking himself into it.
Jeannie insists on coming and Jack doesn’t have it in him to refuse is the point. Can’t refuse when he knows what Jeannie puts up with, what everyone down at the diner must think of them-- him.
And then, there’s the allure of free drinks.
So, there’s a comedy act, among all the others Jack doesn’t quite pay attention to, and everyone’s laughing so hard. Jeannie’s laughing so hard, leaning against him, face buried in his shoulder when she’s shaking with amusement. It’s the happiest he’s seen her in too long.
I could do that, Jack thinks, I could make ‘em laugh.
---
“Am I funny?” Jack asks.
They’re back on the skytrain and he’s playing with Jeannie’s fingers where her hand’s resting on his knee -- half affection, mostly undue apprehension. Hard to tell what’s overcome him this time.
“What? Yes. Are you kiddin’? You’re like, the funniest person I know!” Jeannie’s looking at him with wide eyes, a little tipsy, as she straightens up, abruptly close. “That guy back at the bar’s an amateur! Remember last week when you did that Bugs Bunny impression for absolutely no reason and I choked on my coffee ‘cause I couldn’t stop laughing? I rest my case.”
And they’re still pressed up close, smiling at the memory. Jack knows he should want something here. A kiss. Anything. They’ve been married three years.
---
That’s how Jack gives up a soul-destroying job for no job at all.
“Why?” Jeannie asks, late at night, her back to him. The emptiness stretching in-between them is not to be breached. Jack doesn’t dare touch that no man’s land of bedspace. There’s an imperceptible tremble. As a rule, Jeannie’s voice doesn’t ever shake.
Back in high school, Jack hadn’t been able to figure out what’d made Jeannie care. She just did. That’s what she used to say as she’d bandage him up, as she’d sneak him past her grandparents up to her room when Aunt Eunice would deem him less than worthy of a roof over his head, during all of it. He’s never had anyone else. That’s--
That’s love, right? He wouldn’t know any different. He’s trying to make it love.
“Jean, I--” The coward’s way out, same as usual. “I really-- I couldn’t do it anymore. I just thought-- I mean, stand up comedy? How hard can it be?” Jack sits up, hugging himself tight as he leans back against the wall, cold through a shirt that’s far too thin, not unlike the body beneath it.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, Jack, but we’re flat broke,” Jeannie says, forcefully quiet, “Sure, I can pick up more shifts at the diner but we’re already behind on rent. You know that. Tell me you know that.”
He does.
He knows it all too well.
“One chance,” he whispers in shades of desperation. “Please, just gimme one chance and if it doesn’t work out then-- it doesn’t work out! I’ll find a real job. I promise.”
Jeannie rolls over, moonlight catches on the faint glint of a cheap ring. She sighs.
“Fine.”
---
So, there’s that first gig, and Jeannie might’ve even learned to forgive him by then, and the rest, rare as they are, tend to… follow suit. A messed up punchline. Tears and panic. No laughs, at least none that aren’t at his expense.
Around the third or fourth time he’s up there on stage, flailing and sinking, this time in a little joint called The Stacked Deck, Jack feels himself go numb.
Well, no.
His heart’s still threatening to burst out of his chest.
It’s just that something-- changes. Jack can’t feel his hands and the world tilts, everything’s abruptly woozy, distinctly unfamiliar. He stumbles off stage with a mumbled apology. Nobody laughs. Thankfully.
That’s not the kind of panic he’s ever known before, distantly worse than gasping breaths and sobs in Jeannie’s arms.
By the time reality comes back to itself, Jack’s sitting at a table in the back, head in his hands, trying to figure out how he’s gonna break the news this time. Guess what? I embarrassed myself in front of a whole club again! isn’t gonna cut it. He sighs, bites at his lip ‘till he’s certain he’s gone clean through it. There’s no way out. They’re gonna lose the apartment, aren’t they? Oh, god.
A chair scrapes against the floor, urgently close. Jack startles, looks up and flinches back on instinct alone -- a history of fractured bones and a nose that’s been broken one too many times.
“You look like you could use a drink, kid.”
For the longest time, he can’t tell what he’s looking at. Two men have manifested at his table, all cheap suits and cologne you can smell a mile away. Jack’s too perplexed to say a word. A drink slides to him and he stares, uncomprehending, as the men make themselves at home. The older of the two, late forties at the very least, offers a smile that’s lost its kindness around the edges. A distinct impression that he’d been the one who’d just spoken occurs.
“My buddy here is Joe and I’m Vinnie,” says the younger man. He’s around Jack’s age, a touch more worldly.
No one’s ever talked to him after a performance before. Then again, Jack’s taken good care not to stick around the scene of the crime too long, lest he attract witnesses. For the longest time, all he does is stare, at the drink, at the gentlemen sipping from their own beers.
“Cat got your tongue?” Joe asks and there’s that smile again. He nods at the glass he’s provided and Jack risks a sip, overcome by some measure of forced politeness. The flavour intervenes, the beer nearly gets spit back in and his stomach turns as he swallows. What is he doing here? Jack’s long fingers tap a meaningless rhythm on the table. Faintly nauseous, again.
“No, uh, I’m-- Jack.” And because he’s gotta know, “Did you see… that? Any of that?”
“Half, maybe. Came in late,” Vinnie offer, sounding mostly truthful. “Folks keep looking at ya, thought you might appreciate some company.”
Oh, god indeed.
Jack dawns the rest of his drink, quite immediately regrets it. Embarrassingly low tolerance aside, the taste’s remained unbearable. Someone says something, it might be addressed to him and he executes a slow look around before deciding the matter needs further investigation, “What?”
A glance is exchanged between Vinnie and Joe.
“We heard you’re in need of some cash?”
“Uh, I mean. Maybe?” Jack’s not in possession of anything close to a poker face. In fact, all he’s got now is a hazy sense of wonder. He scratches at his wrist where his sleeve rides up, over old scars and other nervous tics.
His newly-acquired companions leans in close, a conspiratory whisper among all the others. The world narrows to this moment alone. “Well, y’see, we know a guy who might be able to help,” Joe says, his hand warm on Jack’s knee under the table, “‘Course, the matter requires some, let’s say, secrecy. Think you can keep a secret, kid?”
There’s a chance he’s not quite breathing right. He nods.
“You got a girl at home?” Vinnie asks.
“Oh. Y-Yeah, Jeannie, my wife.” The word feels like betrayal. Jack can’t tell where this is going, can’t tell where he wants it to go either. The promise of a quick buck, that’s-- a risk he’s willing to take for… them. For him and Jeannie. A chance to prove himself. “That won’t be a problem. I promise.”
Lots of promises going around lately.
---
“Last night went great,” Jack says over breakfast, poking at a couple of mostly-burnt pancakes and shooting Jeannie a smile. He’s not lying, not really.
It was great. A ride back on account of Joe’s inexplicable perchance for kindness -- and that’d been something, hadn’t it? All those lingering touches that couldn’t have meant a thing -- and no half hour spent throwing up in less than reputable alleys. That’s as good as Jack’s nights ever get.
“Yeah? Nice crowd?”
Jeanie sits down, too, and if she sees the flush on his cheeks, she keeps silent. He knows he’d smelled of beer and cigarette smoke last night, probably still does, but Jeannie hadn’t brought it up and Jack wouldn’t know how. He hasn’t done anything wrong. One drink and the vague agreement to a follow-up meeting. That’s no crime. All the same, the impression that he’s gotten away with something persists.
It’s not the kind of feeling that inspires much clinging to.
“Uh, yeah. S-some guys actually asked me to meet up with them! Like, for a comedy…performance thing? It’s got a cash prize and everything.”
Okay.
Well.
That’s a lie.
---
As Jack walks into The Stacked Deck, about half a dozen people walk out. He likes to think the two are unrelated.
How bad was he last night?
Something fast approaching relief makes itself known as he takes in the shattered bottles behind the bartender and a man who might be Vinnie going through the less-than-discreet motions of shoving a gun in his waistband. Jack’s shaking faintly, at the immensity of this unfamiliar sight, and finds that relief’s abandoned him. He’s glad he’s not the cause of that impromptu departure though. There’s always that.
It’d be easy to turn back. No one’s seen him yet. He can walk back to a dismal little apartment on the third floor in the worst part of town, tell Jeannie it hadn’t worked out, go back to ACE Chemicals. He could. He can.
An arm slides around his shoulders and Jack jumps.
“Kid! You’re early, ain’tcha?” And that’s unmistakably Joe, up-close and personal. Jack’s frozen without quite meaning to.
Jeannie would quit right about now, she’s smart like that. Jack laughs, nervous as ever, and delivers a half-convincing, “That’s me, always early!” For once, it’s strictly the truth. He can do-- this. Whatever this is. Too late for any alternatives, that’s for certain.
“Well, step right this way. Vinnie’s just makin’ sure we get a little privacy, that’s all.”
And they sit at a booth and a drink’s placed in front of him and it’s last night’s routine all over again. He can’t tell what he’d expected. Vinnie joins them halfway through one of those aimless interludes of small talk Jack’s never been much good at, more glasses in tow, smiling like he’s not driven out a significant part of the bar’s clientele. That’s how it starts. How it really starts.
“So, I hear you work at ACE?” Vinnie asks.
“Worked.” Jack fidgets, any attempt at eye-contact long forgotten. “I was a janitor there for, uh, about a year. More or less.”
“Would you say you know your way around?” Joe intervenes.
It’s starting to feel like an audition. Maybe he hadn’t lied to Jeannie at all, maybe the extra tight hug he’d gone for, rare as it was, hadn’t been warranted in the first place. It could’ve been a misunderstanding. The gun. The secrecy. All of it. Jack nods, sips at his drink, talks himself into swallowing it.
Joe and Vinnie exchange another one of their looks. Something falls into place.
Or, out.
“Then I’d say you’re just the man for the job, Mr. Napier.”
---
Jack’s swaying as the alley’s closing in on him. One too many drinks, which really means two. The guys had offered to drive him home, same as before, it’s not-- he can’t tell why they’ve brought him out here, air oddly thick in the dark, far beyond Gotham’s smog.
“Uh--” is as far as he gets before Jack’s pushed up against a wall, grunting with the force of it, breathing a little funny. It’s panic. Nothing more.
And it really is just that as something cold and sharp settles against his throat.
He’s in too deep. The words reverberate around his skull.
“You’re a nice kid, Jack, we know that,” Joe starts. He’s holding the switchblade, steady and casual. “But, y’see, we gotta make sure you don’t go blabbing to that girl of yours. What was it, Jane? No, no, I’ve got it. Jean.”
“And since you now know the, let’s say, nature of our venture, we’ll call this a show of trust.”
That’s Vinnie, somewhat distant when one’s world has been reduced to the business end of a knife.
“I won’t-- I won’t s-say anything,” Jack chokes out, hot with tears. “I need the cash, I really do, I wouldn’t…” His nose is starting to run and the embarrassment nearly outweighs the fear of death. Of course, of course this is the kinda thing he gets tangled up in.
Joe and Vinnie laugh, good and hard. The switchblade recedes. Jack slides down against the wall, allows himself the privilege of wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“The Wild Deuce tomorrow at noon. Got it? We’ll bring ya your outfit.”
There’s no time to ask where the Wild Deuce even is, whether that’s the last stop on this endless parade of seedy bars. Jack opts to walk home.
---
“So, there’s another audition tomorrow and then, yeah, I don’t know where it goes from there,” Jack says, staring up at the ceiling. It’s what a lifelong insomniac might call early. He’s warm, for this one moment, Jeannie’s arm thrown over his stomach, legs pressed up close.
“You could stand to sound faintly more excited, y’know.”
And Jeannie’s laughing as she elbows him, brighter than anyone’s got a right to be in this city. Jack smiles despite himself, returning a kiss on the cheek with the same clumsy movements he hadn’t quite perfected as a teenager. More often than not, that’s as far as they ever take it.
That’s something of another personal failing. He’s never even been able to give Jeannie that.
No, she’s right, he should be excited. One big job, one night, and they’re gonna have it all. They’re gonna be fine. Jack will prove himself.
“You’re my best friend,” he whispers, soft and sad and everything in-between. “You know that, right?”