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"Yes."
Jack pulled himself up short. "I’m sorry darlin’ run that by me again?"
"I said yes."
Jack blinked at you, then glanced down at his shoes. When he was dreaming he was never in the right shoes. But there were his boots, scuffed to shit and looking mighty correct for the situation. "Yes?"
You shrugged one shoulder. "Unless you weren’t serious in which case-"
"No!" He quickly cut you off. "I was serious I just… what changed your mind?"
He’d been asking you out for the better part of six months, ever since you started working at Statesman in the records department. Transferring thousands of old case files to digital. He enjoyed finding you down in the old file cabinets, hair a bit of a mess and your shirt sticking to your slick skin. It was always hot down here.
"If I say no are you just going to ask me again next week?"
"Well you smile so sweetly when you do it."
You rolled your eyes, moving a box of papers from one table to another. "That’s why."
Jack hesitated. "I thought we were having a bit of fun, flirting and all that. If you genuinely want me to stop asking I’ll do that."
You paused, sizing him up. Jack had been in his fair share of fights. He knew a size up when one happened. "You would?"
He tipped his hat off, running a hand through his hair. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable."
"Then yes."
You’d turned away from him so you missed the look of shock on his face. Or the wide grin that soon followed.
+++
Jack had it planned to a ’T’. He’d noticed the Wildcats mug on your desk so he’d gotten tickets to a home game. For after, he’d made reservations at a rooftop restaurant downtown that offered great food and even a little bit of dancing if he could coax you into it. If not, they had a good bar he could swing you over to and spend an hour or so sipping martinis.
You were one of the workers who chose to live at the distillery and he pulled up in his Bronco at 3pm on the dot just like he’d said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited, unbuttoning one more button on his shirt after a moment’s thought. It was hot out, he didn’t need to sweat through the damn thing.
He jumped when he heard your door close and left from the truck, coming around and opening the door, taking in your prim pencil skirt and blouse. You looked like you were headed in to work.
"Ready for a great day?" He asked, trying to blanket you with some of his enthusiasm. You smiled at him and he took it as a good sign, swinging into the truck and heading out. He made small talk on the way, talking about your pets (you didn’t have any), your houseplants (one succulent you were well on your way to killing), and your book collection (extensive, finally a good topic). He’d pulled some strings with some higher ups at Commonwealth Stadium and gotten VIP parking. He tucked your hand into the crook of his arm as he led you inside, asking if you wanted any refreshments and frowning when you said no.
The game had just started when he sat you down, smiling at what good seats they were. Right on the fifty yard line. The crowd was boisterous and he put a protective arm over the back of your chair when the fan next to you leapt to his feet.
"Nothing like a good game of pigskin am I right?"
Your face looked incredulous and then quickly turned into a mask of polite interest. "I guess."
Jack blinked, eyeing the curve of your cheek as you turned back to the field. He frowned. Then he asked, "I saw the Wildcats mug on your desk. I know it’s not basketball but I figured…"
"Oh," you gave him a wane smile, "I stole that from the break room. It’s not mine."
Well fuck.
"You want a hotdog?"
"I’m a vegetarian."
Double fuck.
He thought through his problem for the entire first quarter. You had your phone in your hands and as far as he could tell you’d spent the last hour doing five New York Times crosswords.
"C’mon," he stood, holding a hand out for you. "Let’s go."
Your brows drew together and you looked around. "Is it done?"
He couldn’t help his smile, he’d really missed the mark with this one. "No, but we are."
Back at the Bronco he opened the door for you again, eyeing how you tucked your skirt under as you slid your legs inside. That outfit really should have been his first clue. He slid into his own seat, starting the engine and resting a hand on your seat as he looked back.
"This was… fun. Thanks."
He paused, looking at you. "Sweetheart I’m not done with you yet. I’ve only got one chance at this right? Well, I’m going to take as many shots as I can." One of them is bound to hit, he thought to himself.
+++
What was the opposite of a football game?
Decorative art.
The Headley Whitney was one of those places Jack had only ever been to as part of a gala. He’d never actually looked around the place - just strolled the grounds and had a nice little interlude with a pretty brunette out behind the rose garden.
It was a crap shoot. If this hadn’t worked he was just going to take you to the library downtown and hope for the best. But you seemed interested, stopping to admire a … vase maybe? With a carved bird perched on it. He stopped to admire you. The curve of your ass in that skirt, the way he could just barely see the outline of your bra through your blouse.
"We didn’t have to leave."
Your words startled him and he jerked his eyes up to your face. But you were still turned away from him, studying the collection of vases.
"Pardon?"
"We didn’t have to leave," you said again, slowly taking a step to the side to admire a brooch. "The game that is."
"You have that deep a backlog of crossword puzzles?"
You shot him a smile over your shoulder and it hit him like a gut punch. "I hadn’t even gotten to the Sunday ones. That would have kept me busy unless they went into overtime."
His grin widened and he stepped closer to you, cautiously resting his hand on your lower back. When you didn’t move he settled in more comfortably next to you. He glanced at the closest object. "That’s a nice… thing."
"It says it’s a necklace."
Jack hummed.
"Want to go see the dollhouses?"
Ok. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t stop the groan that fell from him. "Do we have to?"
Your laugh filled the silent space, echoing off the walls until you covered your mouth with one hand and gave him a sheepish look. A loud throat clearing to his right and Jack saw a docent giving them a pointed look.
"We’re the only ones here," he stage whispered back.
"Sir, if you would please lower your voice and respect the art work."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Like that damn parrot cares if we raise our voices."
"Jack," you admonished lightly, pushing his arm. He caught your hand, slipping his fingers in between yours.
"Dollhouses?"
Look, it really wasn’t his fault. The museum wasn’t built for a man of his height. Surely it was just little old grandmas and reluctant school kids. If it had been built correctly the ceiling beam wouldn’t have knocked his hat off.
Jack wouldn’t have dove to catch it.
And he wouldn’t have knocked you into what the sign declared to be a 'unique example of 19th century craftsmanship'.
Jack wasn’t sure who was more horrified. You for collapsing onto an antique dollhouse, one that promptly caved in under your weight. Or him as he realized that saving his hat had sacrificed your dignity.
"What the hell is going on in here?"
Scratch that. The docent. The docent was the most horrified. Jack scrambled to make amends, eventually offering a sizable donation in the Statesman name to the museum. He’d have to talk to Champ about that one later.
But the visit was definitely over and Jack noted that you had a slight hitch in your step as you left.
"You okay?"
"Oh?" You glanced up at him and then winced. "I’m fine. Just twisted my ankle a little when I fell."
When you pushed me, you did not say.
Jack looped an arm around your waist and helped you back to the truck. Sitting you down, he carefully pulled your little kitten heel off and examined your foot, pressing and turning it this way and that. Watching your face as you winced.
"I don’t think it’s even a sprain," he finally announced and you nodded, slipping your shoe back on. He stayed squatting next to you, his hands braced on his knees. "Should I even bother taking you to dinner?"
"Let me guess. Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse?"
He chuckled and stood, carefully closing your door and then crossing around. "Wouldn’t that have just been the cherry on top of all this."
"I am hungry."
"Well the least I can do is feed you."
+++
Why did he think his luck would change?
It had all been fine. Sure the sky got a little dark a little early. He’d checked the weather forecast, the storm was going to pass well south of the city. There was nothing to worry about. Even the little bit of rain had been manageable, he’d just popped the umbrella up over their table and refrained from making an off color one about getting you wet.
"Bottle of water?"
He took two with a grimace, turning and passing one to you. The basement of this building was warm, the pipes obnoxiously loud as they clanged over his head.
A fucking tornado warning.
"You know," he said conversationally, "I once rescued the President of Uruguay from an assassin in New York." You gave him a polite look of interest and he sighed. "And yet, I can’t manage to plan one date with a beautiful lady."
"It’s not that bad."
He gave you an incredulous look. "Not that…? Honey… no. Don’t even- This is bad. This is-" he gestured at the basement and the two dozen or so other people crowded inside. "This has got to be the worst date you’ve ever been on." You snorted and he raised an eyebrow. "It’s not?"
"Not even top five."
"That’s mighty kind of you, but you don’t need to lie to me." Jack sighed into the wall, spinning his hat between his hands.
"I’m not lying. Couple of years ago I went on a blind date with a guy who faked a heart attack halfway through so he could go home."
Jack choked, eyes jerking up to yours. "He what?"
"In college, I was seeing this guy and he invited me to a weekend getaway for Valentine’s day and then when we got there he broke up with me and I had to stay at a Motel 6 down the street"
Jack’s jaw dropped.
"Few years back I got invited on a date and I was supposed to meet him at his apartment and he invited me inside and he had four other friends there and offered me a hundred bucks to-" you cut yourself off, biting your lip and looking away.
Jack cursed. "Tell me his name."
You smiled at him. "He’s not worth it. Nothing happened, I just left."
"But to even presume a lady such as yourself would-"
You reached out and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze. "It’s fine. But really, in the grand scheme of bad dates this is a four at worst."
"A four," Jack mused.
"Ten being the best and one the worst."
He nodded to himself, thinking about that. As he did he heard the restaurant manager announce the warning had been lifted and they were free to resume their dining. He looked at you.
"Do you want to go back upstairs?"
"Not really." You hesitated before saying, "But I am hungry."
+++
Jack had never heard of an Impossible Burger before. It tasted alright, he had to admit. Had nothing on a good real burger but he wouldn’t turn one down necessarily.
You two were sitting in his Bronco, parked in a small stand of trees on the corner of the distillery property. Fast food wrappers littered the floorboards and you moaned softly as you took a drink from your milkshake.
"Good?"
You mumbled an answer around a bite and he took it as a yes, lifting his own shake to his mouth. The storm hadn’t gotten this far south and the sky was clear and full of stars.
"That one right there is Deneb," he pointed out the windshield at an especially bright star.
You squinted and then looked at him. "I think that’s Vega."
He took another look and grunted. Jesus, he couldn’t even get the stars right.
The drive back to your quarters was quiet and he cut the engine just outside. He was barely conscious of ducking out of the Bronco, of going around to open your door and walk you up. In his head he kept running through the day. What he could have done differently.
"Well," you said, stopping and he drew to a halt as well.
"Well."
You looked at each other and finally he gave you a small smile. Tipping his hat he winked, "Guess I won’t be bothering you again."
He was halfway back to the Bronco when he heard your voice call after him. "It wouldn’t be a bother."
"Beg pardon?"
You shrugged, leaning a shoulder against your doorway. "I said it wouldn’t be a bother. I had a good time."
"You…" he snorted. "You really do have a skewed scale for a good time sweetheart."
Shrugging again you gave him a wide smile. "Maybe. But you should probably take advantage of it."
He laughed. A full bellied laugh that echoed through the small houses. He stood there and watched as you let yourself into the quarters, giving him a small wave before shutting the door.
You might not know a good time, but Jack was determined to be the man to show you one.
Next time.