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Jack exclusively wore sweaters. He owned other shirts sure, flannels and t-shirts and fancy buttons up for when he was supposed to look nice, but out of the house all he wore was sweaters. In the stifling summer heat sometimes he had the urge to roll up his sleeves as he walked through town with his girls and Doctor Tenenbaum, but he knew he couldn't.
Jacks arms were covered in track marks, his veins were dark and occasionally thin and fragile, and on his wrists were boldly tattooed chains, without covering them he was sure to get looks. Jacks chest was covered in scars too, bullet wounds and the ugly, jagged scratches from hooks made to gut fish, not him.
"You're wearing a sweater in this weather, why dear you must be sweltering!?" The woman in the first shop they stopped in asked. He was at first unclear which of the adults he was referring to but Jack noticed her gaze on him and he shook his head and smiled her concern away, going to stop Mascha from touching a fragile looking snow globe. He was used to the heat by now, it's been four years since the incidents below the sea, plenty of time go acclimate to wearing sweaters year round.
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Jack wished he could rip off his tattoos. He thinks with enough effort he could but it would be a bad idea for several reasons. Sometimes his girls point them out, Julie was ten when she first asked,
"What's on your wrists daddy? When'd you get those? What do they mean?"
They're just tattoos. He assured her, tugging his sleeves down to cover them. He didn't like looking at them, they reminded him of overzealous speeches, and smooth Irish accents, and the smell of rot.
"Like Mama Tenenbaum's numbers?" Jack was almost startled, he sometimes forgot how observant and brilliant his girls were, he also sometimes forgot the numbers staining Doctor Tenenbaum's left arm, 109812 he believes, he preferred not to look and he knows Doctor Tenenbaum wouldn't want him to.
Yes, he scooted over so she could sit next to him on the couch. Something ike Doctor Tenenbaum's numbers.
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Jack knew he was somewhat handsome. He got enough attention from the women in town, and the sweet old woman next door's daughter, and even a nice enough man down at the barber shop. He'd overheard a few of the mothers at his girl's school whisper about him and how they'd like to see him without his bulky sweater on, but he knows they wouldn't like what they found.
Jacks chest, when uncovered, is mostly scar tissue; bullet wounds, slashes, burns, any type of injury imaginable is one that he's endured. Jack's scars mangled his otherwise flawless chest, with muscles that he knew were nice, but were also created in a lab.
Despite the horrifying reality of his appearance under his sweater Jack didn't feel ashamed of any of it. Those track marks, scars, tattoos, all of it was worth it and all of it could be attributed to the family he treasures now. So Jack exclusively wore sweaters and he wore them with pride.