Aftermath in Two Parts / for Jack

[annebonny]

July 10th, 2020 (late)

Anne limps slightly as she makes her way home, the aches of her scrap with Sweeney growing sharper and the haze of alcohol no longer dulling it, but she still feels satisfied, glad she made the challenge, pleased she held her own. Sweeney is as mad as he claims, but it don't put her off, not when she finds herself reflecting it back so easily. It was a good fight; she'll need to go easy for a while, but it was a good fight.

She doesn't think much about how Jack might react when he sees her like this until she's climbing the stairs to their apartment, digging around for her keys. She supposes he'll worry at first, but there's no vengeance to be claimed, no wrong been done. It was a fight she invited, and anyway, she's had worse.

Probably time to tell him about why, though. About Beverly and Rosie, the promises she made them. Been long enough.

Anne pushes the door open with a soft grunt, stepping inside and taking her hat off, wincing only slightly at the twinge that comes from lifting her arm. Fuck's sake. She needs to do this more often, lest she wants to start going soft.

Comments

[jackrackham]

Jack leans back in his chair, a frown now a solid fixture on his face. "You know well enough that this is different. There's a difference between fighting to make something happen and fighting to-" He doesn't even want to say aloud what he's thinking. Was Anne picking a fight with a madman because some part of her wants the worst possible result?

He glances down at his hands, thinking of sitting next to Anne following his fight in the vanguard. She was right to chastise him then, for being reckless, for being too ready to die for Charles' memory.

"Darling, It doesn't matter if you held your own against him. You shouldn't have asked him to begin with." He sighs and lifts a hand up to rub at the side of his face. "Jesus, Anne, have you seen your face? This isn't nothing."

[annebonny]

"How's it different?" she hisses. "Why shouldn't I have asked him? Wasn't in danger. Wasn't fighting for my life. He's a friend. How's it better when I don't ask?"

Even with her uncharacteristic barrage of questions, she can't have this conversation, can't sit still. He's made just enough room now, leaning back, that she don't feel boxed in, and she gets up, stepping away from him, making for the kitchen instead. She'll clean her own damn face and it'll be back to normal soon enough.

[jackrackham]

Jack watches as Anne walks towards the kitchen, his train of thought stalling on the idea of her being friends with Mad Sweeney. He'd like a word with Sweeney about what the hell he thinks friendship is, and why it shouldn't involve punching women in the face.

A year ago, he might have decided that he should give Anne her space and approach this topic another time, but now he's not so sure. His old approach didn't work for Anne, had ended up hurting her in ways that he didn't foresee. There's a tension in his chest that represents his renewed uncertainty when it comes to what's best for her, and in that moment he wonders what Max would have had to say about this. What would she do, here?

Jack pushes himself up from his chair and follows her to the kitchen. This doesn't feel right, but maybe helping Anne means that he's going to have to try some things that don't follow with what he might usually do. Shoulders hunched forward, he settles himself next to her. She's facing away, looking down at the sink, and he reaches out, his hand hovering behind her back for a moment before taking another tack instead. Gently, he brushes Anne's hair aside and tucks it behind her ear.

[annebonny]

She feels him behind her but she expects words, not the much-too-gentle touch of his fingers in her hair, carrying the destabilizing weight of a tenderness that has never made it beyond their shared bed. He doesn't touch her like this when they're having a row; he doesn't try to calm her like she's a child or a soft little wife. She reels back sharply, water droplets from the still-running sink faucet splashing them both in her sudden desperation to get away from him.

"Don't," she snaps, continuing to back away as though he might reach out and try it again. This is too fucking confusing, first his reaction and now this, what, trying to pacify her? She doesn't understand why, why any of it, why this awful softness now when nothing's been settled and she's too full of bristling anger to take it. Answering it like this will only hurt him and she knows it, but that don't mean she can stop herself, and that just makes her angrier, like he's setting himself up for it on purpose.

"I'm fine," she insists, her tone hard as she forces herself to turn away from him. "I'm going back out. Need some fucking air."

She doesn't tell him — can't tell him not to follow. But she expects the message will be clear in the tight hunch of her shoulders and all that's just come between them. She leaves fast, feeling like she can't breathe, not certain what she'll do if he tries to stop her. But he doesn't, and before she has any sense of where she's going she finds her way back outside into the warm night.