Re: [Quicklog: Jack/Dahlia]
[There's a flash of Dahlia. Surfacing, in the murk of whatever personal misery is rolling about as backdrop to the irrepressible spirit of Repose's determination to fuck you all. He tolerates it. The sulk, the invective, until she's subsided into silence and into the wet, thick sound of an almost-sob. Jack's struggling through all of it, thinks he's untangled some of it. An argument, that was about Pat, rather than Dahlia (terrible decision) interrupted with physical intimacy - Jack knew the sharp edge of anger scraping up the nerve-endings of desire, friction and frayed temper was not all exclusive. And presumably, the conversation precipitating both the screaming and the argument had fractured on physical intimacy rather than resolving itself into a Gordian knot of problematic misinterpretation.
This, Jack was too bloody sober for. He opened his mouth - largely because the catch in Dahlia's voice is permissive, it's begging for an excuse, a coverall, a catch and christ, he can see the inviting yield of going down that route himself - but he's caught under. His face drains, the focus of the conversation, the grim determination is lost in the undertow of terrified, sickened distress, youth and terror and the viscera of bodily reaction. When Jack surfaces, he's swallowing bile, and the fear is a memory, that collides unpleasantly with the out-of-sync memory experienced.
He looks at her, dazed. It's been minutes or seconds or hours, he doesn't know. It felt like a blink, it felt like a year.] You need to sleep. [His voice is thick, muzzy with the memory. But she looks lost, and she's shivering, and the bloody dog is meant to keep her warm, isn't he?]
Would you go upstairs and at least lie down? The adrenaline must be crashing. [It's slow, but the last of the memory is juddering down his nerve-endings and Jack looks up at the stairs.] It won't fix the world, but it might take away the memories.