Re: [Jester's Court: Cat & Jack]
God praise whiskey and the fifth he had in his hip-pocket. The flask was old, engraved with initials - somebody's, not Jack's, that was far too Establishment to be going on with. It was dulled-scratched silver, and it was a present comfort when you had no idea which way to go. He was entirely comfortable with being directionless in this hot, loud presence of bodies that were here for some purpose or another, far more so than directionless in a world that moved sharply and without warning like one of those bloody rides.
And yes, he recognized Cat in the boy. He recognized the boy's face and Cat's grace and that fractional shrug that was 'fuck it all, the lot of it' was so obliquely Cat it rooted her in him, curl-slouch-shrug whatever. Jack wasn't unaware part of the way the world twisted and turned was his closest friend periodically being rattled like a pair of dice taking a gamble, young, then very very male. But Jack was older, and Jack didn't give a fuck in any way that made sense, if the constancy remained as the grace did. She - and if Cat wanted to flip that like a coin tossing mid-air, then it would have to be said - was foul when she wanted to be, sharp as blades but a friendship that withstood more abuse than Jack had scope to remember. It would survive, even if Cat was turned inside out at the whim of scientists he occasionally longed, very much, to know - to expose.
But so what. That story wasn't being written presently, if at all. "You're a small business owner. Doesn't stop you. No, fuck it. I'm not thinking about business. It's too bloody serious," and Cat's tone was changed, but the sentiment was the same and Jack was sent entirely off-piste by what Cat said next. Helena, in trouble - yes, that seemed about inevitable. Jersey held a lot of secrets from what Leena implied, and it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that those secrets tried to squeeze you out. Jack, who knew the bloody cavalry would ride in if Leena called them, wasn't worried about Helena. Eddie, on the other hand...
They weren't close. Not beer on a Friday night close, which was what Jack imagined close, male friendships looked like, but Eddie had been tour-guide and companion, wry, dry humor and a man old enough to have regret. He'd liked him and thought him an inevitability in the world that Cat existed within, a magnet or a lodestone or an anchor holding her still. "Fuck," Jack said, entirely eloquently, and he held out the pinch of paper glowing faintly between his fingers if she wanted it. Eddie bailing seemed the furthest from possibility, and Cat looked - well, like an anchor had pulled loose.
"Are you all right? Is Stephanie all right?" Who he knew of well enough.
"God knows." This wasn't well-researched, thought through, this was plunging in because it was novelty. "I just thought I wanted to see it for real."