Re: Jake R/Jack C: Gotham city quick-log
[Jake didn't wish up ghosts out of nowhere. He remembered his momma plenty, but the memory that dragged itself out of the sweet-scented, sepia-toned memories he had like any boy did of childhood, was the one where her hands were as cool and still and waxy as magnolia petals, where the bright, bright blood had spurted over pretty sheets. Wishing hadn't even entered in, except he'd thought maybe it would fix things, somehow. To have a goodbye that was real clear, a door closed, one that he didn't sit the other side of to Clem, and pass on notes back under.
Closure wasn't real well-understood back home. Closure was shutting the drawer tight on memory, closing it off with handprints in clay and outgrown sneakers, like putting away childhood. Jake had said goodbye when he hadn't had a voice to say a word with, but he'd stood on beside folks in black and wept as they wept, and he'd cleaved to Clementine's shadow plenty after that.
He could feel Jack, close enough on by and living, loud as living did, the way the ghost hadn't and his hands were shaking and his palms were slick-damp and cold, and he wiped them surreptitiously on the sides of his jeans because Jack, Jack was old enough Jake wanted him to think he was a man, instead of a scared little boy. Little boys went crying in alleys, men faced things down. Jake wasn't sure what he was for real, but he wanted to be a man, bad.]
Okay. [It was a lie, and it was a lie that stuttered on the tongue, but he wasn't about to say how it was he felt for real, not off-pat like that. Jake turned, and the tear-tracks were stained and old and gray, and he'd mostly forgotten them because he wasn't crying now. He sounded tired: he felt like he'd been hit by something big and heavy, that dragged every bit of him out of himself.]