Jack probably wouldn’t have opened the door if he wasn’t waiting on a pizza, so. Ainsley lucked out on that one.
There’s a girl on his couch whose name he thinks starts with an E, or maybe an R, and he doesn’t feel bad about not knowing the rest of the letters considering she only cares that his last name is Fitzgerald, and that suits him well enough for the time being. He’s not a bad guy in the way that this might suggest, but he’s certainly not the golden child, either, and that also suits him perfectly well. He likes living in the grey area. In the spotlight but not responsible for the spotlight.
So, he opens the door and is taken aback to find a girl standing on his doorstep, looking like she’d been dragged through every layer of hell and back again. Jack is not necessarily a bleeding heart, but it’s bad enough that he would’ve probably helped her even if she hadn’t opened her mouth (called the police, at the very least, and perhaps Madam Godfrey up at the school), but then she has to go and complicate it with… the introduction.
Ainsley Fitzgerald. … I’m your sister.
He has sisters. He has a lot of sisters. And Ainsley? Is— ah, it’s complicated, but in a way where he feels like it’s highly implausible that Ainsley is anything more than a name that falls from his mother’s disoriented tongue when she has too much wine at Christmas. (That alone should raise alarms, should have years ago, but that’s the thing about memory loss, isn’t it?) Jack cocks an eyebrow and studies her, eyes a little harsh (not on purpose, but just— like, he has a reason to be cautious, here) as he tries to assess the situation. If she’s acting, she’s really good at it, but Jack supposes anyone trying to get something out of the Fitzgeralds wouldn’t be an amateur about it.
Even as she finishes, he doesn’t respond yet. First thing he does is raises his hand and murmurs a quiet detect magic spell, directing it at her— at her wounds— to make sure they aren’t some kind of illusion. They aren’t, which means whoever this girl is actually is hurt, so… he can’t very well just slam the door in her face. “Come on,” he offers, stepping off to the side, and then he cranes his neck to address the girl in his living room.
“You gotta go.” A beat. “Sorry.” Another few moments, and then Jack realizes he has to be a dick, just this once. “And just, ah— sorry, but remember, you signed the NDA.” It’s an always precaution, but helpful now when he’s got a battered girl claiming to be his sibling standing on his doorstep, for sure.
Jack turns back to this girl — “Ainsley” — once the apartment is empty save for the two of them. There are questions, a lot of fucking questions, but… honestly, the injuries are probably the first thing he needs to address, followed by finding some kind of assurance that she’s not about to, like, rob him blind. That’s a risk, here. He’s not a bleeding heart, he’s not a bad guy, and he’s definitely not naive.
Ainsley is like an out of tune piano key as Beethoven plays; a name, a note in the right place, but off, all the same.
“Should probably start with getting you a healer,” he says, finally, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Can get someone over here pretty fast.” Jack hums. “Then I think we’re gonna have to have a little chat, if you’re going to go around throwing around those kinds of claims.”
Ainsley ducks her head when the girl’s eyes pass over her, curious and understandably offended at the abrupt dismissal. Her uninjured hand picks at the lint clinging to the bandage she haphazardly wrapped around her wrist, after she’d stolen it from a pharmacy some five or six blocks from here. Unsure feet shuffle closer behind Jack; he doesn’t necessarily promise safety, but she’s already shown up at his doorstep begging for help, so it’s not like she can do much worse in his eyes.
His, ah, guest is still up in the air.
Ainsley doesn’t move until she’s gone. She backpedals, maybe a little too much, nearly running into her wall in her hurry to give him space. It’s not a great look, considering the whole ‘begging for help’ thing, but even she can track the PTSD involved in this.
The thing is –– her plan didn’t even involve coming here, let alone what she would do when he opened then door; if he opened the door.
“Thank you,” she said, flat palm tipping down from her lips, before she stops the signing. Her voice is damaged, sure, but it can survive a few more minutes of talking. ––It’ll survive however many minutes she needs it to, anyway. She starts to emphasize the fact that she’s not lying, but stops with the realization that those words don’t mean shit. Still, the mention of proving her truths –– and the mention of a doctor –– makes her a little anxious.
On one hand, she has more than enough blood to spare.
On the other, people have connections. Doctors, cops, all of them. And she doesn’t know how many of those connections link back to D––
She evens out her breathing before she can hyperventilate, thumb tapping against the cheap bandaging. It’s far from dependable, but it’s hard to be picky when you’re a thief who’s already getting weird looks because you look like a battered wife. ( It’s almost accurate. )
“...Can they sign an NDA, too?” She asks after a beat. “The doctor, I mean. I... I assume you’re going to make me sign one, whether you believe me or not. Can the doctor sign one? I –– I’m hiding from someone.” She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to say that; she doesn’t know how this whole thing is supposed to go, but she’s trying, she’s trying, she’s––
Her hand wraps around her injured wrist, applying a slight pressure, just enough to refocus her. She releases her grip in the next second, and meets Jack’s gaze. If she hasn’t lied about anything, then she has no reason to falter. And Ainsley is a lot of things, but she’s never been a liar.
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