hi! you can call me k or katie! || (prev. @jonedwardbernthal) || please read the rules before sending anything, and please don't mass like/reblog! thank you! 💖about💖rules💖masterlist💖characters💖buy me a coffee!💖mobile links💖
Inspired by @honeylikewords’s Jack Russell series — a photo of Jack and his (unnamed) wife on their wedding day. I’m absolutely obsessed with her writing and it’s genuinely so sweet and wholesome. So if you’re a fan of Werewolf by Night, please go read her stuff 🙏🏻
OH MY GOOD GOD IN HEAVEN OH MY HEART IS GOING TO FALL OUT OF MY CHEST
This is !!! everything to me !!!
Mrs. Russell looks just. Incandescently beautiful and Jack looks so sweet and utterly in love with her and you've managed to capture their dynamic perfectly; the nose touching!! THE NOSE TOUCHING!!!!
YOU CAN SEE HOW MUCH THEY LOVE EACH OTHER AND HOW GENTLE AND TRUSTING THEY ARE OF ONE ANOTHER AND I JUST--
I am so delighted by this that I won't be able to stop screaming into my pillow for days on end and now I absolutely HAVE to write as many fics as possible. My brain is on fire and my heart is BURSTING WITH LOVE FOR YOU AND THIS IMAGE
EVERYBODY LOOK AT THIS!!!!! RIGHT NOW!!!!
ALSO I WANT TO COMPLIMENT YOUR ARTISTIC SKILLS BECAUSE THE FABRICS LOOK INCREDIBLE AND THE ANATOMY IS GORGEOUS AND THE TEXTURES AND SHADING AND COLORS ARE SO BEAUTIFUL AND FEEL SO REALISTIC AND GROUNDED AND I AM GOING TO CRY. THANK YOU
i’m going to be writing and posting christmas fics for a while because christmas is somehow one of my Special Interests and i do celebrate it for the full 12 days (all the way into january!) so. the holidays will last a while here gahgklashgg
I'll be back to do holiday content soon enough but right now just a quick reminder that it isn't super cool to write Christmas-only content for Jewish characters, especially explicitly Jewish characters like Marc Spector/Steven Grant!
Everyone who knows me knows I LOVE Christmas but I'm also from a Jewish background and it's uncomfortable to see non-Jewish people write Jewish characters in ways that ignore or de-prioritize their Jewishness; we should all try to remember that the holidays are for everyone to practice their traditions, and not all traditions are the same, and that's wonderful!
A little research or asking a Jewish friend or fellow creator can help if you're having trouble writing holiday works for Jewish characters, and there are tons of resources online (like vlogs, blogs, short stories, articles, interviews, even things like recipes, etc), and you can even still write Christmas-adjacent content, so long as you thoughtfully and respectfully integrate the character's background!
had a dream people were ROASTING ME in the comments of my latest fic fjsbdkndkdn i was so relieved when i woke up to no notifications of people telling me to get tested for brain damage
jack and his wife celebrate the gathering of friends and family. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: food, mentions of meat, mentions of the very real likelihood of pregnancy :>, jack being surprisingly flirty and physically affectionate at a family gathering. just a really short fluff piece! word count: 2.2k)
(for context, the idea for this fic is that Jack owns a cabin in the woods and has invited his monster friends and family out for a feast!)
Jack prods a large rack of ribs with a thermometer, expertly needling the meat between the bones and checking the temperature in one swift motion. Noting the number flashing on the small screen, he turns a knob down on the grill and shuts the lid over the meat, trapping the heat and smoke within. As he turns around, he beams at his wife, hands in the front pockets of his bright green apron emblazoned with the words “SMOKIN’ HOT GRILLMASTER” in flaming font.
“Should be ready in, eh, twenty minutes?”
“Oh, good, then we’re on schedule.”
His wife reaches past his hands into one of the pockets and pulls out a printed sheet that had been folded into a tiny square so many times that the paper had gone soft, then flicks it open. Scanning down the list of main courses, she eyes the side dishes, baked goods and desserts, each listed with an appropriate prep time and step taken. Scheduling had been a pain, but it was a necessary task; trying to coordinate feeding this many people in a timely manner was no small feat.
Inside the cabin, a timer goes off, and Jack perks his ears, head tilting slightly in the direction the sound came from. His nose lifts and he inhales, a smile spreading across his face, and he puts his hands on his wife’s hips, swaying her playfully.
“I cannot believe how good that stuffing smells, cielito,” he grins, squeezing her hips for emphasis. “You’re such a good cook. The best, probably, in the entire world.”
“Hope it tastes half as good as it smells,” she shrugs, trying to humble herself in the face of Jack’s effusive glee, but he merely giggles and presses his nose to hers, shaking his head.
“It’s going to be perfect; it already is! I can smell it!”
jack and his wife celebrate the gathering of friends and family. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: food, mentions of meat, mentions of the very real likelihood of pregnancy :>, jack being surprisingly flirty and physically affectionate at a family gathering. just a really short fluff piece! word count: 2.2k)
(for context, the idea for this fic is that Jack owns a cabin in the woods and has invited his monster friends and family out for a feast!)
Jack prods a large rack of ribs with a thermometer, expertly needling the meat between the bones and checking the temperature in one swift motion. Noting the number flashing on the small screen, he turns a knob down on the grill and shuts the lid over the meat, trapping the heat and smoke within. As he turns around, he beams at his wife, hands in the front pockets of his bright green apron emblazoned with the words “SMOKIN’ HOT GRILLMASTER” in flaming font.
“Should be ready in, eh, twenty minutes?”
“Oh, good, then we’re on schedule.”
His wife reaches past his hands into one of the pockets and pulls out a printed sheet that had been folded into a tiny square so many times that the paper had gone soft, then flicks it open. Scanning down the list of main courses, she eyes the side dishes, baked goods and desserts, each listed with an appropriate prep time and step taken. Scheduling had been a pain, but it was a necessary task; trying to coordinate feeding this many people in a timely manner was no small feat.
Inside the cabin, a timer goes off, and Jack perks his ears, head tilting slightly in the direction the sound came from. His nose lifts and he inhales, a smile spreading across his face, and he puts his hands on his wife’s hips, swaying her playfully.
“I cannot believe how good that stuffing smells, cielito,” he grins, squeezing her hips for emphasis. “You’re such a good cook. The best, probably, in the entire world.”
“Hope it tastes half as good as it smells,” she shrugs, trying to humble herself in the face of Jack’s effusive glee, but he merely giggles and presses his nose to hers, shaking his head.
“It’s going to be perfect; it already is! I can smell it!”
jack and his wife celebrate the gathering of friends and family. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: food, mentions of meat, mentions of the very real likelihood of pregnancy :>, jack being surprisingly flirty and physically affectionate at a family gathering. just a really short fluff piece! word count: 2.2k)
(for context, the idea for this fic is that Jack owns a cabin in the woods and has invited his monster friends and family out for a feast!)
Jack prods a large rack of ribs with a thermometer, expertly needling the meat between the bones and checking the temperature in one swift motion. Noting the number flashing on the small screen, he turns a knob down on the grill and shuts the lid over the meat, trapping the heat and smoke within. As he turns around, he beams at his wife, hands in the front pockets of his bright green apron emblazoned with the words “SMOKIN’ HOT GRILLMASTER” in flaming font.
“Should be ready in, eh, twenty minutes?”
“Oh, good, then we’re on schedule.”
His wife reaches past his hands into one of the pockets and pulls out a printed sheet that had been folded into a tiny square so many times that the paper had gone soft, then flicks it open. Scanning down the list of main courses, she eyes the side dishes, baked goods and desserts, each listed with an appropriate prep time and step taken. Scheduling had been a pain, but it was a necessary task; trying to coordinate feeding this many people in a timely manner was no small feat.
Inside the cabin, a timer goes off, and Jack perks his ears, head tilting slightly in the direction the sound came from. His nose lifts and he inhales, a smile spreading across his face, and he puts his hands on his wife’s hips, swaying her playfully.
“I cannot believe how good that stuffing smells, cielito,” he grins, squeezing her hips for emphasis. “You’re such a good cook. The best, probably, in the entire world.”
“Hope it tastes half as good as it smells,” she shrugs, trying to humble herself in the face of Jack’s effusive glee, but he merely giggles and presses his nose to hers, shaking his head.
“It’s going to be perfect; it already is! I can smell it!”
jack and his wife celebrate the gathering of friends and family. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: food, mentions of meat, mentions of the very real likelihood of pregnancy :>, jack being surprisingly flirty and physically affectionate at a family gathering. just a really short fluff piece! word count: 2.2k)
(for context, the idea for this fic is that Jack owns a cabin in the woods and has invited his monster friends and family out for a feast!)
Jack prods a large rack of ribs with a thermometer, expertly needling the meat between the bones and checking the temperature in one swift motion. Noting the number flashing on the small screen, he turns a knob down on the grill and shuts the lid over the meat, trapping the heat and smoke within. As he turns around, he beams at his wife, hands in the front pockets of his bright green apron emblazoned with the words “SMOKIN’ HOT GRILLMASTER” in flaming font.
“Should be ready in, eh, twenty minutes?”
“Oh, good, then we’re on schedule.”
His wife reaches past his hands into one of the pockets and pulls out a printed sheet that had been folded into a tiny square so many times that the paper had gone soft, then flicks it open. Scanning down the list of main courses, she eyes the side dishes, baked goods and desserts, each listed with an appropriate prep time and step taken. Scheduling had been a pain, but it was a necessary task; trying to coordinate feeding this many people in a timely manner was no small feat.
Inside the cabin, a timer goes off, and Jack perks his ears, head tilting slightly in the direction the sound came from. His nose lifts and he inhales, a smile spreading across his face, and he puts his hands on his wife’s hips, swaying her playfully.
“I cannot believe how good that stuffing smells, cielito,” he grins, squeezing her hips for emphasis. “You’re such a good cook. The best, probably, in the entire world.”
“Hope it tastes half as good as it smells,” she shrugs, trying to humble herself in the face of Jack’s effusive glee, but he merely giggles and presses his nose to hers, shaking his head.
“It’s going to be perfect; it already is! I can smell it!”
He’s been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed all day, for some reason, all-too-happy to fetch things for her and run kitchen errands and clean up the myriad dishes left in the wake of their work. He’s been hovering as well, even as the guests began trickling through the trees and bushes; Jack would sense them coming, whether by smell, sight, or sound and watch excitedly for their arrival, then tug her away from whatever she was doing to greet them, insisting on both of them being side by side.
The number of hands, paws, tentacles and claws she’d shaken today as Jack animatedly introduced her to his friends, new, old, and in-between, was a blur, and as the cabin’s grounds began to fill with familiar and unfamiliar faces, Jack’s elation only grew. Now, with his hand pulling softly at the small of her back and the guests milling freely across the land the cabin sits on, he guides her, beaming, back into the kitchen to pull out the three trays of stuffing from the oven.
They sit, cooling, on the counter as Jack opens the lid on a massive pot of mashed potatoes and gives it an experimental swirl with a spoon, lifting some out and blowing on it before offering it to his wife; he holds the spoon gingerly to her lips and smiles that crooked, nose-wrinkling smile when she goes in for the bite.
“That was cute,” he remarks.
“What was?,” she mumbles around a mouthful of potatoes; she’s a little unhappy with the flavor and going to melt in another knob of butter and snip in a few more chives.
As she goes to grab the chives and kitchen scissors, Jack leans back against the counter and plucks a nugget of stuffing from the tray, still steaming, and pops it in his mouth, cleaning his fingers with his tongue. She should scold him for eating too-hot food, or eating with his fingers, or something else, but she gets distracted by the sight (his tongue’s dexterity is quite noticeable and he’s smiling a bit too wryly for it to have been an accident), and has to blink away the fog left by it.
“Your face,” Jack clarifies, still chewing. “You made this little “ah” face. ‘S very cute.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re just very, very cute,” he continues.
He pushes off the counter and comes to close the gap between them, pressing his chest to her back as she cuts the chives over the pot with the scissors and tosses in a stray lump of butter left behind by some other recipe. His hands gravitate low, to the softest part of her tummy, and he rubs a slow circle there, fingers knitting into the strings of her apron.
“You’re in such a mood today,” she teases, stirring the potatoes. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” he says as he pushes his nose into the shell of her ear, kissing the lobe and squeezing her in his arms. His hands stay on her belly, and she reaches down to pat him, then pinches the back of his wrist playfully.
“Well, as much as I love it, Puppy, you’re about to get burned on the stove--”
Instead of pulling off, Jack tugs her back from the cooktop and into his arms, burrowing his face into her shoulder and holding her still, fingers splayed over her tummy. She lets her arms rest atop his and leans back, sighing; it does, admittedly, feel very nice for the two of them to take a break from the hubbub and just enjoy each other, even if they haven’t been apart for more than a few minutes at a time.
“I’m just happy,” he mumbles. His lips brush against her neck and his words tickle her skin, making her shiver and squirm happily in his arms, which only pushes him to double down on the tightness of his embrace.
“I’m glad,” she responds, but he shakes his head, nestling deeper still.
“You don’t understand,” he continues. “You’re… we’re… I’m just so, I mean-- es eufórico, es maravilloso! Es… I just…”
His voice fades and he holds her flush against himself; outside, she can hear a game of touch football between the other monsters resolving into a dogpile, but the sound is a diminished half-note compared to the present, forward reality of Jack’s breathing against her skin, his hair brushing against hers, his arms corded around her waist.
He draws in a breath and continues.
“I get to have a whole family. You, and me, and…”
Jack’s wide, fever-warm hand is splayed against her belly, and she looks down at it as he traces one finger over the bump of the knot in her apron ties, which rests above her navel. He presses in softly; not enough to feel pushed on, but a light, tender application of pressure that reassures her of his intent, and of his warmth.
She turns in his hold, placing her fingertips on his slightly stubbled chin, and the touch guides his head up to meet her gaze. His eyes glow half-hazel in the golden light of the kitchen, and they flicker over her face searchingly, hoping for something from her. She grants him a smile, one that crinkles her eyes and makes him instinctively smile back as his hand twitches; when she kisses him, his hand strokes against her like a kiss to her tummy, too.
They can let some of this food sit a few minutes longer.
Jack stands on one of the picnic tables in the clearing, puts his middle finger and thumb to his lips, and lets out an almighty wolf whistle that rips through the trees. Dozens of heads snap to attention and Jack waves his arms over his head, summoning the clutter of monsters towards the tables laden with food (and some laden with things a human might not consider edible, but that many of the guests were sure to appreciate).
As they begin to trickle in-- away from activities like rag-tag sports, card games, and gaggling near screens playing the national parades-- Jack remains on the table, bending down briefly to lift a full champagne flute up and tap its lip with a fork. The tinkling chime rings over the crowd and, once again, his friends focus their attention on him, now encircling the table he is atop.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” he begins, smiling in that broad, effervescent way he does when addressing a group.
She watches him from the other end of the table, seated at the head with an empty chair beside her reserved for him. In the setting light of the sun, the greys in Jack’s hair shine gold and what remains of the brown comes to life with fiery red hues, the beams tracing against his cheekbones and jaw and drawing soft shadows. His slightly more full upper lip curls over his crooked tooth as he casts her a quick glance and widens his smile, somehow, further still.
He’s shed his apron and put back on his fineries for the night: a dark green pair of trousers and his second-favorite black button-up, the sleeves rolled into place and the collar opened. His leather shoes reflect sparks of the sunset back across the table as he shifts his posture, weight coming to rest on his back foot. He knows how to captivate attention, somehow: it comes naturally to him, a sort of inherent magnetism that is uniquely Jack’s.
When he addresses them, he fixes his eyes on various members of the crowd, shifting attention to organically and individually speak to an entire group; she wonders how he ever manages to become shy when he’s this beguiling.
“I am overjoyed to be here, today, with all of you,” Jack continues, his glass held delicately as he turns to look at the breadth of his party. “Not only with those of you who are like me, but especially those of you who are different, each and all of us siblings to one another in this world.”
The crowd rumbles in agreement-- somewhere, she can hear Ted’s instantly recognizable grunting-- and Jack nods, extending his glass out to gesture at the people before him.
In the mass she can see others she knows to be wolves, a pair of minotaurs, ghouls and a few members of the undead; pointed ears give away some of the docile vampires, whereas other loved ones defy singular description as any one creature, more aptly seen as amalgams or chimeras. She sees the bright eyes of night-stalkers and the sloped shoulders of mountain-apes, and each face, though distinct, seems lit with a unifying ardor: they are home, among one another.
“On days like these, it is good to remember that none of us, no matter how unusual our circumstances, are alone: that through our trials, we find one another, and that we are here to love each other, even when the world seeks to convince us that we are unwanted. But, together, we are wanted,” Jack states.
“Together, we are loved.”
He raises his glass high and grins. When he moves his hand, his wedding band burns bright in the last rays of the day.
“Together, we become family! Salud!”
He tips back the shimmering drink and others in the throng follow suit, cheering and drawing in sips of their beverages in celebration. Now finished with his address, Jack finally descends from the table and makes his way through the crowd, tossing his arm around friends’ shoulders or patting their faces, waving and laughing at his beloved family.
She loves to see him like this-- surrounded by those he loves, Jack becomes even more himself, fit to burst with all the joy he seeks to share-- and as he approaches, he turns his gaze to her, again, and her love multiplies.
He looks at her like she, herself, hangs the stars and the moon in the sky each night, like she’s every present that has ever been under the tree, as if she’s come home from a thousand years apart. Jack’s illuminating, radiant happiness is utterly compelling, and impossible to resist in its infectiousness; she finds herself beaming back in equal measure as he finally is able to pass through the crowd to near her.
Jack comes to sit by her side and places excited kiss after kiss against the side of her face, peppering them along her cheekbones and the tip of her nose as she shrinks into his shoulder. He tuts something about not being shy and tries to coax her out, but she obstinately hides herself in the warm haven of his neck and shoulder, both abashed at the idea of being so amorous in front of his family and divinely desirous of the closeness and comfort she has achieved in his hold. There’s a faint chill in the air as the night descends, and he’s blissfully warm; why would she ever leave?
“Alright then,” he teases, pinching her side and tugging her chair as close as possible to his own to throw his arm around her shoulder, “We’ll eat like this. I’ll get the fork and put it into that little cavern for you. Hm?”
“Works for me, Puppy,” she replies.
“But, amorcita, please,” he implores, “If you don’t come out, who is Alan going to tell that awful story about the time he got trapped in a castle well for a week?”
Someone halfway down the table yells at Jack that it’s “hardly an awful story” and that it was “only a few days”, but the feeling of Jack’s shoulders bouncing with his laughter and the sound of it rippling through her ears is enough to make her want to pull free and see his elated face herself.
Today was about their family, after all, she reminded herself, and she’d like to look at the father of her child.
links to previous fics in this series:
cubs.
familia.
penumbra.
bedrest.
thank you for reading! this was a short one but i wanted to get it out in time for the Dread Holiday; it was all written in ~3 hours, in one night, so if you see any errors... well, that’s why!
anyway, comments and replies are always appreciated, and give me immense motivation to continue these stories! feel free to let me know what you thought and what you’d like to see next!
okay so I'm. Very sick and haven't been able to get adequate rest and whatnot but I do want to get out a Thanksgiving Adjacent fic for Jack within the next few days so indulge me a bit with these caveats for the fic:
1. I can't be sure of the length since I never write with a length in mind; I just sit down and plonk out whatever feels good, and sometimes that's 2.5k or sometimes that's 6k! I'll probably lean more towards 2.5 or 3k this time for the sake of my health (screen time hurts my head!)
2. I don't want to get too personal but for My Own Reasons I'm going to be writing the fic to not feature Jack's WIFE'S biological family.
Families come in all shapes, sizes, and forms and Jack exemplifies that himself, so the emphasis will very likely be on a different kind of family, and I hope you guys love that idea as much as I do!
3. It will probably not overtly be a "Thanksgiving" setting, as the holiday's history and current connotations can be alienating and uncomfortable for a lot of people, but more of a dinner party with the parade going in the background because Balloons Are Excellent!
That's just a little Heads Up for what to expect! I'll get started as soon as I feel well enough to actually sit with my laptop but until then, just know it's coming!
jack’s wife feels a little under the weather. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: sickness, very brief mentions of nausea and vomiting, mentions of food, and, obviously, indications towards pregnancy! just a short little fic about how cute jack is when he’s playing nurse; word count: 2.5k)
It starts with a heavy feeling around her temples. Her shoulders sit sorely, and the ache spreads all the way down to the small of her back. There’s a pressure behind her eyes. The core of her throat becomes sticky and swallowing suddenly is something she has to think about doing, and doing it sends sharp prickles radiating through her neck.
Now, hovering over the kettle as it rumbles to a boil, she can feel her head becoming foggy, growing faded; trying to have a clear, linear thought feels exactly the same as trying to run in a dream. A torpidity descends, and her attempts to lift the kettle and pour it into her mug are frail to say the least.
This kind of grogginess usually fades in the first hour of being awake, for her, even with the emergence of a somewhat regular nausea that she attributes to her recent attempts to quit caffeine. It also isn’t often accompanied by the other strains; this feeling has been lingering since late last night, and has carried over into the current noon. She’s trying not to let it worry her, but she has a worm of worry nibbling at her, telling her things are about to get a lot worse.
Her splashed tea sits on the countertop brewing as Jack comes into the kitchen, holding a pile of books and gesturing at them with all the excitement of a cartoon dog. He’d been fiddling around in the garage for the better part of the morning, having gone out before she even woke; the telltale sounds of boxes sliding and falling over one another (followed by his swearing) filtering back into the house had given him away. Now, he emerges, triumphant.
jack’s wife feels a little under the weather. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: sickness, very brief mentions of nausea and vomiting, mentions of food, and, obviously, indications towards pregnancy! just a short little fic about how cute jack is when he’s playing nurse; word count: 2.5k)
It starts with a heavy feeling around her temples. Her shoulders sit sorely, and the ache spreads all the way down to the small of her back. There’s a pressure behind her eyes. The core of her throat becomes sticky and swallowing suddenly is something she has to think about doing, and doing it sends sharp prickles radiating through her neck.
Now, hovering over the kettle as it rumbles to a boil, she can feel her head becoming foggy, growing faded; trying to have a clear, linear thought feels exactly the same as trying to run in a dream. A torpidity descends, and her attempts to lift the kettle and pour it into her mug are frail to say the least.
This kind of grogginess usually fades in the first hour of being awake, for her, even with the emergence of a somewhat regular nausea that she attributes to her recent attempts to quit caffeine. It also isn’t often accompanied by the other strains; this feeling has been lingering since late last night, and has carried over into the current noon. She’s trying not to let it worry her, but she has a worm of worry nibbling at her, telling her things are about to get a lot worse.
Her splashed tea sits on the countertop brewing as Jack comes into the kitchen, holding a pile of books and gesturing at them with all the excitement of a cartoon dog. He’d been fiddling around in the garage for the better part of the morning, having gone out before she even woke; the telltale sounds of boxes sliding and falling over one another (followed by his swearing) filtering back into the house had given him away. Now, he emerges, triumphant.
jack’s wife feels a little under the weather. (pregnancy arc!)
(warnings: sickness, very brief mentions of nausea and vomiting, mentions of food, and, obviously, indications towards pregnancy! just a short little fic about how cute jack is when he’s playing nurse; word count: 2.5k)
It starts with a heavy feeling around her temples. Her shoulders sit sorely, and the ache spreads all the way down to the small of her back. There’s a pressure behind her eyes. The core of her throat becomes sticky and swallowing suddenly is something she has to think about doing, and doing it sends sharp prickles radiating through her neck.
Now, hovering over the kettle as it rumbles to a boil, she can feel her head becoming foggy, growing faded; trying to have a clear, linear thought feels exactly the same as trying to run in a dream. A torpidity descends, and her attempts to lift the kettle and pour it into her mug are frail to say the least.
This kind of grogginess usually fades in the first hour of being awake, for her, even with the emergence of a somewhat regular nausea that she attributes to her recent attempts to quit caffeine. It also isn’t often accompanied by the other strains; this feeling has been lingering since late last night, and has carried over into the current noon. She’s trying not to let it worry her, but she has a worm of worry nibbling at her, telling her things are about to get a lot worse.
Her splashed tea sits on the countertop brewing as Jack comes into the kitchen, holding a pile of books and gesturing at them with all the excitement of a cartoon dog. He’d been fiddling around in the garage for the better part of the morning, having gone out before she even woke; the telltale sounds of boxes sliding and falling over one another (followed by his swearing) filtering back into the house had given him away. Now, he emerges, triumphant.
The grin he greets her with is unavoidably adorable-- the crook of his snaggletooth lends his smiles an eternal air of childlike glee, and it still turns her belly with butterflies, even after all this time-- and she tries to return it as he rounds furniture between them to come plop the stack next to her.
“I found the moving box our biographies ended up in,” he chirps, holding up one with a picture of Che Guevara’s face on it and wiggling it tantilizingly. “I can show you the part where--”
Jack slows himself, plainly noticing something off in the atmosphere. At times, it can be disturbing how perceptive he is; always her trusting, bouncy Puppy, she forgets that Jack is an old, experienced soul, and is keenly attuned to senses she couldn’t imagine possessing. Keeping secrets from him has never been an option, and whatever obliviousness he plays at melts away immediately, replaced by the his clear and instinctive observational nature. She’s being reminded of that nature, now.
His voice trails off, movement stilled, as he sets the book atop the pile on the counter and she feels an uncomfortable gnarl rise up in her tummy at the thought that Jack is somehow disquieted, off-put. She wants him to keep rambling about Cuban political history, even if she’s hardly in the headspace to digest it; she wants things to be normal, for nothing to be wrong.
She puts on an expression she thinks is close to reassuring, and turns to see that he’s scrutinizing her, green eyes coasting up and down, but lingering primarily around her face. Embarrassment flushes over her features as she tries to look away, somehow admonished, back towards her likely overbrewed mug when she feels Jack’s wide fingers gently slip under her chin.
“Look at me for a second, honey.”
His words ring soft; whenever he drops his voice into a low whisper like this, his accent becomes stronger, taking on a breathy quality that makes it stand out. His consonants mellow more, and there’s a languidity to his long, warm vowels, melting her resolve as he guides her chin, half with his voice and half with his hands.
He tilts her face back towards his, ever-so-lightly, and allows his thumb to brush her chin in a soothing arc when their eyes meet again. Now that she's facing him, she can see Jack's brows drawn in focus, his gaze studying every inch of her; his full upper lip parts from his lower one as he blows out a concerned breath, and she watches him as he guides her chin up with one hand and trails his fingers down along the tense sides of her neck.
"Your throat is swollen," he mumbles, gaze not breaking from her neck. "And here… how does this feel?"
He puts two warm digits against the pulse point below her left ear and presses, ever so lightly; she pulls a sour expression at the sudden awareness that there is pain underneath. Jack tuts something she can’t quite make out and apologetically rubs the breadth of his palm against her collarbones, sweeping from side to side and warming her clammy skin.
“That’s your lymph node, mi amor. ‘S not so bad, in terms of the swelling, but it’s not good, either…”
Turning over his hand, Jack presses the backside to her forehead and squints, trying to take her temperature. After a few fruitless attempts, he wrinkles his nose in frustration and puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezing together softly. She likes the pressure and the affection, but can’t help the twinge of pain that shoots across her face when she feels her sore muscles clench, and Jack notices.
“Oh, lo siento, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to--”
“You’re fine, Jack,” she manages, noting with no small share of resentment that her voice hurts to use. “I just have a knot in my shoulder or something.”
“You need to get to bed,” he says firmly, coming to her side and putting one hand on the small of her back and using the other to lift her hand, interlocking their fingers so he can guide her as he starts walking.
“I don’t need to-- I have tea, hon-- I’m really okay, I swear--”
All her fruitless attempts to babble something convincing are met with a stern glance from Jack, who continues walking up towards the stairs that will lead to their bedroom. She’s hardly putting up that much of a fight, all things considered-- she’d walked with him this far, and she’s letting him coax her up the first few steps, with his wide palm resting just above her hipbone and pushing lightly-- and her glances back towards the puddle of tea around her mug don’t dissuade him from his pursuit.
“You don’t need to be up,” he counters, effortlessly steering her up the curve in the staircase with all the genteel grace of a ballroom dancer, “And I’ll bring your tea. Or, actually, I’ll make you something else; that batch didn’t smell so good.”
She shoots him a pointed look, and Jack merely smiles entreatingly as he sweeps her up the last few steps and towards their bedroom door, left slightly ajar. His hands haven’t left her, and he strokes his fingers up and down the notches between her knuckles, smoothing over the skin there as he tips the door open with his shoe and he tugs her into the room.
Their spacious bed does look inviting. She’d forgotten to re-align the pillows and comforter this morning in her sluggishness, but somehow the rumpledness draws her further still, and Jack can see her strength of will ebbing. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth and he leans over, kissing her cheek.
“I want you to rest,” he says. “I’m worried, amorcita.”
“It’s not that… bad… didn’t you say so yourself?”
“The swelling,” Jack corrects, tugging her closer to the bed and lifting his one hand from her hip to pull the pillows from his side of the bed so that her stack will be taller. “I said the swelling wasn’t so bad. But, and I, uh, I don’t mean to be rude when I say this, mi hermosa, but, um…”
Setting her lips in a thin line, she glowers at Jack, who gives her a hangdog smile and gestures for her to sit on the edge of the bed. Obliging him, she does.
“You don’t look so well… Um, I mean, you are so, so beautiful, as always,” he stammers, fluffing the pillows in his discomfort, “But, you know, drained? It’s kinda dark around--”
He touches her face and traces the hollow under her eye with the pad of his thumb, giving her a sympathetic frown. She sighs; she’d known she looked a little worse for wear this morning, but was hoping it wasn’t terribly obvious. Yet another embarrassing reality she can’t hide from Jack, she supposes. But, still, Jack shows no signs of being embarrassed, himself, by her situation: instead, he hovers, as attentive as ever, as affectionate as usual. It remains a resolute comfort to her.
One tan hand lays itself on her shoulder and tenderly guides her into a prostrate position on the pillows, her head elevated as Jack bends down and lifts her legs into the bed. She could have done it herself-- she’s not that incapacitated-- but he seems intent, and watching him tend to her is a sight in and of itself. Once her legs are situated on the bed, Jack covers her in the comforter and strokes up the length of her side, fingers tracing the outermost edge of her over the blanket and coming to rest under her chin, where he again guides her into looking at him.
“I’m going to go make you something to drink,” he instructs, voice again low, “And something to eat. And then you’re going to sleep.”
His tone broaches no argument, but there’s a glint in his eyes; Jack’s a born caregiver, always looking for the chance to help, to support, to uplift. She wonders if, on some level, he likes when she’s sick so he can more openly dote on her, or if, maybe, her dizzy mind has spun off in some obtuse direction. Whatever the case, the reality of Jack’s lips on her forehead sets in, and she sighs contentedly at his touch.
“I’ll be right back, bebé,” Jack mumbles into her hairline. “You be good for me and stay here, yes?”
Some kind of agreeing hum issues out of her as she eases herself back against the pillows; she does have to admit, it feels good. As sore and taut as her body is, and as irritating as swallowing and breathing has become, it feels good to be here, in her bed, with her husband taking such measures to ensure her wellbeing. Knowing he cares, and cares enough to actually do something to improve her situation, however minimally, is itself a kind of balm to her wounds, and she lets her eyes close as Jack pulls back, trying to relax.
“My sweet girl,” he purrs. “Stay right there.”
She has no plans to move, really, but the praise is nice.
Jack ekes open the bedroom door, trying to support the tray in his hands while guiding the door with his hip; it’s hard to balance a full bowl of pozole and a mug of tea, surprisingly, as the liquid always wants to travel. Somehow, he manages, and quietly enters, smiling to himself as he’s met with a familiar sight.
His wife, prone in the bed, hair messy and limbs curled in on one another, deeply asleep. She’s buried into one of his pillows, and heavy, exhausted breaths slowly fill and escape her lungs as she burrows in, slightly, unconsciously. He wonders if she can smell him on the sheets the way he can smell her, and hopes that she can; her scent brings him endless comfort, and he wishes for her to feel that same comfort, especially now, in a time of need.
He sets the tray on the bedside table, clearing aside her accoutrements-- a few loose hair ties, a paperback, an off-schedule weekly caddy for vitamins-- and sits beside her on the bed, stroking the hairs that have stuck to the sides of her face.
She’s remarkably beautiful, in his estimation, even when crashed asleep and, yes, drooling into his pillow. There’s something eternally enticing to him, some quality that he lacks the poeticism and deft to describe. Decades of digesting art and he still finds himself at a loss for words, entrapped by the magnitude of his love. What can he say that she does not embody, herself?
Jack’s fingers brush against her cheeks, and she feels markedly hot: he’ll remember to bring in cooling pads and fresh water. He lifts one corner of the blanket to try and let some air in to hopefully stablize her temperature, somewhat, and as he does, he sees her belly, exposed from beneath her shirt.
He reaches in and settles his hand flat atop it, watching his broad palm cover her skin as it rises and falls with her breathing. In and out, up and down, Jack slowly curls and unfurls his fingers in time with her inhales and exhales, pulling his fingers in as she draws in a breath and splaying them out as she lets it go. He sits in absolute stillness as he practices, revelling in the sensation of her soft skin under his fingertips, the tiny brush of her itty bitty peach-fuzz hairs around her navel.
Distantly, when he breathes in, Jack can detect the tang of her stomach acid in the bathroom, and knows she must have gotten sick again this morning when she woke up. He tries not to let the thought run wild through his head and send him reeling, but he can’t deny the inkling of hope that’s growing ever more steadily inside himself.
All those articles and books he’s read over the years have indicated that this is very common-- a decreased immune system as her body devotes its energy towards a new kind of growth-- and that she would feel nauseous, tired, and even feverish in the very early stages. If, indeed, that is what these symptoms indicate; he tries again, in certain vain, to steer himself off the path of foregone conclusions. He has to be more patient, he tells himself, even as he strokes her belly and allows himself to imagine it rounder, firmer, higher.
Jack also allows himself to push the sheets back just a little bit further and lower his face to her tummy, kissing her bellybutton as lightly as he can.
“Be good,” he whispers. He wants to believe he’s only speaking to himself, but his smile can’t help but wriggle past his obstinate will and onto his face. He kisses her again. “For her, please.”
When she wakes, he’ll make sure she eats and drinks. He’ll massage her tired shoulders, if that’s what she’d like, and pop her aching back, then coax her back to sleep. But, for now, he pulls the covers back over her and sits still, tracing a hand along the curve of her sleeping jaw as he watches her dream, lost in one of his own.
I'm close to finishing the Shorter Than Usual sickfic for Jack (I'm very Unwell irl so please indulge me) and wondering as we enter the holiday season, would people be interested in seeing holiday fics for Jack?
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
germansingergirl
