She stomachs far more intimate touches, for the sake of a mission. A frenzied kiss or a long embrace from a mark is commonplace in an Apollo’s circles. So much of what they do, rooted in becoming someone else and stifling their own parameters. This long, lingering touch isn’t of the same breathe. It’s honest, weighted in thanks and reciprocity for what’s been done. Her long fingertips lingering on the warmth of his wrist, feeling his own pulse. West feels like like - and how good it feels. The Apollo has always known the merits of a man uniquely like West. That easy, calm, and likeable exterior? it’s invaluable to any crew, on any mission. Of course, she’s resisted benefiting from it. Apollo’s often do. Lone wolves until the end. There’s no denying what’s been done for her; however, and she lets her hand linger a beat longer.
“Did you learn your Spanish off the back of a Taco Bell truck?” In reality, his delivery is comfortable and smooth. A twinge of his accent peeping through, but otherwise cohesive and sound. This ribbing, this back-and-forth? It’s easier, Jack thinks. More in line with the way things often are. His prevailing humor, contrasted against her cool turn of phrase. A satisfactory hum, as she cleanses the remainder of her champagne glass. It’s a treat more for herself, than Agent Icarus. A way to dilute the pain and stress that comes in the aftermath. Within hours of coming back to consciousness, her mind immediately focused on recovery. How long would she have to wear the dressing on her arm? What is the recuperation time like? Will this impact her ability to float gracefully from one mission to the next?
By the time she’s pouring her third glass, she feels intrinsically lighter. Never one to over-indulge, she finds her sweet spot. She’s relaxed, even fro her, as West shares tales from the South. A low ‘ding’ from the oven behind her, prompting her to reach for a tea towel. Jack only raises a wordless brow, with a refusal to indulge in the blasphemy of cordon bleu as it compares to his chicken nuggets. Her creme brulee, emerging from the oven. “These - I bought.” Jack clarifies. She is a perfectionist, but she is no pastry chef. The lessons of how to run a household, or wash laundry - learned only later in life. So, too, is the ability cook. And though she does it well, she cannot replicate what a French bakery can do so seamlessly.
“It’s part of the job. And I am, for better or worse, the job.” There’s a reason she does not take leave for the holidays. A reason that, unlike West, she cannot muster a single warmhearted story about her own childhood. A reason that explains how, under twenty-four hours, she’s up and walking rather than resting. This job, her place in the Pantheon? It’s who she is. Where she’s come up. The source of her drive and focus. Jack gave nary a thought to the single-focus of her life, until she listens to West’s own anecdotes. She reaches for two silver, dessert spoons. One sliding down the counter, and reaching West’s arm. The other, perched near the stool beside him. She comes around from her place behind the counter, cross-legged as she sets up on the stool.
“And look at you now,” she answers wryly, not wholly sentimental. But a keen listener none the less, taking stock of West’s memories for what they are. A small glimmer of respect as he outlines the kind of family he comes from. The kindness that seems so easy and commonplace in his home. “Your dad’s must be proud.” She taps her spoon against the sugary coat of the creme brulee. “I doubt they worry about their mortgage when you so generously repay women in silk scarves.” Jack takes a bite, tilting her head in silent assessment of the dessert. Good. Not too sweet. “Seems idyllic. Like a still portrait of a picturesque, American family.” With a low, sardonic laugh. She continues on. “My father was a Duke, of all things. Not a penny to his name, however. Lost in the high life, I suppose. But, there was me. And I was very talented athlete.” It’s not boasting, it’s true. She has the accolades to prove it. “I provided a living for my family until my career ended. Unlike you,” she leans over, almost conspiratorially. “I had no intention of clearing his debts after I found success in the Pantheon.”
West snorts at her insult and shakes his head at how ridiculous it is. It’s such a Jack statement that he can’t help his response. His Spanish is not fluent, but it’s good enough. West knows she only slings the insult at him to get a rise out of him. “Again with the fast food reference Jacqueline Jimenez. Would you have to give back the joyas de pasar if your ancestors knew you had a crunch wrap supreme smothered in fire sauce?”
West finishes his champagne in an undignified way. He takes a deep breath and then chugs back the rest of the glass, the bubbles giving him the smallest of heady rushes as he empties the glass. He makes no move to fill it up again, allow Jack to have her fill without feeling the need to play host. His eyes cut over to the oven. He had been too preoccupied with the sandwiches to smell the sugar baking, but once Jack opens the door the sweetness washes over the kitchen. It’s a miracle no one else has peaked their head out in an attempt to steal some of her cooking, but West is thankful that the bubble they’ve wrapped themselves in has yet to be popped.
“It was far from perfect or peaceful most days,” West disagrees. “Every day was messy, a lot of months were... difficult.” West isn’t one to complaint or lament about his childhood, but it definitely had its struggles. West’s clothing was never new, usually hand me downs from family or friends. Christmases were sparse, with his dads doing their best to fill under the tree like the other kids in the neighborhood. When his father had to go to the hospital and took months to recover, the debt it put their family in felt enormous. West had worked multiple jobs through his senior year of high school just to make sure they could float on by. Despite his fathers living in Theodore most of their lives, there was still the hate anchored in the heart of a lot of people. There were always looks in the street or at church, comments to be made, fights for his family’s honor behind the old oak park. West had his share of broken bones, black eyes, and a bruised ego for reasons other than adventures.
“We had each other, though. I guess that’s its own kind of happy. Can’t really complain.”
The first time his spoon hits the caramelized sugar, there is a soft crack that splinters out across it from the force. The sugar webs and breaks, and West pushes through it to find the custard desert underneath. The crème Brule is delicious, just as he expects it to be. Jack’s comments hit a little close to home. Are his parents proud of him? West is wealthy, moderately internet famous, and living a good life. He has managed to pay off all of his family debt, and has enough set aside to last him for the rest of his life. His service in the Air Force ended on a high note with an honorable discharge. He flew planes for a living, the closest thing to flying he can ever experience. Is it enough? He hopes so. The jury is still out.
“A Duke,” West repeats, musing out loud. “That explains the royal stick up your ass, I guess.” West bumps her shoulder lightly, glad that he is on her good side and away from the wound from earlier. The difference in their upbringing feels like night and day. West has heartfelt memories of his fathers, doing the best they could to raise him while working full time menial jobs. They taught him the worth of the sweat on his brow and a long day of hard work, and he always felt rewarded and warm with his family regardless of the circumstances. Jack, on the other hand, came from a foreign, cold world. She never has a good story to tell. There is never any warmth in her tone when she speaks of her parents. Just a distance detachment that seems impossible to someone like West.
“That settles it. Next Thanksgiving, we’re gonna go all out. You ain’t lived until you’ve had deep fried turkey and my Gran’s pecan pie. I’ll even bust out my custom apron so you can mock me the entire time.”
