i love to chase every feeling

[phpruitts]

Phoebe ducks her head, fighting back a ferocious smile.

'If I ever get to meet your family, I'm going to ask. I hope they're honest about the way you behaved growing up.'

Wow— wow! Jack is threatening to go right for the source! And the thing is, God, wouldn't that be just perfect? Wouldn't that be the most perfect Christmas? Phoebe and Jack pressed close together at the breakfast nook— of course — with Jack angling for answers from her father and Teddy. Was Phoebe a tyrant in the kitchen? Did she force everyone to take great heapings of sprinkles, did she do so in a way that violated the Geneva Convention?

"I hope you do meet them," Phoebe giggles. "You're going to listen to how I was a perfect angel while I make you a big batch of waffles."

With toppings, naturally.

And it'd be perfect. It'd be the most perfect moment of Phoebe's life, and of course her family is going to love Jack, because to meet Jack is to be charmed by him, and to know Jack is to love him.

Like— how he tucks an arm beneath Phoebe. Her personal pillow, warm and alive, just for her head. No scientist in a lab could best this! No piece of foam, no pouch of feathers could ever be more comfortable than the limb that was attached to the love of her life. She nuzzles into him with a content sigh.

But the wide, beaming, mischievous smile on Phoebe's face transforms into something softer— not sadder, but softer. Jack only shakes his head at the Frosty question. Looks at her with a complicated expression, something emotional, and the look in his eyes makes Phoebe still, until Jack kisses her.

Gentle kiss, though no less passionate for its softness. Jack sighs, his beautiful lashes fluttered shut, and Phoebe studies his face when he pulls away, surprised by the action, but pleased, watching as Jack's eyes reveal themselves to her once more.

'I love you so much,'

Oh. Oh. Soft thumb sweeps over her cheekbones, something tender in the motion, as loving as the five words he'd just spoken, and then Phoebe's heart crumbles like a sandcastle when she notices the sheen to Jack's eyes.

Was he crying? Were those tears collecting at the crest of his eyelids?

'I love everything about you. I love the way your mind is.'

'I just — love you very much, Phoebe.'

He was crying. It was tears. Jack loves Phoebe, he loves everything about her, the way her mind is, and he loves her very much and is crying about it— crying over her?

What is Phoebe to do but tear up? What is she to do but be overwhelmed by the wave of love and affection that strikes her.

"Sweet boy," she murmurs, shifting to kiss right below his eye. "You're so sweet. I love you, I love everything Jack. I love you so much."

It's all tight in her throat.

"I hope everyone knows how sweet you are. And then I'm a tiny bit selfish and want to keep some of that sweetness just for me."

Does everyone know? When people met Jack, they could see the charm, the lovely smile, the humor, these things about Jack that are so quick and easy to love. But do his friend's at the frat house even understand, do they know, does everyone else know the fucking aching tenderness Jack is capable of? Vulnerable, in such an innocent way. A really beautiful way. Jack was so incredible, and couldn't everyone just see that?

Phoebe smiles at him— a tear spilling over her cheek, her hand now coming to smooth over his hair.

"You don't mind all that about me? All the silly sensitive stuff?" She presses another set of kisses, against his cheek, his jaw, another against his lips, soft and loving, other hand still rubbing gently against his stomach.

"There was a guy in high school who called me a baby because I teared about an inchworm that kept falling off patio furniture? Like at a party. I just felt bad because he was trying so hard to get up there and I had to help him." Phoebe gives a shaky sigh. "And then that guy tried to ask me out!" A head shake. A soft smile. "I'm glad you don't mind me when I'm me."

[jacksonekennedy]

It wasn't the first time that Jack and Phoebe had sort of mentioned meeting her family. He wondered, and hoped, that it went a lot better than when she'd met his father. Phoebe's father wasn't hard on her, was he? It didn't sound like it, and if he were, Jack had a sneaking suspicion that Teddy would have never allowed it.

At that point, it felt like Jack was just going to cry all night. That's what he'd been doing since he showed up. Under normal circumstances, he would have probably felt very humiliated. Instead, he just ... was thankful that Phoebe had even let him in the door.

"I'm only sweet for you," Jack managed to say, offering a small smile, hoping she knew how true that statement was. No one else in the entire world had seen this side of Jack. This was only for Phoebe. He could only ever open up this way with Phoebe.

Phoebe was crying now, too, and Jack was quick to brush the tear away.

"I don't mind anything about you. I love all of it, bunny," he whispered, faces mere inches away from hers. He leaned in to kiss her again, praying that she understood, that she never doubted how much he loved her, even if he made it difficult. Jack wished he could just — invite her inside of his brain, so she could understand how scrambled and complicated things felt sometimes.

"And that guy is an asshole," Jack said, clearing his throat, trying to banish away the emotion still in his throat. "You're perfect, like really, really perfect, and I can't tell you how much I feel that. I wish I would've met you at that party," he admitted, voice soft, wondering how much different his life would've been if he'd met Phoebe sooner, before all of the bad shit took hold of him. "I wouldn't have made fun of you. I would've fallen in love with you."

[phpruitts]

The shape of Jack's smile is so handsome in the dark. So handsome, and beautiful, and here, Jack is here, here, here, and Phoebe wants to keep it here forever. Can she make him happy forever?

'Right. Yeah, not greedy or gluttonous at all. You're right,'

It's really great that they agree. Very great that Jack was getting with the program.

'Little Phoebe sort of sounds like a tyrant, by the way. I don't know that you're being ... very fair in your depiction of her right now. It doesn't sound like the Phoebe I know. I'd be careful. I care very much about the Phoebe I know now. I'd hate to think she was like ... steamrolling all of her family members for a few extra chocolate sprinkles.'

Except— was he? Was it mutiny, to declare that tiny Phoebe was acting perilously close to a tyrant? All for her love of chocolate sprinkles? She sucks in a tiny gasp, faux-wounded by the accusation.

"I wasn't—like, a despot, because I warmly encouraged my family not to shy away from the toppings bar? Because I'm sharing my chocolate waffles?" It's hard to bite back her smile. Phoebe manages though, to a degree, nuzzling against Jack, looking at him with eyes as large as saucers. Big, innocent. Innocent! Never mind she'd admitted to Jack in the past that she ran a serious baking program. "We eat other stuff too. My dad likes egg dishes so I make quiche florentine! I even include fruit."

Yes! Even fruit— without whip cream or candied sugar or anything.

She relaxes into the feel of Jack's finger over her camisole. Jack was curious— inquiring about her Frosty blow mold, a contentious subject in her household.

'Do you make them put it up every year? What's the story behind that?'

Phoebe slips her hand beneath his shirt, rubs gently against the warm skin of his abdomen, slow, soft, gentle, as if tender touch alone could ward off any hang over. Her other hand finds his forehead— thumb brushing over the skin there, just as slow and soft and methodical.

"So," she begins, voice almost nostalgic. "One day when I was thirteen, my dad and I were on a walk. And like ten houses down was something so sad. This Frosty blow mold! And I could tell he was vintage, and had been around for a while, and someone had just put him on the curb next to the recycling, probably because his thumb was dented? But it was so sad, Jack," Phoebe all but pleads, as if appealing to him herself. "It was still two weeks til Christmas! He didn't even get to have his last Christmas, they just cast him aside for his dented thumb?" Phoebe's voice gets thick at that– at the injustice of it all. She knows it was a nice neighborhood, knew that there was no reason for people to keep what could be easily replaced, but it had broken Phoebe's heart! "Anyway, I took him, and I fixed him, I used a hairdryer to get most of the dent out and he's fine? I cried when I saw him. Some things just need some more love..."

"Please don't make fun of me," A half giggle, a plea. Which was silly— Jack would not. Jack would never. Jack, fucking bless him, seems to love Phoebe's silly heart, her silly, sensitive heart that bruises over the funniest things. "My dad thinks he's sentient and can move on his own and might hurt us. And— he's just vintage! Vintage Christmas is so pretty, you know, I love classic Christmas decorations, velvet and glass and gold..."

Phoebe sighs against the pillow. She wishes she had a photo to show Jack. Better yet— she wishes it was Christmas. Wishes Jack was with her, installing lights, licking a glob of batter from her finger. If she was lucky enough to have Jack for the holidays, she'd make all his favorites. Christmas eve, Christmas morning, Christmas dinner, every dish would be something that Jack loves. Phoebe would discover a new kind of happiness if she would be allowed to have him then.

She runs the knuckle of her ring finger along Jack's cheek.

"Do you have a Frosty blow mold?"

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe was clearly hurt by his accusation that young Phoebe had been a tyrant! Was he wrong? He wondered if her father and Teddy would agree— or were they too wrapped around her finger to ever even joke about it? It made Jack smiled— knowing how loved Phoebe must have been growing up, and now. Still so loved, even states away.

"If I ever get to meet your family, I'm going to ask. I hope they're honest about the way you behaved growing up."

Jack wasn't worried. He'd love Phoebe either way. Maybe even harder, knowing that she ran the house at such a young age. He pressed his lips to her forehead, gentle and light. Yeah. Laying down had made him feel better. Exceptionally better. When Phoebe slipped her hand beneath his shirt, Jack bit back a laugh. It felt ticklish, but still really nice. God, could they stay like this forever?

He listened, shifting slightly so that he could tuck his arm beneath her head. He knew she liked that more than her pillow on some nights. She'd never really said it out loud, but it had been one of those things Jack had observed back in Vermont. He'd missed doing it.

And maybe it was all of the alcohol, but Jack found himself trying not to get emotional as Phoebe told him about this fucking Frosty blow mold. She was so fucking sweet, wasn't she? Finding something discarded and abandoned, making it as good as new, and putting it on display for all of the world to love?

Phoebe liked vintage Christmas. Jack hoped, prayed, that his drunken mind would remember all of these details. Please, please, please, he begged his own mind. Don't forget this moment. Maybe, if he was very, very lucky, if he stopped making so many mistakes, he'd get to see this infamous Frosty decor. He had a feeling that he would love it just as much as Phoebe did.

"Do you have a Frosty blow mold?"

Jack shook his head, unable to really formulate coherent thoughts. Instead, he simply surged forward, capturing her mouth in a gentle kiss. He sighed, brows furrowed, eyes closed as he indulged in the taste of her.

"I love you so much," he mumbled against her lips, knowing that it hadn't been a direct answer, or a response to anything that she'd shared with him, but it sort of was! His eyes fluttered open, slow, pupils blown, while he caressed the side of Phoebe's face. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone in tender back and forth motions. His eyes glistened, but for the first time that night, it wasn't because of some awful, fucked up shame that he'd been grappling with. It was because he loved Phoebe. He was in love with her. He loved every part of her. He loved the tyrannical little Phoebe, dictating dessert toppings and baking tasks. He loved sentimental, sweet Phoebe who cried over discarded Christmas decor and who didn't mind a dented thumb. He loved the Phoebe that was in his arms now, who understood that some things just needed more love.

"I love everything about you. I love the way your mind is."

Maybe he wasn't making sense. His throat felt all tight again.

"I just — love you very much, Phoebe."

[phpruitts]

For a while, Jack's eyes had trained up at the ceiling. To stop the room from spinning, maybe, searching for an anchor point in the tossing sea of his dizziness?

Would he be able to sleep okay? How would Jack feel tomorrow?

But they were fixing on Phoebe now. They found Phoebe in the dark— so did his hand, a warm squeeze, finger so much longer than her own. It felt good. Being close, crammed into the bed. God, she missed it. The quiet intimacy. The lull that settles over her body. She hopes it's as nice for Jack as it is for her, that somehow, the closeness made his chest feel a little less heavy, that his swarming head and rolling stomach can calm now that he's tucked against her.

'You know, I have noticed that you always go for the chocolate desserts,'

A giggle. Guilty as charged. In the beginning, before Vermont, when they'd break their studies with a treat, wander to the dining hall, pile into Jack's truck to a favorite ice cream store, or bakery, Phoebe had unabashedly, unashamedly chosen chocolate— chocolate crumb, chocolate filling, chocolate sprinkles. Jack had seemed to like vanilla, ice cream and cake, and Phoebe found it cute, found it complimentary, their vanilla and chocolate duo.

'Chocolate whip cream, too? I think that just makes you a little greedy, baby,'

They were facing each other now, with Jack feeling well enough to haul Phoebe in closer, noses separated by only a few inches of space. His hand around her side— can she always keep his hand on her side? Did Jack know how much she had missed it, how thoroughly she had been changed on a cellular level, rewired to need Jack alongside her at night. Well. Always, actually, but especially at night. Phoebe has never missed anything so badly like Jack's body next to her own, rising and falling softly and slumber.

"It's not greedy," she breathes. "I'm not telling you about how I had crushed oreos and chocolate sprinkles there either, because then you would just think tiny Phoebe was gluttonous. And I'm not telling you that I made everyone else participate with the toppings bar too, and watched how much everyone put on. My dad and Teddy were like, very obliging."

Or else very indulgent! Playing along with Phoebe. Their chef was a kindred spirit, however, and seemed to gravitate towards the chocolate just like her!

Phoebe cuddles closer to Jack— hand still stroking along his stomach, careful to be soft, careful to soothe him to the best of her abilities. Their noses brush now. Phoebe shifts her head to press a little kiss to the tip of his nose.

'I know some people say November's too early to start celebrating Christmas, but I think it's just right. Like, right around Thanksgiving— maybe even a bit before. You have to have time to enjoy the Christmas tree and the lights and the music. Right?'

Oh my God. Phoebe knew it. Phoebe knew Jack was just like her. Immediately she's nodding, beaming at Jack across those few inches of space.

"Isn't it? Oh my God. Some people are so strict— nothing Christmas until the day after, but I wanna enjoy it as long as I can? I like having lights on the mantle already. Kinda ... incorporating the red and plaid as soon as I can."

It makes her outrageously happy, to think that Jack is just as eager to start his Christmas. They were the same like that— compatible. All Phoebe can think about how nice it would be, celebrating Christmas with Jack, leaning against his shoulder when deciding the shade of exterior lights. Could they have that?

"If you wanna know what's like, really a fight, is me advocating for my really ugly vintage Frosty blow mold."

[jacksonekennedy]

When Phoebe shifted forward to kiss his nose, Jack could only smile. She was too fucking sweet, wasn't she? Why had Jack subjected himself to being so miserable without her? This felt so much easier, sometimes. Jack was careful not too spiral too far. The more that his thoughts wandered, the more difficult it felt to get back on track.

"Right. Yeah, not greedy or gluttonous at all. You're right," Jack relented, smiling softly through the dark. So what? She liked sweets. There was nothing wrong with that. "Little Phoebe sort of sounds like a tyrant, by the way. I don't know that you're being ... very fair in your depiction of her right now. It doesn't sound like the Phoebe I know. I'd be careful. I care very much about the Phoebe I know now. I'd hate to think she was like ... steamrolling all of her family members for a few extra chocolate sprinkles."

So, she'd matured some since then! Jack felt envious that he'd never get to meet little Phoebe. Would they have gotten along? He liked to think so. Jack was outgoing and made friends with everyone. He would've talked Phoebe's ear off, followed her around until she asked him to stop. And even then, he wouldn't have wanted to.

At the mention of holiday colors and plaid, Jack tried imagining what Phoebe would wear this Christmas. Did she typically wear plaid? Was she more subtle? He thought that he might like to see her in something velvet— something a little subtle and understated, because Phoebe didn't need anything to stand out. Maybe a black, or a dark red. Maybe he could even surprise her with it. Maybe, if things settled down, he could even have her over for a holiday dinner with his grandparents.

But he wouldn't want to steal her away from her family. And he wouldn't want to subject her to a holiday around his father.

So— Jack kept his thoughts to himself.

"What's this vintage Frosty blow mold?" He wondered, brow raised, fingers gently brushing over her camisole. "Do you make them put it up every year? What's the story behind that?"

[phpruitts]

'Yeah. Maybe we can go somewhere one weekend. Away from here.'

One weekend, away from here.

Phoebe wishes they had a thousand weekends. If they could just cast off everything, the world, like heavy blankets, pile into Jack's truck and disappear from everything bad. Would it help if she had a thousand of those? Slow weekends where she could kiss Jack's cheek and ear and throat, could rub between his shoulder-blade while she poured his waffle? If there was no law school. No parties, with alcohol, with little baggies of coke, little baggies of pills, if there weren't stacks of voicemails of Jack's father in his phone, if they couldn't be reached ... would it all be okay?

Maybe they wouldn't even need to go very far. Maybe Phoebe just needs to pause things. Take a break from classes— find a way to help Jack. Get him to the doctor he needed. Get him to talk to her, about the things he could only admit at night. Would that help? Would Jack let her help? Was Jack able to?

It hurts to see the pain in Jack's eyes, she could see the loop, the struggle, the bit-off sentences that he can't finish, the sadness when he had been leaning against her door frame. It was so hard. Jack was carrying so much, and it was so hard, and it wasn't fair that he was hurting.

At least he's here. At least Phoebe can take care of him now.

"I'd go anytime. To anywhere, with you."

And God, Phoebe means it. Whether it was to several states away. To fucking Canada. To Vermont, again, to a little chapel to elope in, to a tiny town to just exist for several weeks, their lives left behind. Phoebe would go.

Jack sheds his shoes, his jeans, climbs up into that narrow bed, and Phoebe follows— taking up her usual post, situated between Jack and the wall. It was close. Cozy. She takes care not to elbow him, jostle him, do anything to upset Jack's stomach or head.

Instead, she places a gentle hand on his abdomen. Rubs at it softly.

'Tell me about Christmas, bunny. I wanna know everything.'

'What's your favorite Christmas tradition? Or what's your favorite Christmas memory?'

Phoebe is facing Jack— voice quiet in the dark, quieter than a whisper.

"Christmas breakfast is like ... the most important thing."

"I start thinking of stuff in November. What I want to try. We always make cinnamon rolls— really, really big ones, bigger than Teddy's face, with lots of icing, and we always have waffles. When I was twelve, I wanted chocolate everything? So. Triple chocolate, chocolate batter, and then I added chocolate chips, and then I asked our cook to help me make chocolate whip cream too."

Phoebe huffs. Rubs her hand softly above Jack's navel. It's what he asked for— what Jack wanted, late at night, in the dark, to hear her voice, just hear it, talk about everything, anything. It's humbling. To be missed so bad, that all Jack wants is to hear her voice in the dark.

So she would tell him everything.

"It was. Um. Very rich. Young Phoebe tried to make everyone else participate in the triple-chocolate Christmas too."

That had been funny.

For some reason, her mind wanders— wonders if a younger Jack, would have gone along with it. Would little Jack eat all the chocolate with little Phoebe? What was little Jack like at Christmas? Did he tear through his wrapping paper in a blur, bouncing off the walls until his parents relented and let him run down the hall to his gifts?

It makes her smile. The thought of the pair of them in tiny red pajamas.

[jacksonekennedy]

It was a comforting thing to know that Phoebe would go anywhere with him, anytime. Even if it wasn't possible in that very moment, it was a good thing to know. A really good thing to know. Maybe it'd make the difficult days much less difficult.

Another thing that made the difficult days much less difficult? Her touch. Phoebe's hand, gently brushing over his abdomen. It made him feel warm and cared for and the tiny bout of nausea that he'd been experiencing slowly began to melt away. Maybe this is what he'd needed all along.

He placed a hand over hers temporarily, squeezing her fingers in thanks. He rolled his head to one side, eyes locked on hers as she told him about the massive cinnamon rolls. Jack smiled. He wanted to meet Teddy. He'd told Phoebe that before. He wondered if it would eveer happen.

"You know, I have noticed that you always go for the chocolate desserts," he remarked, smiling softly. Yeah. Phoebe's love for chocolate hadn't been a secret by any means. Still, he wondered what a twelve year old Phoebe looked like. Very short, very in love with chocolate. Maybe even with dried bits of chocolate at the corners of her mouth after her favorite dessert.

"Chocolate whip cream, too? I think that just makes you a little greedy, baby," he teased, rolling onto his side, facing her. He wrapped an arm around her, found a way to pull her closer, somehow. Their faces were a few short inches away from the other.

"Did everyone participate willingly? Or was it a fight?"

Phoebe very much seemed like the little girl who had the world wrapped around her finger. He couldn't imagine Teddy telling her no, or her father, or even their cook.

"I know some people say November's too early to start celebrating Christmas, but I think it's just right. Like, right around Thanksgiving— maybe even a bit before. You have to have time to enjoy the Christmas tree and the lights and the music. Right?"

[phpruitts]

Phoebe, gaze fixing on Jack, only breaks the eye contact when she feels a gentle tug— him taking the soup bowl, setting it softly on the little table beside them.

Now it's both of their hands intertwined. He must want to really hold them. Jack must want to really talk to her. Phoebe leans in quietly, carefully, searching for Jack's gaze in the dark.

'When you say things like that,'

His face ducks down for a moment— Phoebe watches his hair fall away from his forehead in perfect strands.

'it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world.'

Oh. In the whole world. There were so many people in the world, it was so wide and wonderful, filled with so many things, and it was Phoebe's words, her reassurances and affections that somehow make Jack feel that way. What a balm it was, to hear that. What a privilege. She'd gone to sleep wondering when she'd hear from Jack, to waking up to this. Sitting in Jack's lap, soaking in this.

'It also makes me — wanna just give it all up for you? Like, what if we just—'

What if they what? What? Phoebe leans in— brows knitting together, breath frozen in her lungs as she listens. What was it he wanted? Was it to run off to Vermont again? Another state? Somewhere farther, more north, the jagged coast of Maine, icy waters and dark shores? What did he want to give up, and what did he want to do with Phoebe? There was so much she wanted to do with him. Important things— milestones — things of permanence. Her father would have a cow to think of Phoebe, eighteen, so decided on her future, but Phoebe can't imagine anyone but Jack. Can't even begin to fathom anything without Jack. Moving in? With Jack. Marriage? Jack, obviously, Jack. Maybe it's a lot, so soon, and Jack hasn't even begun to turn the subject over in his mind, but it's what she feels.

Maybe it's what Jack feels right now?

'—I don't know,'

She can hear something heavy in his voice— can see it when he finally raises his head again. Phoebe brushes his hair back against his forehead. A soft hum. Maybe Jack does know, maybe it's just too tangled inside him to voice. Or. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe it's too inscrutable, maybe he's too drunk and it's too late.

"I'm glad I make you feel so lucky. I feel so lucky to have you. I feel so lucky that you're here. I wish I could just go with you somewhere, and take you somewhere, and just. Keep all the bad out."

She'd do anything to keep all the bad out. She'd do anything to keep it like that forever— be with Jack, forever.

'My head hurts,'

'And everything's — moving weird. Can we get in bed? I feel really sick for some reason,'

Phoebe frowns deeply. Runs a finger delicately along his forehead. Sick, and an aching head? Yeah. She needs to lay down with him— needs to get him right into bed, so his head stops spinning.

Phoebe administers a gentle kiss to his temple, eases out of Jack's lap before quickly scrounging around in a cabinet. Ah. There it is. Her water bottle— pink, of course, covered in depictions of Hello Kitty and strawberries. She fills it to the brim with her infused water. Sets it on her nightstand, begins peeling back all the layers of blankets.

"Here, baby," she says gently, abandoning all her blankets to return to Jack on the couch. Finding his hand. Tugging on it gently. "It's like, one of the 32 oz ones. And a straw, so if you need to drink a bunch in the middle of the night you don't have to worry about it spilling. And I have Tums in my bedside drawer. And— me. I'll hold you so you feel better."

There was her. There would always be Phoebe. She would make it that way— there was no force on earth, God, or otherwise, that would keep her away from him.

"Come cuddle with me on this tiny bed and I'll tell you what Phoebe likes at Christmas."

[jacksonekennedy]

If only Jack had been able to finish his sentence. Would that have changed anything? Would it have just made things worse, somehow? Sadder? Even drunk, there was this tiny part of Jack that knew how this would end. He would hurt Phoebe, again and again, he'd hurt himself, he'd ruin his life. He'd make things so bad that Phoebe would have no choice but to hate him. She'd feel disappointed in him. It was inevitable. He was prolonging it. And even knowing that it was coming, Jack knew that he could do nothing to really stop it.

"Yeah. Maybe we can go somewhere one weekend. Away from here."

He felt bad for not being able to finish the soup, despite having just promised to do so. His brain felt weird. HIs thoughts were everywhere, racing and intense, and the thing he was worried least about was the soup. Hopefully Phoebe would forgive him for letting her down again.

She prepared a full water bottle for him, placing it by the nightstand. He sat, watching as she began pulling back the blankets, wondering if maybe he just needed to be honest with Phoebe. She had some sort of idea that things weren't okay, but what if she knew it all? What if she knew everything? What if Jack was honest with Phoebe and himself about the things he was struggling with?

Jack got up, jaw clenched tight, finding his way over to the tiny bed that he'd grown to love. She invited him in, promised to hold him so that he felt better. Already, Jack was dreading the nightmarish hangover that he was sure to have. More than that, he was dreading the lack of medication on him to alleviate the symptoms. The Tums could only do so much. Jack needed something stronger, more effective, but how could he tell Phoebe that? He still wondered about the pills in his bag. Had she seen them and pretended not to?

Jack kicked off his shoes and jeans, leaving on his crewneck, before climbing into bed. He closed his eyes immediately. It felt nice. It felt like home. Jack stayed on his side of the bed, the one closest to the nightstand, and motioned for Phoebe to join him in the very tiny spot beside him, closest to the wall.

Instead of talking about all of the things that Jack felt were wrong, he could listen to Phoebe talk about Christmas. It felt easier, honestly. He could worry about everything else later.

"Thank you," Jack simply stated, forcing himself to bite back another apology. They could end the night like this, in bed, holding each other, talking about Christmas. Jack didn't want to be sad. He didn't want Phoebe to be sad either. So he'd do his best to simply listen. He'd do his best not to get sick or burden her with anymore of his problems.

"Tell me about Christmas, bunny. I wanna know everything."

He ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments. It was still spinning, but at least he was horizontal now.

"What's your favorite Christmas tradition? Or what's your favorite Christmas memory?"

[phpruitts]

Phoebe doesn't want to move— even if her muscles lock up, even if her bones calcify into place, she wants to stay in Jack's lap, noses nuzzling, foreheads brushing against each other in quiet warmth.

There was nothing that could get her off the little loveseat.

Well. Being in bed with Jack, cuddling him— she'll move for that. Of course she'll move for that! But anything else? A bomb threat, a billion dollars free to her, if only she gets in the car to collect her prize? Phoebe won't budge an inch.

She's missed him too badly, and his soft smile is too precious.

'You do feel like home to me,'

Whoosh. The sound of her heart in free-fall.

'Like, wherever I go, I just wanna come home to you,'

'I just get lost sometimes on the way back to you.'

Oh, Jack. Jack, her Jack, lost. Lost when he had sat down on the chair— gripped the baseball while he severed the cord between them, music thudding loud in the party below. Lost when he had been drinking tonight. Many, many hours later, drunk, desperate in her doorway, all but tripping over himself to explain.

His hand finds hers in the dark, and her fingers flex immediately, squeezing quick— as if trying to broadcast her location to him, even as their bodies were pressed together on the loveseat.

"Baby," she murmurs, brows pulling together softly. It makes her ache. Makes her feel powerless. Jack wanted her— Jack saw her as home. She and her heart was a home to him, but sometimes, the gales and fate and the heaviness in his chest made it impossible for him to reach her for a while.

'That's why I do sorta wish you'd just — ask me to give everything up for you,'

When Jack's eyes open, they're the most startling blue. Just like they always are. Just like they always will be. They slices right down to her heart, through bone and blood and sinew. How could she assure those eyes the best she could?

'I know you wouldn't ever. But I wish you would. I think everything would make a lot more sense if it was just you.'

How could she reassure those eyes when he's practically begging to give everything up for her?

'I know that's not healthy. I know. I feel it anyway.'

Oh, Jack.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could make it easier for you, baby," she murmurs. "I would do anything if I could just— just fix it all."

If she thought it would be good for him— if she thought asking Jack to lay everything on the floor would help him— she would. In a heartbeat. In an instant. But he seems excited about law school. Excited about making a change. And his father? That was his only remaining parent. Phoebe doesn't know what Jack needs when it comes to his dad, doesn't know what will be best. To keep, to repair, to sever? She would hate to make the wrong decision— push Jack's heart in the wrong direction.

Phoebe swallows.

"But you made it here tonight. It's a little later, and there were some stops, but you made it even though you were lost? I think if you just ... keep coming, Jack, you'll always be able to get here."

She shifts up— kisses the hollow beneath his brow now.

"And I'll always be there. Wherever you go. We, like, pinky-promised, about a lot of stuff, in the tree house. I said I would love you forever. And that always stands. Like— a lighthouse, or something. It's cheesy, but it's true? It's there for you, even if you feel like you're getting lost, and I'll always reach out so you can find me. I'll find you too."

The treehouse.

The bed.

Their bodies.

The trip that was perfect — near-perfect, until the silence of the music, the thudding of the door downstairs.

Phoebe swallows.

"You're my home. Wherever that is. I kept thinking in Vermont— like even when just making the bed, or ... I don't know. Putting something in the sink together? I kept thinking how I wanted to be doing it always, with you."

Phoebe scoops up another bit of vegetable, of broth for Jack. That too calmed her, grounded her, made the world make sense— making sure Jack was taken care of. Moving with him in the kitchen. Cooking together.

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe always knew exactly what to say to Jack. He wished he possessed even a fraction of that wisdom. If only he could say or do the things that he felt, the right way, without causing strife or disappointment, life would be so much simpler. All Phoebe wanted to do was make Jack's life easier. She kissed beneath his brow, offering comforting words— he'd made it there now, that's what mattered, she'd always be there.

She brought up their pinky promises, which Jack had already broken. He tried not to think about it, or bring it up, or apologize, because he knew it must've been exhausting to continue to hear that, again and again. Phoebe offered him another bite of soup, which Jack accepted, chewing and swallowing, before deciding that he wouldn't be able to finish the soup after all.

Another lie. He hoped that she could forgive him. But he'd finished over half of it, and that felt like enough for now. There was something else that he needed more. He reached forward, gently grabbing the bowl, finding his balance in order to place it on the tiny nearby table.

Jack was drunk. Jack was drunk, and he was going to say things that he really wanted to mean, but there was no telling if he'd actually be able to stand by them when he was sober. Was this just hurting Phoebe more? Did it make a difference that Jack really felt like he meant the words whenever he was saying them?

"When you say things like that," Jack began, searching for her hands, squeezing, "it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world."

Jack bowed his head, staring down at their fingers in the dark. He kept his eyes there, locked on her hands, so much smaller than his, squeezing and massaging.

"It also makes me — wanna just give it all up for you? Like, what if we just—"

Jack didn't finish the thought. Even drunk, he knew it was a bad idea— it was hurtful, cruel, awful.

What if we just ran away? What if we just got married? My dad can't stop that, he can't undo it, even if he wanted to?

"—I don't know," he finally said, defeated, wishing he had the courage to speak and follow through with what he felt. He blinked, dazed and heavy, before lifting his gaze to finally meet hers again.

"My head hurts," Jack said, which wasn't necessarily a lie. "And everything's — moving weird. Can we get in bed? I feel really sick for some reason," he admitted, and Jack knew the sickness had very little to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the whirlpool of feelings inside of him.

[phpruitts]

Phoebe gives a smart nod of her own. He'd better— eat all of it! Depending on how much Jack had drank— a lot, she suspects, and wonders silently how much he had been drinking these last several weeks— there was no completely avoiding a hangover, but many of it's miseries could still be avoided with a full stomach.

'You eat, too, baby. Okay?'

Was she hungry? Most of Phoebe's body is too caught up in the euphoria of the moment to be hungry, to listen to any normal cues of biology. Jack loves her! Jack is back, and he loves her! What on earth does her stomach matter? But Phoebe acquiesces, takes a bite of the soup and swallows. She needed to be a good example! She takes another spoonful, raises it up to Jack's lips again, smiling wider when Jack presses a palm against her cheek— loving the eye shadow, Funny Bunny, declaring her, Phoebe Pruitt, beautiful.

It makes her flush, tip of her hair to her toes. It was just— so nice. It was nice when Jack wanted her, when he kissed her all over, paid special attention to her body when he invited her over. But being beautiful ... it was something that couples told each other. It was intimate and sweet and she feels like the luckiest girl in the world that Jack Kennedy would find her beautiful.

Jack Kennedy!

'I'm very in love with you. I wish I would've shown up when I said I was going to.'

Phoebe makes a soft noise. Finds herself leaning into the warmth of his hand like a cat. Round and round his palm went at her ribs.

She'd gone to sleep thinking of Jack— stomach sad and sour, wondering if he'd forgotten, wondering if he'd gone to go see another girl instead. Wondering if he was even okay. Ever since Vermont— Phoebe had just wondered if he was okay.

"I'm very in love with you," she murmurs. "I'm really glad you're here now."

"Not to like— suffocate you, but I was just hoping you'd come at any time. So I knew you were okay. Just come at any time, Jack, okay? Of course you should go out with your friends, and everything, but just come home to me. You can wake me at 2 am. Or 2 hours before my alarm goes off. You know you can always just come home to me, right?"

She leans in slow— presses a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. Jack could always come right home to her. Her, and her tiny, dumb little bed, with her dumb little pillow, her plushies and throws and pink blankets. Her fridge would be open to him— her shower too. Everything she has? There for Jack.

There was no time of night she wouldn't open the door from him.

In truth? There was no time at all, in here or the future, where Phoebe can't imagine she wouldn't open her door for him.

But it was all alright now, wasn't it? They'd cleared this hurdle— Jack had reaffirmed his love, and Phoebe too, and now they were going to tackle whatever it takes to help him.

Be happy together.

They wouldn't have to deal with this again. It would be okay— all of it — from here on out.

'Do you ... think Funny Bunny would look good on me?'

Phoebe is surprised by the question, so much so that her fit of giggles edges almost dangerously into the territory of a snort. But she reels it in, shifts forward on Jack's lap in order to nuzzle her nose against him.

"Of course you'd look good in Funny Bunny. I'm Bunny, and you look good with me, so it's only right you look good with the eyeshadow too."

Phoebe exhales. Purses her lips while she surveys Jack thoughtfully. That was so fucking cute. He was so fucking cute.

"You look good in everything. One day, some political stylist is gonna have like, a field day with you, realizing she has a candidate who looks like he's from a Ralph Lauren campaign."

She sighs.

"It just won't be fair to your opponents."

[jacksonekennedy]

Jack was starting to feel better, little by little, though he knew it would be a really, really long time before he felt like himself 100%. There was just too much work that needed to be done, but Phoebe was determined as ever to help him get there. How fucking lucky was he? Jack kept thinking that, again and again. How lucky was Jack to have met someone like Phoebe? How lucky was he to be loved by her?

Phoebe took a bite of the soup, too. Good. Jack didn't want the focus to be on him all the time, even though sometimes Phoebe probably felt like he needed it. He wanted to be able to look out for Phoebe, too— to take care of her.

She hadn't wanted to suffocate him, but she really just wanted him to come at anytime. He could go out with his friends as long as he came home to her.

Home.

The more Jack thought about it, the more he realized that nothing ever really felt like home. Nothing but Phoebe. She assured him that he could wake her at any time. There wasn't a time that she wouldn't answer the door for him.

It felt extremely overwhelming to hear that. She was saying that to Jack, even after he'd ghosted her. How fucked up was that? Was she okay, too? Sometimes Jack wondered if this was a Stockholm situation. He'd hurt her so terribly. How could she still love him?

And then, while Jack's mind was racing, Phoebe was struggling through a fit of giggles, brushing her nose against him. He snapped back to the present, smiling softly, but still feeling anxious and sad, for all the things that he'd done.

The soup was helping, Jack reminded himself. The close contact was helping.

Phoebe was looking ahead, to a political campaign that Jack wasn't even sure would exist. He didn't say it out loud— didn't want Phoebe to live in this state of existentialism with him. It was for him to deal with and figure out. But he smiled anyway.

"You do feel like home to me," Jack said, breezing past the comments about the eyeshadow and the future that may or may not be in store for him. What if he didn't even graduate Yale? That was a big possibility. "Like, wherever I go, I just wanna come home to you," he admitted, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers. Jack fumbled in the dark, finding Phoebe's hand— the one that wasn't holding the soup bowl. He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing. "I just get lost sometimes on the way back to you."

Jack frowned, sighing gently, keeping his forehead against hers.

"I don't know why it happens, but it just does," he explained, wishing there was a way to invite her into his mind, so she could see the way nothing made sense to Jack either. It was all confusing, all the time, and it felt like the moments that did make sense were getting few and far between.

"That's why I do sorta wish you'd just — ask me to give everything up for you," he whispered, finally opening his eyes. "I know you wouldn't ever. But I wish you would. I think everything would make a lot more sense if it was just you."

Jack's mouth twitched.

"I know that's not healthy. I know. I feel it anyway."

[phpruitts]

Jack accepting more of the soup settles something within her— it's the knowledge that he's fed. Cared for. Maybe a stomach ache will follow tomorrow, a ripping, raging, hangover, but right now she's doing her best to prevent that, and at the very least, no matter what, she knows he'll have something nutritious inside him.

Onion, celery, green bean, garlic— lots of veggies! A good hearty broth as well.

And the reward that she gets in exchange? Oh, the reward of Jack's soft smile, the soft, affectionate look he gives when he wants to hear about her Christmas food.

'I like the idea of you at Christmas. Never thought about it until now.'

Phoebe giggles.

"Okay. I'll tell you all about Christmas."

That was sweet— the idea of her being liked at Christmas time. It makes her chest feel warm, makes her wonder if she would ever get to have Jack there to see it in person. The cinnamon rolls. The whip cream, the waffles, the croquembouche tower, the dusting of powdered sugar that fell over it all like snow. Would his father ever allow it? Jack, at her place, for the holidays? Would Jack ever want it? Seated next to her by the Christmas tree, fire crackling, flannel pajamas warm?

Maybe she could hear all about Jack's. Though, there's a prickle of sadness, a question pressing gently at the periphery of her mind. Was it hard— without his mother? Were holidays nice for Jack, or something heavy and to be avoided?

That wasn't fair.

It just wasn't fair that Jack was without.

Phoebe scoops up a nice portion of Parmesan, carrot, garlic, offers it up to Jack's lips.

"And just let me know whenever you get full."

Who knew how much a drunk Jack could handle? And, conversely— Phoebe could always heat more, always toast up some bread to serve as an accompaniment too. It felt a bit like a miracle that Jack was here. Sitting with her, close, answering her questions; apparently Jack had failed a test that day. Phoebe silently hopes it's a joke, if only for Jack's sake, if only for future interactions with his dad.

"Hmm. I bet you did really good, baby."

Phoebe smooths a hand against his temple, gratified to learn he had eaten, at least, pleased and flushed when Jack compliments her, compliments the soup. He had been thinking of her on Thursday— all day, gave her a forehead kiss that cements the fact.

'You look so gorgeous right now. Did you get all ready for me? When I texted you earlier?'

'You have like— sparkles in your eyes.'

She leans in slow, presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Of course I got ready for you." Another delicate kiss by his eye. "I like getting ready for you. I never put on an outfit without imagining if you'll like it." Which was— true. Aside from her silly pajamas, her sleep shirts with Looney Tunes characters, every animal from Sanrio, Phoebe put a great deal of thought into her outfits, found it gratifying, even, to know she would look cute if he ran into Jack.

"My eyes are so sparkly because I'm in love with you. And I'm really happy you're here. And because I have you in my arms." A smile. "And. Um. I got a new eye shadow, too." That too was specially chosen— a warm, pinkish quartz, shimmering and sparkling and meant to coordinate with her camisole. It feels good to talk about this. Something so mundane. Something so innocent, and regular, something two people in love might remark on on the couch. Two people who were together.

"It's actually called Funny Bunny."

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe promised to tell Jack all about Christmas. He was looking forward to it. He could still remember his favorite holiday out of all of them, and it made him sad to think that it had happened so long ago. Nearly two decades had passed. It was Christmas, of course — the last one before his mother passed, up in Vermont. His grandparents were there, his father was there. Jack was the center of attention. Everyone made sure that he got anything and everything that he'd asked for. HIs mother, apparently, had just received the diagnosis. Everyone else had been aware. Everyone except for Jack. And his family loved him so much, so deeply, that they never made the holiday feel any different that year.

He still got all of his favorite toy dinosaurs and desserts. He got to watch his favorite Christmas movie, and at the end of the night, when he was too tired to climb upstairs, his mother and father carried him up to their bed. Jack slept in the middle, warm and cared for, all night long.

It had been so, so long ago. As Jack accepted the fresh bite of soup, he hoped that Phoebe's favorite Christmas hadn't happened so long ago. He hoped that each year, they got better.

He hoped that this year, his got better, too. Even if he didn't get to spend it with Phoebe, maybe just — knowing that they were together and in love would be enough, even if he was with his dad.

"And just let me know whenever you get full."

Jack nodded.

"I'll eat all of it," he promised, feeling like he'd be committing an awful sin to let such good soup go to waste, but he did have a condition.

"You eat, too, baby. Okay?"

She kissed his cheek, affirming that she'd gotten ready for him, of course. She never got ready without thinking of him, apparently, and her eyes were sparkly because she loved him. It made Jack's stomach feel all airy and warm, like she'd just showered him with the greatest compliment of all time.

"I love it," he declared, cupping the side of her face. He leaned in a few more inches, examining the pink shimmer closely. It was very Phoebe. And it was even named after her, too. How special was that?

"You look very beautiful," Jack told her, rubbing her side gently. "I'm very in love with you. I wish I would've shown up when I said I was going to."

But it was a good thing he hadn't, right? It was possible that he and Phoebe were just going to have sex and never talk about any of the stuff they'd discussed. This was a good thing, in its own way. He just wished that he hadn't hurt Phoebe to get it all figured out. She wasn't the type of person who deserved being stood up. Jack needed to find a way to make the right decisions the first time without hurting her.

"Do you ... think Funny Bunny would look good on me?"

[phpruitts]

'Okay. Yes.'

She could see the struggle— Jack in the whirlpool he can't extract himself out of, can't swim his way out of now matter how hard he tries.

He's too drunk, and it's too hard, and everything is too much, too heavy. All Phoebe can think about is how she would do anything to help. Anything to just... get him out of there. When she looks in Jack's eyes she can see him fighting against the instinct to apologize instead.

'I'm really drunk.'

'My head just feels— weird, like I can't think about anything the right way.'

Phoebe frowns gently, thumb stroking along his hairline in repetitive sweeps. How fucking awful, that had to be. Unable to control his thoughts. Unable to control his body, even, drunk and out of it and miserable, held captive by what was churning in his skull, an endless loop.

"I'm sorry, baby," she murmurs, attempting to hold Jack even closer, even tighter, knowing he likes the contact, missing the feel of him herself. "I wish I could just pull it out of you, so your head feels okay."

She would take the dizziness, the sick head, the nausea, the guilt, the hurt, any and all she'd load herself up with. If she could siphon it out of Jack, she would, and for a moment Phoebe curses that no such technology has been created, curses God that Jack is hurting in this way.

"But I love you no matter how your head is doing, okay? Nothing will make me leave. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you."

She just wishes she can help. Hasn't he had enough? Hasn't he wrestled with enough? It wasn't fucking fair. Phoebe doesn't like the idea of anyone suffering, but seeing Jack tortured in this way, seeing the distress in his eyes, the sadness ... it's fucking visceral. She feels it in every cell of her body. A wrongness. A need to fix it, fix it, do something, every cell is vibrating tensely until Jack is okay.

He still, at least, wants to have some soup— crawl up with Phoebe beneath the covers.

'When we get in bed, can you just talk to me for a while? About anything? I've missed just talking to you. I missed hearing your voice. Maybe you could tell me about what you and Teddy liked to do growing up? Or how your classes have been lately? Or you could read something, maybe, or make up a story? Any story?'

Phoebe stares at Jack for a long moment, the line between her brows cut deep. It was moments like this where Jack seemed ... so innocent that it kills her. Something very innocent, and boyish, such simple requests that he makes of Phoebe, pure enough that her throat tightens and her eyes smart and it takes her several seconds to wrangle back her composure.

'I missed you like crazy, and I think about you all the time.'

At last, Phoebe swallows. Her voice. Jack just wants to hear her voice. When he's buried in her shoulder, all she does is rub, rub, rub, relishing the feel of his hand against her spine, marveling at the beauty and the miracle that was Jack. So perfect, and alive, well-muscled and lovely, and Jack. The firm muscle of his trapeziums is all Jack, and it's beautiful.

And best of all, it's here. He's here. Tonight— and Phoebe hopes after this— she won't have to wonder where he is, whether or not he's okay.

"Of course, baby. 'Course I wanna talk to you." Phoebe ducks in— kisses at his cheek. "When we get into bed, I'll ... tell you all about the crazy breakfasts Teddy and I used to have. The ones at Christmas time were extra special, we'd make extra special recipes just for that day. I think you'd like them."

Phoebe takes the bowl of soup up again— carefully scoops a level spoonful, raises it up to Jack's lips, waiting.

"I would love to talk to you about anything. I missed you, You have, like— no idea." She smiles gently. "We had to watch this video on supply trains, in the war of 1812? Like in my Tuesday class. And I kept thinking about you. Like not just class, but the whole day, baby, I wondered what you were having for dinner. And if you ate a snack. And whether if you'd watched this documentary before, and if you had a good day, and. At one point I accidentally walked past my dorm, I was thinking of you so hard."

[jacksonekennedy]

It was a relief to hear that Phoebe loved him no matter how his head was doing. He really believed it, even if he felt as though he hadn't really earned it most of the time. She had told him before that her love was not something to be earned, or something that she'd ever take away. Jack tried to remember that. Jack tried to keep that close to his chest.

He kept his hand at her back, rubbing gently, exhaling whenever she kissed his cheek. It felt nice. All of the contact, the closeness, the comfort — it was incredible. Jack felt special and loved for the first time since Vermont. He wanted to stay forever.

She offered him another bite of soup. Jack accepted, grateful that she was patient enough to even feed it to him. He felt guilty for that, too, but he blinked hard, tried to push the thoughts away so he could just — enjoy the food. And her voice.

"I wanna hear about the Christmas food," Jack replied, smiling softly. "I like the idea of you at Christmas. Never thought about it until now."

Jack wondered what Phoebe's holiday celebrations were like. Did she and Teddy get all dressed up? Did they stay in their pajamas? Did they open their presents on Christmas morning? Did they open a small present on Christmas Eve? Maybe one day, if Jack was the luckiest man in the world, he'd get to find out for himself.

"Tuesday?" Jack repeated, blinking, trying to remember what he'd done that day. "I think I failed a test on Tuesday," he said, half smiling like it was a joke, because it sort of was. He was sort of a joke. He didn't have the results back yet, but he was certain that they weren't very impressive. "But I did eat. I think Bear and I went out for pizza that night. And I thought about you all day."

He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.

"I like the soup a lot, baby. Thank you for warming it up for me. I love you. You look so gorgeous right now. Did you get all ready for me? When I texted you earlier?"

It made Jack happy. Even if he wasn't in the mood to fool around anymore, it was so wildly attractive that Phoebe got ready for him. She looked really pretty. She always did, but especially right now, when she was taking such good care of him.

"You have like— sparkles in your eyes."

[phpruitts]

'I'm sorry,'

It's another dagger in her chest, an ache of sympathy, Jack sounds so fucking sad? He sounds so fucking sad and so fucking mired down by how sorry he is. It kills Phoebe— makes her tighten her grip 'round the spoon til it bites at her palm.

He manages about one bite of the soup before crushing himself against Phoebe's chest.

'I love you so much.'

Phoebe ducks her head to catch it. It's so quiet. His voice is so quiet, barely able to be heard above the silence of the night. It's quiet and soft, a half-whisper, but what really gets her is the strain there. Before Jack turns his head, before their eyes meet, Phoebe can hear it. The choking emotion, the fucking sadness gathering there, cresting, threatening to spill over.

Phoebe shifts in his lap to stare better. Sets the soup onto an adjacent cushion so that she can hold his head with both hands.

'Please don't ever go,'

'I'm gonna fix everything for you.'

Oh, Jack.

As if that were ever possible, as if that even existed— even the fucking idea of Phoebe ever leaving him. She wasn't going to leave Jack. She wasn't going to leave Jack even if he didn't fix it all. There was no knife, no force of nature or man or God that could unstitch Phoebe from the way she'd decided to attach herself.

Phoebe's brows push together sadly as she swipes a thumb along his orbital bone. Guilt was gnawing at him now— more than any hunger of any kind.

'I really would drop everything for you, if you asked? Law school and my dad and all of my bad habits. I'll give it all up.'

Phoebe hums.

"Baby. I'm not going to ask you to do that." Her thumb rubs beneath his eye. "You're excited about your career, and learning all about law, and stuff. It won't make me feel good to take that from you." Jack was going to be a politician— a good one. A special one. How could Phoebe take that away from the world? From Jack? And for the others .... "And I just want you happy and healthy, okay. I want whatever is going to make you happy and healthy, however you do that, and get there."

Phoebe can't tell Jack what to do about his father— doesn't know the man like Jack does, doesn't know the history and intricacies of it all. But she would support Jack, in no matter what he did. Yes, it rankles inside her, thinking about Vermont. Yes she felt ... judged, and dismissed, by her brief interaction with the man. But this was Jack's father! His family! He'd already lost a parent. If Jack needed her to, Phoebe would stand by whatever he did— she'd make an effort to get to know the man, befriend him, do whatever Jack needed her to do. And if Jack didn't want to talk to his father, any more? Phoebe would support that as well.

Whatever Jack needs from her ... he can have. Especially trying to get sober. Especially trying to detach himself from all the poisons that were leeching everything out of him. Especially if he went to get help— help with the crushing thoughts, the leaden attachments he can't control, weighed to his chest, keeping him in bed, overwhelming him.

"I feel ... really humbled, okay, that you're willing to give me so much. I love you. I really love you. But will you listen to me for a second?"

Phoebe brings her thumb up to below his eye— swipes to collect the tear before it falls.

"I'm not gonna leave. And you're my favorite person, Jack. It makes me sad to think that you haven't forgiven yourself like I have, or that you think really harshly about yourself... that's my favorite person. Please be nice to my favorite person, okay?"

Phoebe kisses him. Peppers a trail along his cheek and temple, again, again, again, willing to kiss the sadness out of him, willing to keep it all at bay.

Phoebe gives him a lingering kiss on the mouth, then pulls away.

"Maybe we have a little bit more soup, to settle your stomach? And then you can climb in bed with me and I'll hold you."

[jacksonekennedy]

Jack was stuck in this endless, repetitive fucking loop. It was horrible. He kept wanting to apologize and beg Phoebe to forgive him when she already had. His brain was just stuck. So, so stuck. All he could think about was how awful he'd been to her, how he'd ignored her and used her for the last several weeks.

Phoebe was reassuring him again, even though he didn't deserve it.

She wasn't going to ask him to give anything up, but Jack sort of wanted her to. Maybe it would help in some way? If he dropped out of law school to focus on getting better? What if he could dedicate all of his spare time to Phoebe? He was convinced it would fix everything, somehow.

Phoebe loved him. She really loved him. She wanted him to listen for a second. She wasn't going to leave, and she wanted Jack to be nicer to himself. He was her favorite person.

It didn't feel earned. His vision got blurry— especially when Phoebe littered his faces with kisses.

"Maybe we have a little bit more soup, to settle your stomach? And then you can climb in bed with me and I'll hold you."

Jack opened his mouth to apologize again, but stopped himself before getting very far. He needed to stop. What if she was tired of hearing it? It didn't stop Jack from feeling it. Fuck, he was so sorry. He would be sorry for the rest of his life. At least, it felt that way in the moment.

He nodded once.

"Okay. Yes."

He didn't want food, but he told himself that if he got through this — if he had a few more bites, he could crawl into bed with Phoebe. Maybe then the room would stop spinning? Maybe then he'd feel a little more settled. Besides— the soup was good. It was delicious. There was nothing wrong with it. It was Jack. Jack was the fucking problem, like always.

All the time, he felt like a problem.

"I'm really drunk."

He had to stop himself from apologizing for that. The word sorry needed to leave his vocabulary for the night. Or, at the very least, it needed to stay in his head.

"My head just feels— weird, like I can't think about anything the right way."

I'm sorry.

"I do want to eat your soup, and I want to get in bed with you."

I'm sorry for being so difficult. I'm so sorry for doing this to you— showing up like this, making you take care of me when I'm trashed. After the way I treated you.

Jack tried to find the right words or actions, but there was nothing. He hugged Phoebe tighter. He rested his cheek against her shoulder, eyes shut. She smelled nice. She always did.

"When we get in bed, can you just talk to me for a while? About anything? I've missed just talking to you. I missed hearing your voice. Maybe you could tell me about what you and Teddy liked to do growing up? Or how your classes have been lately? Or you could read something, maybe, or make up a story? Any story?"

Jack kept his face there, pressed against her shoulder for just a few more moments, eyes closed. He could stay like that all night. He rubbed her back gently, before finally pulling away from her shoulder, facing her. He felt very vulnerable. Shy, in a way. This was strange for Jack— not the norm. No amount of alcohol could mask how out of sorts he felt.

"I missed you like crazy, and I think about you all the time."

[phpruitts]

It was the little smile that did her in— the tiniest quirk of Jack's lips. He probably could use some luck, couldn't he? Life had been ... very hard, and intensely unfair. Phoebe, if she had three wishes, if she had a single wish, even, would use it immediately on Jack, transfer all her fortune over into him.

But she has no genie's lamp to give, no rabbit's foot or charm. Phoebe would just have to try to make things good for him herself. Really, really, try.

She can start with dinner— try to stave off Jack's hangover.

Phoebe bites down at the inside of her cheek, endlessly charmed at how long Jack is compared to her couch. Those long, long legs. Those tiny ass cushions. He'd plopped right down, drunk, and out of his body, but not before delivering a precious kiss to Phoebe's forehead. It was outrageously sweet.

Phoebe follows much more carefully— easing herself into Jack's lap, keeping careful hold of the piping bowl, the spoon that swivels as she eases herself down.

'I haven't had soup in a really long time,'

'When did you make this?'

Was there something sad in his voice? It sounds a little sad— mumbled though it is. Phoebe swallows, tries to ignore the pang in her own chest.

"The day before yesterday," she says. Comfort food, meant to comfort her aching heart. It had been hard, thinking of Jack, unable to think of anything else except his absence, the hole in her heart and the space in her bed that was only very rarely filled.

Her hook-ups with him only briefly stopped the ache.

Phoebe makes herself swallow, scoops up a careful spoon of the minestrone before blowing on it gently, raising it up to Jack's lips.

"Here," she says. "You can tell me if it tastes good."

A beat.

"You know you can always come for soup when you want. If you need it. Like if you aren't feeling good, and you need something like that, and you don't wanna talk you can still just come over. Or if you do wanna talk. Or if you just—" Phoebe swallows. It makes her hurt, thinking of Jack suffering alone. Thinking that maybe the barrier was him thinking that it would have to be some ordeal, him coming over for some comfort, something that requires explanation. Or, inversely— him feeling like he couldn't talk to her, for some reason. Whatever the reason, Phoebe wants to tear down whatever is standing in his way, make it easier, if possible, for Jack to come to her. It seems like being apart only wounds them both. "Or just, anytime. If you need."

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe climbed into Jack's lap, gentle and careful, as she told him she'd made the soup the day before yesterday. Jack couldn't get the idea out of his head — had she made this to ease the hurting? Had she felt sad and lonely, heartbroken and confused because of Jack? Did she need something to take her mind off of him? His mind was racing with the saddest of thoughts, and he wished there was a way to shut them off forever.

"I'm sorry," he said for probably the hundredth time that night, meaning it more and more each time. He was sorry that she'd made the soup.

Still, Phoebe, selfless and kind, held up a spoonful of minestrone. She blew on it to bring down the temperature. He leaned in, accepting the bite offered, swallowing. It was really, really good, like everything that Phoebe made, but it made him sad to enjoy. Even more so when she was encouraging him to come over for soup whenever he wanted. If he felt unwell, if he didn't want to talk, or if he did want to talk, he could just come over. Whenever.

Jack wrapped his arms around Phoebe tightly, hugging her fiercely, resting his head against her shoulder. It wasn't the most ideal way to eat, he knew that, but he was unconcerned with the soup and more concerned with feeling close to her.

"I love you so much."

His voice was gentle, quiet, something close to a whisper.

"Please don't ever go," he pleaded, eyes glistening again, throat tight with emotion. "I'm gonna fix everything for you."

He was going to fix his life. He was going to fix himself. He wouldn't do this again. This was the last time, Jack thought. He would be okay after this. No more ghosting her or hurting her like this.

"I really would drop everything for you, if you asked? Law school and my dad and all of my bad habits. I'll give it all up."

[phpruitts]

'I would like that a lot, Phoebe. Having you over more, like — all the time, really.'

Jesus. Phoebe almost hops.

Well and truly almost hops up and down with excitement. It's not even anything concrete— she has no idea what Jack thinks of living together, in an official capacity — but fuck, how her heart is soaring right now. He wants to see more of Phoebe. Weeks of distance, the pair of them kept away from one another, and Jack wants more of her now. All the time! All the time, all the time, all the time.

"Okay," she agrees, biting at her lip. "Yeah. I'll bring you bread and come over more."

And maybe things would go further. Maybe when things settle, when Jack is doing okay, when school is all squared away... maybe Phoebe can bring up the idea of him and her and two toothbrushes permanently leaning together in the holder.

His and hers— like his suggestion of a pink bunny cutter, complimentary towards his blue dinosaur.

"I'll get that too!"

"Maybe some days we can switch off. I'll give you bunny sandwiches as a surprise sometimes, for extra luck, or something."

Like how a rabbit's foot was lucky? Kind of? Sort of? Phoebe's groggy, and her mind is not particularly sharp.

She turns towards the bowl— taps it lightly with her hand. Cool enough to carry now, and so Phoebe scoops it up. It smells nice, fragrant, the aromatics she had deglazed in the beginning, the vine-and-sun smell of tomato.

"Should we sit on my stupidly tiny couch?"

A beat, and something passing over Phoebe a little shy, funnily enough, considering Jack's been inside her, considering she's confessed his love against her mouth.

"I can sit in your lap and feed it to you?"

[jacksonekennedy]

It was settled then. Jack and Phoebe would see each other more often. Jack wanted that very much— more than anything, actually, especially when he was drunk and the idea of being without Phoebe made him feel homesick. But with the promise of bunny and dinosaur sandwiches, Jack felt a little more at ease, like he knew exactly what he had to look forward to.

"I could use some luck," Jack responded, smiling small and gentle, while Phoebe offered her stupidly tiny couch. Then, very bashfully, Phoebe wondered if she could sit in his lap and feed him.

Oh. Yes. Jack nodded quickly, no hesitation there.

"Yes, please," he replied, as if she were the one doing him a favor. And she sort of was. Jack walked past her, but not before he dipped in at the last second, kissing her forehead. He stumbled his way over to the couch, unsteady and uneven, before he plopped down. Jack hadn't been very hungry to begin with, but the soup looked and smelled appetizing. Anything that Phoebe prepared was automatically the best thing he'd ever eaten.

He patted his lap, motioning for Phoebe to join him. If Jack weren't so drunk, he would have probably offered to carry the hot bowl— but doing so now, in this state, would only be a liability. Her floor would smell like minestrone soup, and then her roommates would really hate him. But he still felt very dizzy, hypersensitive and sad, so he was allowing Phoebe to do all of the heavy lifting. And he was grateful for it, too.

"I haven't had soup in a really long time," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair, pushing the strands away from his forehead. "When did you make this?" Jack wondered. Had she made this because she was sad? Over him? It hurt to think about.

[phpruitts]

Phoebe can feel it; her muscles relaxing, cord by cord, the entirety of her back heating as Jack kneads his hands against it. Fucking perfect. How tense she'd been, how tight, these past few weeks. Waiting to hear from Jack. Worrying. Wondering. And now with just a few seconds of touch ... it's melting. Even the stiffness in her neck— born from her odd position on the couch — has eased considerably.

All Phoebe can feel right now is bliss.

She shifts forward to receive a kiss on the mouth, a kiss on the forehead too.

'Please,'

'I want you to come over every day,'

Oh. Every day? What if— well. Imagine if they lived together. What if somehow for the spring semester they lived together, and summer too? Maybe it's a wild dream, meant only for Phoebe's imagination, maybe they had to be more settled, with Jack's college selection signed and sealed, but God. God. Imagine living with Jack—crawling out of bed on Monday to wrap his sandwich. Send him off with a kiss. Imagine evenings, crickets singing low, the two of them tangled together in a bathtub. It could be like this every day! Phoebe cold have the best day of her life, over and over and over again.

"I also want that," Phoebe breathes, feeling the warmth of Jack's thumb skim against her cheeks. "Coming over every day. Or staying over more. I just. I don't know. I think I would feel really happy going to bed, hearing you breathing next to me. Feeling safe. And knowing that you're safe." She swallows quickly. Was she saying too much? "I mean. Anyway. I'm just really glad to come over whenever you want."

The microwave beeps— shrill, obnoxious, and Phoebe shifts to take the bowl of soup out, setting it down on the counter almost hastily to cool. The ceramic is piping hot. But more than anything? She wants to be staring at Jack. wants to get absorbed into his eyes.

'I do want the sandwich cutters on shitty white bread though. I wouldn't complain. That'd be like— a dream for eight year old Jack.'

Phoebe's mouth slowly spreads into a smile. She cups Jack's face as well— feels the handsome cheekbones beneath her palms.

"Really?"

"Because I can get it, Jack. When I go grocery shopping I'll grab it. Do you want the blue one?"

Blue, of course, right? What other choice could there be? God. It's so fucking... outrageously charming, It melts her heart, the same way his request to share the same bowl had. Of course Phoebe would make the sandwiches. She'd get that squishy, over-puffy white bread— she'd get the Jiff, or whatever brand he wanted, and Smuckers, whatever type of jelly. And she'd cut those sandwiches. She'd press them into the neatest, cleanest, nicest looking dinosaurs that had ever fucking existed.

[jacksonekennedy]

The idea of having Phoebe over every day, all the time, immediately made Jack feel so much better. What if they just moved in together? What if Jack just looked for an apartment? He could afford it— or he could lie to his dad, tell him that living at the house was too distracting, and he needed a place away from all of the partying. He probably would have agreed. Then, Phoebe wouldn't have to live in a dorm. They could spend their Sundays together making bread.

Maybe when Jack was sober, and out of the proverbial dog house that he'd put himself in, he could talk to Phoebe about that?

"I would like that a lot, Phoebe. Having you over more, like — all the time, really."

Jack left it at that, not wanting to push too much, or say the wrong thing while he was still drunk and overly emotional.

Phoebe pulled out the bowl of soup— it looked really good. She placed it on the counter, letting it cool, and Jack's eyes locked on hers. She could get the dinosaur shaped sandwich cutter, no problem. She even asked what color Jack wanted!

"Obviously blue," he replied, smiling gently. "But you should get a pink one, too. His and hers. Maybe yours should be a bunny."

[phpruitts]

Phoebe taps the wedge of parmesan against the grater, dislodging the last of the cheese curls still clinging to the metal. There. All there atop the minestrone, where it belongs.

Typically, for the sake of the dish's flavor, she'd drag out a pan— warm the entire thing up on the stove. But Jack wants to cuddle. And God, he'd asked so fucking nicely? It's much better this way, microwaving it for the sake of speed, for the sake of curling up around him and holding him all night.

She sets the bowl in the microwave, punches in a few minutes onto the timer. Behind her, she hears a little splash. Jack and the water? She wonders how long Jack has been out drinking— wonders how much he's been drinking period. Had he been coping with the break-up with alcohol? It makes her stomach pinch wondering if he'd turned to that more often now, maybe took pills, or even snorted something when things had gotten a little bit too hard.

But Jack was here now. And Phoebe could look out for him. Take care of him. Whatever he needed help with ... Phoebe would take his hand and face it alongside him.

Whether that's support, with appointments, company, when he needs it, extra love. Or even just soup.

Or maybe caramelized onions. Something inside her glows happily when she feels Jack wrap an arm 'round her abdomen.

'And anytime you bring over bread— I really like it. I use it to pack a lunch sometimes, for class and practice.'

It's a bit humbling. To think that her flour, salt, yeast, her kneading and folding and proving and baking, brushing butter and turning and toasting matter so much. Her pasta too. Back in Vermont— orange leaves, pomodoro sauce simmering long, crisp air and their bodies gravitating towards each other in the chill.

'"But. You know that you could make me a PB&J with shitty white bread from the store, and I'd still think it's the greatest meal of my life.'

Phoebe twists to face Jack.

"You know. I saw these little sandwich cutters— they cut the sandwich into the shape of a dinosaur. If I had to make you sandwich on really shitty, squishy white bread, I would use one of those for you."

A beat. The soup will be done soon, but Phoebe lingers against Jack. Presses a kiss against his lips instead of watching for the timer.

"But I'm not going to make you a sandwich on that. I'm gonna give you a loaf every Sunday. And you can use it for sandwiches. Or French Toast. Or anything."

Phoebe smiles softly.

"Do you want me to come over every Sunday with a loaf?"

Would that help Jack? Knowing he has something to look forward to, even if it's something as mundane as bread? It's not much. But it's at least one tiny, tiny way she can show up for Jack. Make sure he starts his week nourished.

[jacksonekennedy]

Jack was starting to feel a little bit better now— more at ease, the longer that he spent at Phoebe's side, but not by much. There was still a lot of guilt rolling around inside of his skull, a lot of shame that would take a lifetime to forget. Or that's what it felt like, at least. For now, he tried to focus on the water that he was drinking, and the big bowl of soup that Phoebe had placed inside the microwave.

She turned to face him, and he readjusted his hands. He kept them wrapped firmly around her, rubbing at the small of her back. The idea of not being attached to her in some way, physically, made him sick. He'd never felt like this before— so clingy and pathetic, so desperate for touch and affection. In fact, before Phoebe, Jack ran from this sort of thing.

So much had changed in such a small amount of time.

She mentioned the sandwich cutters — dinosaur shaped, of course, and Jack frowned when Phoebe said she would not make him a sandwich on that. Instead, she'd give him a fresh loaf every Sunday. That was a decent trade off, Jack thought, but he still wanted the dinosaur cut outs.

"Do you want me to come over every Sunday with a loaf?"

Jack was nodding gently, leaning forward, kissing her mouth gently.

"Please," he said softly, kissing her forehead next, mildly surprised when it landed. "I want you to come over every day," he admitted, wishing it were somehow possible. Was it too soon to move together? Jack wanted it more than anything. He cupped her face gently, thumb brushing over her cheek.

"I do want the sandwich cutters on shitty white bread though. I wouldn't complain. That'd be like— a dream for eight year old Jack."

[phpruitts]

She can feel the muscles relax beneath her arms— Jack softening, just a bit, not quite as tense as the beginning, spine not so ramrod.

Good. It twists her insides, to know that Jack was tortured. It hurts even more to think this had been going on for weeks. All without her knowledge. Phoebe had been curled up in bed, wondering about him. Wondering if Jack was thinking of her— wondering if he had missed her, or if the hook-ups they had were sufficient for him, if every bit of love for her had been flushed from his body, or if some of it had still remained, despite the words he had spoken. And instead he'd been suffering. Fucking aching for Phoebe, the same way she had been for him, and she hadn't even been there to comfort him.

To hold Jack. Kiss his hair, let him know that he was loved.

But she could do it now. They could make up for all their weeks of suffering. They remain in their embrace for a few moments longer— and then, like always, Jack manages to fell Phoebe with just a few words. Bring her to her fucking knees.

'Can we just eat out of one bowl?'

Jesus Christ, Jack. It's things like that, questions like that, delivered so softly, almost shy, that makes Phoebe want to seize his head— softly, so fucking softly— and tell Jack she needs him forever. Not just want. Need. A requirement, if Phoebe is ever going to make it through life.

How will she ever be loved better than by a man who wants to share her soup bowl? Jack has detaches himself, in order to lean against the counter, but immediately Phoebe reaches for him again, kisses him, softly, nuzzling her nose against his with a soft exhale.

"You're like, killing me," Phoebe says. "How is that not the most romantic thing on the planet." Her head shakes. "Yes, I want to share one bowl with you. We probably have to like, sit really close, for it to work, but maybe you don't really mind if I sit in your lap and give you bites."

No. He probably wouldn't, would he? Jack was a tactile person. Cuddly, in another word, and fuck, she loves it about him. Had missed it about him.

And then it hits her all funny— the love she has for him, the longing, all snowballing inside her chest and growing and growing and growing and striking her like an avalanche and she can barely get her head above it. But fuck. She wants to say something intense. She wants to , like. Ask Jack to marry her. Marry her, and always share her soup bowl.

That was a lot. But what Phoebe feels for Jack is ... a lot. Phoebe bites at the inside of her cheek, smiles a private grin as she begins to fish ingredients out of her fridge. She didn't want to overwhelm Jack. Didn't want to fucking scare him. But fuck. There was nothing that tastes as sweet as the idea of forever with Jack, and she holds the thought quietly to her chest, treasures it soft and private.

For now? She'll make soup. Especially when Jack admits, something sad in his eyes, that no other food was able to compare.

Oh, Jack. Phoebe frowns, sets her container of minestrone onto the tiny strip of counter. She retrieves her biggest bowl, practically fucking gallons of capacity, and begins to pour a great helping into the container to microwave before turning to him.

"It's not fun making anything, without knowing you're going to try it."

"It's nicer making things knowing they're gonna take care of you."

Phoebe retrieves a wedge of parmesan, begins grating it over the bowl, scrubbing hard to get the most cheese. All the more reason to make it extra cheesy, extra good. Knowing Jack had missed this.

Phoebe smiles at Jack softly.

"What did you want the most? I bet I can make it this week. For us to have."

[jacksonekennedy]

Thankfully, the space between them did not last for very long. Phoebe made her way over to Jack yet again, pressed a kiss to his lips, told Jack that he was killing her. He wasn't meaning to, but he was thankful that Phoebe liked the idea of sharing a bowl. She hadn't teased him about it, hadn't made him feel silly or childish for requesting it. Moments like this were few and far between for Jack. This sort of vulnerability sort of ... didn't exist for Jack. Phoebe was handling it well.

He watched as she prepared the soup, pouring it into a large bowl for the both of them. He sipped on some more infused water in the mean time. Jack hadn't realized just how thirsty he was. He'd been drinking for hours now. He was definitely dehydrated. He reached for the pitcher, pouring a bit more into his cup, frowning when he spilled a bit on the counter. He looked around for a paper towel, swiping up his mess. Next time, he'd ask Phoebe to pour for him. He was clumsy while drunk.

"It's not fun making anything, without knowing you're going to try it. It's nicer making things knowing they're gonna take care of you."

She liked taking care of Jack. She liked making food that nourished him. It made him feel all funny inside, like he'd managed to achieve sobriety in an instant thanks to that comment. It flushed all of the toxins out of his system, made him feel loved and cared for. Phoebe just liked taking care of him, at the end of the day, in a bunch of little ways.

Jack should let her do that more often.

He watched as she grated the cheese.

"I still think about the caramelized onions and the sandwich when I first came over," Jack said gently, slowly making his way back over to Phoebe, not caring if he was being an inconvenience. He wrapped a gentle arm around her abdomen while she worked on the soup. "And anytime you bring over bread— I really like it. I use it to pack a lunch sometimes, for class and practice."

He smiled gently. He'd missed Phoebe. So terribly. He kissed her shoulder tenderly.

"Or the pasta dish you made in Vermont? That was really good, too. With the wine."

Before his dad had shown up. Jack sighed, tried not to think of what happened after dinner that night.

"But. You know that you could make me a PB&J with shitty white bread from the store, and I'd still think it's the greatest meal of my life."

[phpruitts]

Jack, in his drunk state, fairly questions how much help he'll actually be. Which makes sense. How much cooking, chopping, searing can one do with alcohol in your system? But Phoebe doesn't mind if she has to do all of it. She doesn't mind if she has to slice every bit of cheese, season every chicken breast herself. What matters is getting Jack fed. Being close to him, being near him, soaking up in his presence.

"That's alright, baby," Phoebe answers, watch attentively as he drinks. Hopefully that'll help any headaches? Does she have Gatorade? Or anything over the counter, for a stomachache?

Maybe in one of her tiny cabinets. Between sandwich and the pasta Jack doesn't seem to have a preference- surprising, with his love of sandwiches, but then Phoebe catches something in his tone that makes the surprise lessen.

'I'm sorry. I just love you. I want to eat whatever you want. I love you, and I'm sorry about everything.'

There's Jack, shifting closer. There's arms around Phoebe, a tight band, there's Jack's chin coming to rest atop hers— tucking her in tight. Like she belongs there. Like he needs her to stay, otherwise he'll just burst into pieces, fractured down into atoms, and God, the sadness in his voice? He's sorry, he said he's sorry, but Phoebe can feel the regret in every syllable. She can fucking taste it. It's dripping off him, and she can feel it reverberate into her skull when Jack's jaw trembles.

'Phoebe,'

'I feel ... really sad about everything I've done.'

Oh, Jack.

'I feel mostly sad about what I did to you. And how you're treating me now— wanting to feed me, and letting me stay.'

Phoebe knew it. And God, how his father was wrong, he'd all but said aloud to Phoebe how little she knew Jack, how readily he'd tried to frame him as someone who wasn't caring, wasn't applying themselves wasn't caring, but didn't he see? Jack cared. Jack cared so much sometimes it was debilitating.

Jack cares so much it becomes quicksand. He's trapped in it. Hating himself.

He apologizes for being sad again. Apologizes for bringing it up.

Phoebe frowns. There was nothing to apologize for— but he's drunk, and hurting and when has anyone drunk and hurting ever been able to think totally clear. There's space to see each other now, and Phoebe stares at Jack as she leans against the counter, throat tightening, eyes prickling in a way she wishes she could banish. She needs to keep herself together here.

'And so... maybe whatever you do make— it can be something really fast and easy so that we can eat it really fast and easily, and so I can hug you for the rest of the night?'

A hum escapes her, Phoebe easing the space between them into something smaller, cupping at his cheeks.

"Oh, gosh, baby. We don't have to cook anything. You know that's fine, like— course you can just hug me."

All he wanted. All he wanted was to hug her. Spiraling downward, in all his problems, Jack just wants to be near.

"I'll just heat us up soup?"

She had minestrone. A wedge of parmesan. Heat it up, in the microwave even, a layer for fresh cheese, and that's easy. It's so easy. And fast. And it's got protein and fats and she can hold him quicker?

And because Phoebe doesn't to deprive Jack of this a second longer, she shuffles in, wraps her arms sturdily around his middle.

"Please don't be sorry for bringing it up. There's nothing you can't tell me. Even if you're worried about it, or feel bad bringing it up to me, I wanna hear it. I love you. I wanna listen to you."

Her arms tighten around him harder.

"I'm sorry that you're sad. You know you're like my favorite person, ever? I hate that you're sad. I wanna hug you so hard I squeeze it out of you. I wanna hug you so hard that you realize the only thing we need to worry about is the future, that stuff that happened .. it's behind us. We're here right now."

They didn't have to think about these past few weeks. About the growing distance between sent messages. Between hook-ups, hungry kisses, bare of cuddles, of spooning and kissed eyelashes. Between time in the time in the library alone. Between glancing at her screen, between Jack at his house, upstairs, alone— the heartbeat of a party thudding beneath his feet, and he hadn't even gone down there after breaking up with her.

They didn't need to think about it all. Easier said than done, but Phoebe is determined. Having Jack back? Is an insane fucking gift, she can't even wrap her head around it? It doesn't feel real. She loves him— so fucking bad. Of course she's going to try to squeeze the sad out of him.

"We're gonna eat really quick. A couple bites, really fast. And then we're gonna get under a blanket. And I'm gonna glue myself to you. And then you can wrap your arms around me for as long as you want."

Phoebe leans forward, kisses him soft, slow, pulls back to gauge his face.

"We'll cuddle. I"ll cuddle you."

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe pressed a perfect hand to the side of his face. It made him feel a little bit better. Quickly, she was assuring him that they didn't have to cook at all. She had some soup ready to go in the fridge— she could heat that up for them, and Jack was nodding. Soup sounded really good.

She hugged him, wrapping her arms around his middle, assuring him that he had nothing to be sorry over. She hugged him tightly, promising that there was nothing he couldn't tell her. She wanted to squeeze all of the sad out of Jack— he wished that it worked that way. He hugged her in return, never wanting to pull away, rubbing her back gently. He loved her so much— did she know? Jack would have given up everything to be with her for the rest of his life. That's how serious this felt for him. When had that happened? How had it happened?

Phoebe kissed him, and Jack relaxed a little. It was nice. Kissing her felt really, really nice. He kissed her back, having missed the way she tasted for the last several weeks. They still kissed occasionally, when they hooked up, but not like this.

Whenever Phoebe pulled away, she promised that they would cuddle. He nodded once.

"Okay," he finally said, feeling like she'd somehow given him the strength to hold on for just a few more minutes. They could eat the soup, and they could cuddle right after. Okay. Jack could wait. He nodded, but he didn't pull away from Phoebe. He just hugged her tighter for a few more seconds.

"Can we just eat out of one bowl?" He wondered, figuring that it was probably inconvenient. It was a childish request, and Jack almost felt bashful for requesting it. He was on the verge of asking if they could sit in the same chair, somehow? Or better yet, could Phoebe sit in his lap? Could Jack just wrap his arms around her while she ate?

He finally untangled himself from her for now, though it left his chest aching. He reached for his cup of water, taking a few more sips. Large, big sips, hoping that it sobered him up somehow. He felt very unmoored, drifting and anxious, and so, so sad. He wanted to stop talking about it. He wanted to stop bringing it up. He wanted to stop saying sorry and look to the future instead. He wanted Phoebe's optimism and kindness.

Could he learn it? Would she teach him?

He found his way back to the counter, slowly and without much grace at all. He leaned back against the counter, watching Phoebe, not daring to ever look away. Already, the space between them hurt— but she needed it to make the soup.

"I've missed your food," Jack admitted, and even that made him sad. No homemade breads or soups in his kitchen. Not since he'd broken her heart. "Nothing tastes as good as the stuff you make."

[phpruitts]

Jack shakes his head— the motion causing his hair to sway softly, hair that Phoebe loves to stroke, hair that Phoebe would bury her face into in Vermont. Was there any sweeter way to sleep? And now she could have that again.

Jack was apologizing, insisting that he'd be here, all week, and that Phoebe would get sick of him.

A noise erupts.

"No way. Jack, I wanna like, handcuff myself to you, I literally could never get sick of you. I'm just glad you're here, okay. It's okay. I'm just glad you're here."

She shifts to kiss him— a kiss to his temple, his hairline, the curling line of his ear.

There was one thing that Jack's father seemed not to understand. Well. One of several things, actually, but what Phoebe had noticed, what had scraped away and irritated her was his father's assumption of Jack's attitude. Like he was glib about it all? Careless, regarding Jack's future. From what Phoebe had noticed, Jack was very, very, very hard on himself. Extremely hard, excruciatingly hard. He judged himself to a degree that made Phoebe ache for him— and she wished that his father could see that.

It makes her ache now, the sadness in his eyes.

Which is why, when Jack begins scrubbing at his tears, insisting that he didn't need anything from her, that she didn't have to do anything, Phoebe fills with a newfound determination.

'I just wanna be here with you, and do whatever you want. I just want to be here. That's it.'

'Really, just— whatever you want, I'm fine with that? I woke you up— I'm so sorry. It's so late. If you want to go back to sleep, we can go to bed. I don't mind,'

Jack manages to rise off the floor— offering a hand to Phoebe despite being drunk. Quick as a wink, she's following him, taking his hand for the pleasure of it, so that she, actually, can make sure Jack doesn't tumble. Though. Fuck. After weeks of missing him, there's nothing quite like feeling his palm against hers.

"I'm actually starving," Phoebe says, sidling up to Jack with a smile. "And I really, really love you. And what makes me happy is cooking a meal with you. So ... I wanna make something to eat with you. And hold your hand while I do it, even if it's inconvenient."

She wasn't starving. Not really. But Jack is drunk, on his feet, and she loves to cook with him, loves any opportunity to be close, and she knows Jack wouldn't ask for a meal himself, even if it would help stave a hangover. So. She's starving now! Famished!

Food was filling. Comforting. Food had a way of settling you down.

Tragically, briefly, Phoebe has to let go of Jack's hand, if only to check the contents of the fridge. Get the pair of them some water. She selects two cups— identical, depicting two pucker-lipped fish kissing. 'You're my sole-mate!' they read. Phoebe thinks it's cute. She'd never heard of the species before, but was an outrageous sucker for gift shop purchases. One day— if she's lucky— she can take Jack to the Shedd Aquarium. Hold his hand. Point out the sole buried in the sandy floor.

Jack was back. He was here with her, and loves her, and they still get their future. They still can have everything— this is another chance. Phoebe takes her pitcher of water from the fridge, infused cucumber and strawberry, she thought that might be nice, and presents the cup to Jack.

"I have a healing potion for you," she says, leaning in for another kiss.

Well— cucumber and strawberry wouldn't hurt, right? And what was it you were supposed to eat to combat hangovers? Or prevent? Carbs, right? And protein and fats? Phoebe scrapes inside her brain for recipe ideas, things that could help Jack even in the slightest.

"And— mmm. We could make a couple of things. I have chicken, and we could have sandwiches with chicken breast and provolone and avocado and bacon? Or we could make a pasta with the chicken?"

That was protein, and carbs, and fat, right? Breads or pasta, cheese and butter and chicken? They were tasty and could help! And sandwiches— well. Jack loves sandwiches, and Phoebe too, and the heat of the pan, cuddled together at the stove ... it reminds her of Vermont. But any opportunity to be close to Jack is perfect. That's all she wants. To keep him on his feet, to keep him okay, to feel his warmth and look at Jack and know he's right here.

[jacksonekennedy]

Phoebe was always so good at reassuring Jack. He wondered how she got that way? So patient and selfless. Was it something she'd been taught? Could someone show Jack to be that way, too? Someday? Was it inherited? And as if to prove his point, Phoebe was kissing his face all over. Jack didn't deserve all of this, but he was too drunk to put up a fight.

Jack accepted it for now, tried to keep his feelings at bay. They were a little hard to manage, even sober, but especially when he was drunk the way that he was.

Phoebe told Jack that she was hungry, and she loved him, so she wanted to make something to eat with Jack, hold his hand while she did it, no matter how inconvenient.

"I don't know how much help I'll be," he admitted, shuffling over to the kitchen, not far behind Phoebe. She pulled out her infused water, pouring him a cup. She called it a healing potion, which made him smile a little. Immediately, Jack was drinking, hoping it really did have healing properties, hoping it somehow sobered him up and avoided the brutal hangover that was certainly awaiting him. In the moment, Jack was fully committed to repenting, so he wasn't even worried about twelve hours from now, when he woke up with a splitting headache and a sour stomach. He wasn't even worried about not having his special pills that always helped subside his wicked hangover. (Or, at the very least, helped him sleep through it).

Jack was going to get sober after this— he was really going to try. No more pills, no more alcohol, no more mistakes. No more broken promises. No more hurting Phoebe.

As Phoebe presented Jack with the options for their meal, he pressed his weight against a counter, hoping to keep himself steady.

"Ummm," he began, weighing both options inside of his head. Honestly? Jack wasn't very hungry at all. He felt raw, overexposed, and exceptionally clingy. He just wanted to be around Phoebe— have her pressed against him for as long as humanly possible. He felt hypothermic, and being against her was the only thing that would ever get him to feeling back to normal. "You pick," Jack insisted. "I just want to be by you. I want to eat whatever you want to eat."

Jack walked toward Phoebe in that tiny kitchen, placing his cup down on the counter. He slowly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him, resting his chin on the top of her head. He hugged her tight, chin resting at the top of her head.

"I'm sorry. I just love you. I want to eat whatever you want. I love you, and I'm sorry about everything."

Jack knew that he sounded like a broken toy, repeating the same thing again and again, but he didn't know if he'd ever get over the shame of what he'd done to Phoebe. It was the alcohol— it had him stuck in a loop, had him remembering the moment he told Phoebe that he didn't love her, the way he'd sort of kicked her out of his room? After a week of ignoring her, when she only ever wanted to help him?

And now— she was determined to make him a meal, offering him kisses and healing potions, even when they weren't deserved.

"Phoebe," Jack began, throat tightening yet again. He wasn't going to cry. "I feel ... really sad about everything I've done." His bottom lip trembled, and he stared ahead, eyes locked on the wall, blinking rapidly in an attempt to ward off any lingering tears. "I feel mostly sad about what I did to you. And how you're treating me now— wanting to feed me, and letting me stay."

Jack paused, finally unwrapping himself from around her. He leaned back against the counter.

"I just feel sad," he said again, voice quieter. "I'm sorry for feeling sad, and for bringing it up now. I just— I want to eat whatever you make, but I also just want to— like, hug you for a really long time."

Jack stared down at his feet for a few short moments. His world was moving in slow motion. So was he.

"And so... maybe whatever you do make— it can be something really fast and easy so that we can eat it really fast and easily, and so I can hug you for the rest of the night?"