Jack was supposed to be alone on the roof. All he wanted was a minute alone with the sunrise and silence before handoff with Robby. But when he climbs the stairs (huffing slightly because his leg’s been digging into his skin for the past 3 hours) and finally gets to the roof, he finds you already there.
In his spot.
And panic shoots through him for a second because no one else ever goes past the railings. Not Robby, not the doordasher, certainly not you.
You don’t move an inch when he closes the door behind him, the lock clicking as he turns it. Robby can eat shit.
“I’ve thought about it too, y’know?”
He can just barely catch your eyes opening, gaze lowering to stare out at the orange-red horizon blooming over the city.
“‘bout what?”
You try to sound calm but there’s a slight unsteadiness to your voice. It’s barely noticeable but Jack catches it.
It’s you, of course he does.
“About what it would be like to let go. To forget about the injuries and the screams and the blood and just take a step or two forward. About how it’d feel to have free air replace the concrete under your feet and have the weight lifted off your chest for just a second. To find a moment of tranquility within the chaos.”
He sees your jaw clench, chest rise and fall as you take in a breath.
“Yeah,” you let out breathlessly and even with your back turned to him, he can picture the tired smile on your face. The one he thinks about a little too much to admit, “Sounds pretty damn nice, doesn’t it?”
He closes the gap between you, white-knuckled hands planted on the railing separating you from him.
His voice is low, quiet and gentle in a way you’ve come to associate with Jack Abbot, “But it won’t last as long as you hope. Never worth the disappointment of reality.”
The silence is thick, heavy. More deafening than the fireworks that make Jack flinch, a rare occurrence that melt his stone-cold facade. The same fireworks that made you cover his hand with yours one new year’s eve on the park bench. The half-drunk beer cans beside you lukewarm and long forgotten. He’s reminded of the way you squeezed his hand lightly and how he’s been chasing the warmth of your skin against his ever since.
A moment passes before you turn your head to face him, eyes finding the unyielding gaze already locked in to you.
“Your therapist teach you that?”
Then he’s back to Dr Abbot again, face flat and voice devoid of emotion.
“No. But yours should.”
Jack can’t tell if the noise you let out is a laugh or a scoff, “I don’t have therapist.”
He makes a similar sound.
“Fuckin’ figures.”