♣ ACE IN THE HOLE

• The defiant self is his own master, but he is a king without a country. -- Jack Ryan -- independent RP blog •

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

It takes a moment for Rider to respond; her eyes still lingering on the page of her book, drinking in the details. She speeds through the end of the chapter, careful not to skip on the enthralling descriptions of the the prince and his lover. Finally done, she lifts her gaze and blinks – once, twice, but not a third time – at Jack. 

She raises a hand in greeting, smiling.

“Hello.”

Rather then return to the book, however, Rider’s eyes flick between Jack and the bag in his hand. The edge of her eyes crinkle, very slightly. Enthralling as a the novel is – princes and princesses and gorgon-like terrors – it’s less appealing, compared to Jack, and his sudden cake.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had upside-down pineapple cake,” she says, squinting at the bag. Lacking x-ray vision, Rider sees little through the white plastic, besides an obscure shape. It’s large, though. Did Jack enjoy such large cakes? Thinking about it, they did have the habit of running into each other around food. He was probably a big eater, now that Rider considered it. 

God knew how much she could eat, given the freedom to do so.

“But this gives me the perfect opportunity to, I suppose.”

Book left on the couch, Rider moves to the kitchen. It’s not lavish; not by her own standard, at least. But it’s homely, and sleek. A glass bench, and stainless steel appliances lined neatly beside one another. She digs through a cupboard, and pulls out a large plate; looking between it and the strange, awe-inspiringly big cake Jack had brought.

Searching through the cutlery, Rider watches Jack loiter in her peripherals. He doesn’t move from his spot. In fact, he hardly moves at all – statuesque, with the morning sun on his socks. Rider smiles at the sight. 

“You can come further in, if you wish. Make yourself at home.” She waves a hand at the couch. “The house is stale, mainly due to a lack of visitors. That would be my fault. I’m something of a recluse, though I guess that’s hard to tell.”

Plates and cutlery set, straight and orderly on the bench top, Rider gestures.

It was time for cake.

[tuzvrukave]

Jack nodded when Rider smiled at him in greeting—God, what a smile it was. But as she stared at the size of his package, he cursed Mary silently. Sure, she still hadn’t grown out of that strange stage where she saw Jack s a ‘growing boy’ and used that as an excuse to assault him with all manner of perishable goods—sometimes Jack didn’t even have to go to the supermarket, what with this woman constantly keeping him fed.

“Oh, well, it’s pretty good stuff, if I say so myself.” What was he talking about? He didn’t really know. All he knew was that he needed to keep making small talk. Yes. That’s what people did, right? “Not that I made it, mind you.” There was no point in hiding it, he thought. “You, uh, remember Mary? She was the one who owned that cafe? She happened to have a spare cake lying around, and...” He shrugged, letting that train of thought die a discreet death. “She thought it’d go to waste with her, you know?”

“It’s not the worst house I’ve been in.” It was probably one of the nicest, but that went unsaid. With her invitation given, Jack moved forwards, trying not to slip on the smooth tiles of Rider’s floors.

He found a place—across from his host—and gently set the bag on the table. With the crinkle of plastic, Jack began to unwrap the cake he’d brought. It was a beautiful thing, sticky with the caramelized juices of the pineapple giving the entire cake a gentle sheen. Mary really had outdone herself this time, Jack thought to himself. Strangely enough, it seemed that the sight of the delicious dessert she had given him had wiped away some of Jack’s previous awkwardness.

“Nothing’s wrong with not being a people person.” He shot what he hoped would be a reassuring smile in Rider’s direction. “I’m afraid I’m quite the same.” With that, he slid a plate over to Rider, with what he hoped was a reasonably sized cake slice on top of it. “Here you go.”

When he had claimed a piece for himself, Jack deftly cut a small piece from the tip of the slice and bit into it. As he chewed, he not-so-subtly began to wait for Rider to take her first bite. 

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

Two weeks pass.

The world changes little in that time. Unless your nickname is Rider, in which case, it changes considerably. Between the proposal with Jack and several trifling conversations with her family, it’s as if the world is twisting into a knot of perpetual stress and headaches. Eventually – five days, four phone calls and an angry text battle with a friend of a friend – it works out.

Somewhat.

She’s not one to count her blessings before they become divine. There’s a cloud lingering over it all; a single wrong move, a smile out of place, and it will collapse atop of her head. Not that it worries Rider, much. She’s been through worse. Her family is a ball of emotional distress, but it’s one she can ignore, after a fashion.

Two weeks pass, and Rider contacts Jack. It’s a simple call, just to check on how he’s doing, and leave her address – in case he wants to stop by and discuss things, or just linger awkwardly on her porch, either way.

A day later, and the sound of a bike courses through her house. 

It takes her a moment to wonder who – of all the minor contacts and ineffectual acquaintances – knows she’s here. Then, slowly, she realizes.

‘I’ll stop by soon,’ he had said. 

Rider had assumed ‘soon’ meant in a week or three, but perhaps they simple measure time differently. Unless it’s not Jack; in which case, she had no obvious idea on how to deal with them.

The sound of footsteps echo up her stairs, and then a knock comes at the door.

“Come in,” she calls from the living room, neatly curled on her couch with a book in hand. She’s two chapters away from the hero breaking down the door, rescuing the princess, and passionately kissing her. There’s no way Rider’s moving. 

“The door’s open. Leave your shoes outside,” she adds, a little louder, before flicking back to her page.

[tuzvrukave]

Rider lived in the newer part of town—the part that was all seaside ‘villages’ and ‘local delicacies’ and the rest of that prettied-up crap made to draw in the ever-growing hordes of tourists. But even Jack had to admit that the house that she lived at was very nice. Secluded, too. He didn’t even know that they had built homes in this part of the island, for whatever reason.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Jack kicked off his riding shoes and set them beside the umbrella stand. Her home was sleek and minimalist in a very modern way; Rider was living in the sort of place that you saw in those interior design magazines that you read in the waiting room at your local clinic. However, this apartment had... well, Rider. She looked... cozy, curled up on the couch with a paperback novel in hand. 

That was a little odd. Jack didn’t know that she liked books, but then again what did he know about her, past that she was mysterious and imposing and almost ridiculously pretty?

“Hi there.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” No, of course you’re not interrupting anything, whispered a small voice in the back of his head. Stop staring at her!

To (hopefully) conceal his wandering gaze, Jack stepped forward, edging past a steel-and-glass monstrosity he barely recognized as a dining table.

“Do you like pineapple upside-down cake?” He indicated the plastic bag hanging from his left hand. “Uh, I just so happened to have some lying around...”

That wasn’t exactly a lie, as Jack had spent a considerable period of time agonizing over its existence, after Mary had practically thrown it at him when she learned—accidentally; a slip of the tongue was a terrible thing—that Jack was going to visit ‘that pretty woman you ate lunch with the other week’. He had barely managed to fend off her steady escalation of baked goods by taking her oatmeal raisin cookies for his own consumption. Though, on second thought, Jack realized that he could’ve just taken the cookies.

Not to say that the cake was bad. It was pretty good—he’d had it before, and Jack considered it as one of Mary’s strongest dishes—but it just felt... weird, bringing a whole goddamn cake here. As per the norm, Mary had baked a very large cake. As in ‘family of four plus change’ large. Which was really embarrassing, which went without saying.

Plus, Jack was acutely aware that out of all times he’d met her, two of those times had involved food. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he didn’t want Rider to associate him with food, like he was a glutton or something.

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

Spur of the moment deals aren’t her forte. Such things should be fairly obvious by now, and Rider’s attempts at selling the deal only make it moreso – and yet, there is hope. Unsteady as she is – though the bussiness of deals and two-way talk is a family trait, a little weaker in the younger sister than the others – Rider pushes on.

Jack needs a break. He needs to succeed in something.

She wants him to succeed, strange as the thought it.

And just like that, he accepts. Hesitant, as one would except, but it’s far smoother than what she originally envisioned. Well, from the little idea she had, at least. Even so, they come to a mutual agreement – things will need to be arranged; people called, family… instructed through an email from a proxy account, but it doesn’t have much weight on the current situation.

No: now the deal is done, there’s just two people here, sharing tea.

“I wouldn’t call you a moron if you had chosen to turn me down,” she says, softly. “Cautious, maybe. But moronic? Hardly so.” The same can’t be said for her, though. Rider can almost see her sister’s response now – feel the nausea at the back of her throat as it climbs slowly. 

In comparison to her, Jack is practically an intellectual. 

“Still, I’m glad to see you accept it.” A coy smile follows, and stays there. It’s strange; she doesn’t tend to smile so much around strangers – men especially. But Jack is hardly confrontational, if threatening at all. He’s more like a puppy, really; something small and fluffy with round, glassy eyes. Cute, but not sweetly so. 

Guess we should shake on this.

“Hm, I guess we should.”

Thanks to the advent of technology, Rider has never closed a deal by shaking hands. Not once. But the world is constantly changing, and so the status quo never stays the same for long. She extends a hand, taking Jack’s in her own with a squeeze. Not too hard, but not overtly gentle, either. She’s shown enough softness for one day.

“Glad to be working with you, Jack.”

[tuzvrukave]

“Psh. This is a pretty sweet deal. Even I can see that.” As he speaks, he sees that distant look come into her eyes again. She was probably thinking up how to arrange everything for their little arrangement.

She seems serious about this—coy smile aside—for better or for worse. An odd feeling came over Jack at that moment: the feeling that he was entering a new chapter in his life, as silly the phrase sounded. He wonders how meeting this woman would make any further changes in his life...

“Glad to be working with you too, Rider.” She had a nice handshake, that much Jack was sure of. His father loved to wax lyrical about sweaty-handed men with a handshake like a dead fish, but he probably would have nothing to complain about if he shook this woman’s hand.

One of these days, he thinks as he returns her smile with a smaller, meeker one of his own, he’d have Rider explain where that nickname of hers came from...

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

Charity is the last thing Rider gives. She’s no angel – the opposite, if you asked anyone who knew her, but she knew the look of someone with great potential and only a handful of options. That was Jack. If the world wasn’t going to cooperate, then Rider would simply force its hand; even if that meant tying herself to him, for however long.

She sets her cup aside and waits. 

It’s strange, how he manages to surprise her still. She half expects Jack to turn down her offer – mutter something masculine about accepting help from strangers and all that. Instead he accepts, and smiles something genuine, too. It’s a good start.

Then, of course, he asks what he’ll be doing. She pauses at the thought, then kicks herself for overstepping her already tight boundaries. Vague ideas and good intentions will only get you so far in this world. 

Even so, Rider refuses to submit to defeat so easily.

“Ah.” She takes a moment to collect herself; thoughtfully tilting her head to the side. “Right, well. There are a number of things but for now… continue to take photos.” Rider nods, leaning back. “I’ll pay you a commission for it, and pass them along to interested parties. If they’re used at any point, I’ll forward the money to you.”

Ever so slightly, Rider’s tone begins to rise – enthusiasm bleeding through. Another not-so-subtle failure on her part. “A number of people do it these days. Consider me a middle man, of sorts. I know a number of corporations and editors who’d love these sorts of pictures.”

“Some would pay up to seven digits for them, even!” She would know, after all. “Ah, but I’m getting… ahead of myself again, I’m sorry. This is only if you’re comfortable with such an arrangement, Jack. If not, I have a number of things you could do. But… I’d like for you to continue pursing photography. Don’t give up on it so easily.”

Somewhere – between talking and the rising excitement of it all – Rider manages to lean in once more. A few inches from Jack’s face, in fact. Not that it bothers her too much.

She blinks at him, pulling back slowly. “What do you say to that, then?”

[tuzvrukave]

Jack wasn’t expecting anything like this, really. It sounded like a long-term agreement, the kind that more experienced and better-known photographers got. And to top it off, it came so soon after their initial meeting. Rider either had some devious ulterior motive for being so helpful, or she genuinely saw something—a something that Jack apparently had missed—in him. And today, Jack was willing to believe that it was the latter. Just a little bit.

He wanted to smile when Rider’s enthusiasm began to show. It was rather endearing to see the collected—cold?—woman speak in such a fashion.

“I’d like for you to continue pursuing photography.” That was a surprisingly direct statement. One Jack mused on for a few seconds. It was a very supportive statement... and it made Jack feel surprisingly good about himself, so much so that he didn’t notice that his cheeks were flushed.

Sure, Rider was selling it pretty well—maybe even overselling it, just a little bit, but... well, you know what they say about gift horses.

“I guess I’d be a moron to turn this down.” He smiles at her. “I’d be happy to accept your offer, Rider.” Jack looks at his hands for a moment, then extends one towards her, almost hesitantly. “Guess we should shake on this, huh?”

Jack’s previous work experience wasn’t really formal—in such a small town, everyone knew everyone else, so for smaller jobs they saw little purpose in formalized practices like contracts and such—so he was going on shaky ground here, but... well, he had to try and show that he really meant what he had just said to her.

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

Sometimes you leave your skeletons in a closet. It’s not the best place to, of course. Who knows who’d go through your things and find it, hanging garishly amongst your pyjamas. Rider, on the other hand, prefers to bury them six feet under, and never speak of them again. Unless she chooses to bring them up – which she just did, rather obviously.

Oh well. It’s out in the open, now, and Jack doesn’t seem to be taken aback by it. That’s a plus. Sort of. (Quietly, she hopes he’ll forget she said anything in the first place. Let it die, unspoken and unmentioned).

In the meantime, Rider sips her tea (now warm, with the heat licking the back of her throat) and considers. She does what she’s known for: listens. Nods, when appropriate. She ruminates on her idea – something that’s more scraps and vague pondering then something solid, in all honesty. But she wants to help Jack, so half-formed ideas will have to do.

“If you feel that way then… don’t go back. Ever.” She toys with her cup, lets her fingers trace the chipped edge of its motley floral pattern. “Even if he is your father, he has no right to treat you as any less. Even if people say it’s ‘right’ to seek reconciliation because of blood ties, they don’t know the blood between you may be bad.”

Again, she’s speaking from experience; vaguely worded to appease Jack’s situation. Rider tries, this time, to be subtle about it. 

“You say there’s a studio in town. Hmm, are you interested in it?” She inclines her head, lets the bulk of her hair fall in cascades across Jack’s couch. They look like snakes, if you squint. “You don’t sound like you are… Jack. What do you say to this: I hire you. Work for me. If only to get you off the ground, at first.”

She leans in a little closer. “What do you say?”

[tuzvrukave]

Jack took another sip from his tea before he replied.

It seemed she had her own demons. It was... a little nice. Not in the way that he was enjoying the idea that Rider had her own family troubles, no, but in the way that she and him had some common ground.

“I...” His instinct was to reject her rather generous offer. It smelt of charity and his father... well, he’d never accept it. His pride was... well, it was something that Jack absolutely despised about his father. But... if his father would’ve done one thing, it was usually Jack’s intent to do the exact opposite. While that was probably not the smartest thing to do, when he thought about it, but in this case... it seemed like a pretty good idea. “I guess I can live with that.” He smiled, in what he hoped was a genuine manner. “Which is... yes. Yes, I’ll work for you.”

A moment passes.

“Um, we should talk about... exactly what I’d be doing for you, right? I mean, what exactly will I be doing, under you?” He coughs--totally not in a nervous way, oh no--when she leans in, but regains his composure. “You know what I mean, right?”

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

Long stories, as Rider has found, are never really long.

The one telling said story makes an effort to cut as much (unnecessary) detail as possible, until nothing but the raw reason is left behind. Unless the storyteller is an overly talkative person – something Jack doesn’t seem, from what she’s gathered.

Even so, she braces for what may come. Takes the dainty cup of tea and nurses it in her hand, hovers over the brownies with little grace, before plucking one and devouring it whole. Then, after preparations are complete,  she listens. Jack pauses frequently through the explanation, drawing the final conclusion out. But at last he says what he needs to: revealing why, exactly, he doesn’t work at the newspaper any more.

Still, in spite of this sudden trust, Rider says little. “Huh,” is all she really offers, after a momentary lapse of silence.

She look at her tea. Then, slowly, she reaches for one of Jack’s photos – a strange mirror of what he did, not long before. She turns the photo over, running a finger down the edge. It’s one of the many landscape photos – one of the water, a dead calm on a foggy day. It reminders her of a dark mirror and in some strange fashion, her sisters.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out soft, a little muffled from the way she hangs her head. “I didn’t… want to drag up such things. It was impolite of me. I shouldn’t have asked.” But she did, and now it’s out in the open, for both of them to see.

Taking a sip of tea, Rider sits back. Something in her spine makes it difficult to relax, let alone get comfortable. Eventually she scoots back to the couch’s edge, frowning. “Family is… difficult. I think everyone experiences that at some point in their life. Some smother, and others cast you into their shadow. You either fight back, and get hurt, or stay silent and suffer.” Not speaking personally. Oh no. Of course not.

“But… barring reconciliation with your father… Jack, how likely would it be for you to take up photography again? As a job, I mean. Is it possible in this city?” 

An idea begins to form, slowly but surely.

[tuzvrukave]

He remained silent as Rider revealed something he thought was quite personal. The way she spoke on it... to Jack, it seemed she had her own skeletons in the closet. Even he could understand that... and was silently thankful for her own frankness.

“Huh?” For a moment he wondered at her apologetic tone—it provided a sharp contrast with the smirking tease back at the cafe. “No, no. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” He gestures with his empty cup in a manner he hoped was reasurring. “Just about everyone in town knows about me and my dad. It’s something of a local legend.”

“There’s nothing stopping me from going back, I guess.” He spoke with a dash of dry amusement in his tone. “Except my own pride.” He toyed with a brownie, his gaze flickering from Rider to his cup and back again. The next time Jack made eye contact, he smiled. “He’s a real bastard, so I don’t think I’ll be crawling back to him any time soon.”

“As for another job, I’m not really hurting for a lack of... any openings. Though there aren’t a lot of weddings going on here. But I guess I could. Just gotta find a place that needs a photographer.” He took the flower-pattered teapot and refilled his cup. “There’s a studio where they shoot stock photography here, I think.” His tone indicated an utter lack of interest in the position.

He wondered at her question, but assumed she’d reveal her intent in due time. It was... nice, to have someone respond to this little spat of his without bringing up the reconciliation thing as something Jack had to do, or generally blathering on about blood being thicker than water...

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

She teeters gently on couch’s edge, peering carefully over the album with a discerning eye. It’s a large thing – larger then first expected. But this is good, she thinks. Photography is not just a passing hobby to Jack, as first suspected. 

“ Ah, it’s fine. ,” she says, flicking back and forth between photos of neon light streets and a burnt out car parks. There’s a sense of familiarity in Jack’s work – something Rider only now begins to pick up on. Whether it is of people, bundled together and enjoying their lives, or a desolate beach, swathed in fog, it invokes a feeling of ease. Was it ease? It’s hard to say. It soothes her, in its own way. Tugs at something long buried. 

She puts a hand to this thing – this feeling, that burns too bright and a little too hot – and pushes down. Smothers it, until there’s naught but embers in her heart and smoke filled lungs. 

Rider blinks at Jack. “Tea is good,” she nods. Her tongue is lost for a moment, wandered off some place. God knows where. She frowns, and recollects herself. “Milk, one sugar. Thank you.”

Gently, Rider arranges the photos before her: slips them out of their sheets and turns them over in her hand. Slowly, but surely. Eventually they’re strewn across the coffee table in a strange pattern (if you could call it that. Maybe if you squint, just a little). 

“You’re quite good, Jack.” She turns, watching him skitter about the kitchen. Hums a little, amused. “Why were you fired from your last job? It was at the newspaper, wasn’t it? Strange.”

[tuzvrukave]

There was tension in the air—or at least in the air surrounding Jack as he fussed around in the kitchen, preparing two cups of tea and... something to eat. The tray of store-bought brownies that he chose was, thank God, fresh enough for him to consider good enough to serve. Hell, he hadn’t even opened them yet. Thank you Mary, he thought, and your tendency to bake too much. What little relief he had from the sudden appearance of the baked goods was stolen away by the rather... piercing question that Rider leveled at him.

Thankfully, his back was turned when she asked that question. He couldn’t blame her, really. He could’ve lied, said he was still with the paper, or not have said anything at all. He was already nervous enough with her checking out his work—he did want to know what she was thinking, what she thought of his photography.

When he exited the kitchen, carrying a tray with a surprisingly dainty-looking tea set, with the brownies sitting beside them in their comparatively dull Tupperware container.

He took one and popped it into his mouth. He then chewed it thoroughly into a paste, then swallowed. A moment passed, and Jack took one of the photographs that Rider had removed from the album. It was a photograph depicting the main avenue of their sleepy town.

“Ah. Thank you. I guess I’m alright.” Again, he paused, clearly reluctant to answer, but he eventually continued. “It’s... a long story.” He sat down across from her, with his own cup of tea sitting on a saucer. Unlike her, he took his tea straight. He took a sip—frowning and resisting the urge to splutter as he accidentally burned his tongue—then sets it down on the table. “My dad owns the local paper, among other things. So when he and I had a major falling out.” He took another sip, satisfied that he didn’t burn himself again. “As in. Really major. Never-see-you-again-barring-death major.” He shrugged. “I still get by, but, you know, it’s not the same, really.”

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

He meets her at the door – a frazzled thing, clad in a cream coloured sweater. 

It takes a small amount of Rider’s will power – and better half, the polite part of her – not to laugh. It slips through her grasp, and she smiles (just a little) as he invites her inside. She steps through, quiet and observant; spying an old, bulky computer sitting off to the side and a fern, left in the corner. 

She turns in a small circle, taking in the sight of the apartment. It’s homely, she thinks once more. Small, but not. It’s definitely not a one-room apartment, with a bed that slides into the wall, at least.

“It’s fine,” she says, waving a hand. Done with quietly cataloguing the items she could see, she folds her arms and stands off to the side. Not unlike the fern next to her, really. “Ah, a cup of coffee would be nice. If that’s okay with you.” She’s not sure why she says that last part, and internally shakes her head at it.

She blinks, realizing he’s trying to make small talk. 

It’s not her forte, really. But then none of this was – social gatherings and communication were listed at the very bottom of her skill set. She’d curse herself for it, if Jack wasn’t equally abysmal at it. Or he’s just nervous. Either way, they’re playing on the same field.

“Oh. Good.” She nods, though she’s not entirely sure why. She’s just doing it for the sake of it. “Well, sort of,” she adds. “The walk, I mean. Not the oncoming storm. That’s… less than good.”

There’s an urge to just turn and leave – walk out of the apartment and maybe keep walking until she hits the open ocean. She shoves it down and leaves it there, in the dark, with her embarrassment.

“Clouds are starting to roll in, but it’s not storming yet,” she says, flatly. It comes out more deadpan then the norm. She fiddles with something to fill the heavy silence between them. “A-Anyway, the photos. Uh, and that coffee, too.”

Then, after a moment, she points at his couch and blinks. “Can I sit?”

[tuzvrukave]

“Yeah. It is.” He mirrored her own nod, before moving to the back of the living room, towards the kitchen. He answered her question just as he passed through to the next room. “Oh, yeah, yeah--go right ahead.” 

Why’d she ask to sit down? After a moment’s puzzling Jack relegated it into the quickly growing queue of questions surrounding this woman who was patiently sitting on his couch, in his apartment.

As soon as he had done this, he was able to fully grasp the consequences for his inability

“Uh. I’m out of coffee.” His tone was grave, as if he was giving Rider a gloomy diagnosis for some life-threatening disease. He worked up the nerve to poke his head out from around the corner to where she was sitting on his couch.

 “Is tea okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he ducked back behind the corner and bustled around the kitchen. “I, uh, forgot to run to the supermarket before you came here.”

The photo album sitting on the time-worn coffee table before Rider contained some of Jack’s earliest work--that alone could be discerned by the date written in his spidery handwriting on the album’s cover. 

Inside were a large variety of photos, ranging from the usual landscape shots--it was amazing how one was hard-pressed to run out of things to photograph, even if it was just another section of the same stretch of beach, or another clearing in the same forest. But these were the minority: the majority of the photographs focused on town they were in right now, as well--they were clearly dated by the make of parked cars and the clothes worn by the few men and women who actually showed up in his photographs.

While no one could claim that Jack’s hometown was anything but sleepy, Jack’s photographs had exaggerated that quality, turning it into a ghost town haunted by a handful of grim-faced specters...

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

A private exhibition was one way of looking at the situation. 

It was a strict and business way of numbing things. Made it easier to swallow, in its own way. Once you stripped things down, though, it was just a visit to someone’s home. Not a friend, or an acquaintance. At this point, Rider’s unsure on how to classify the strange, sweater-clad photographer named Jack. She’s equally unsure on why she’s following through with this idea, too.

He was a stranger she had taken passing interest in, and nothing more.

Right?

No.

It wasn’t that simple. But then, it wasn’t all too complicated either. She was interested in him and his work – that much was true. And the rest? Well, she’d find out soon enough.

It’s the afternoon, and her phone flashes as a reminder not to be late. She’s not. Rider’s never late, she’d made it a point to be punctual with everything, even visits to someone’s home on the weekend. For the third time since leaving, Rider checks the message he’d sent, and double checks she’s heading in the right direction. 

Jack’s house isn’t much. It’s not big, or ostentatious, or offensive to the eye, as many apartments are, in Rider’s opinion. It suits him: simple and honest, and just a bit homely. The smell of salt, of ocean waves and sandalwood, hits her when she arrives at the door.

She knocks once, then a second time after pausing.

“It’s me,” she says, a little louder than normal.

[tuzvrukave]

Jack very nearly jumped when she knocked on the door.

He rushed—but not too hastily, so that his frantic footsteps could be heard from the other side of the door—opened the door.

Again, he had to marvel at her, and question the exact reason why she’d taken interest in him, or if this was some elaborate prank concocted by one of Jack’s few friends. Pushing the thought away, he stepped to the side, giving Rider passage into his humble home. Emphasis on humble—especially the ancient desktop computer that sputtered quietly in the background like a dying animal.

“Hey, come on in--and thanks for coming.” He stepped aside as she moved in—silently wondering if he should have been waiting for her at a more convenient location.

Jack really didn’t know what he was doing, but hopefully it wouldn’t show. Too much.

“Sorry for the mess.” Jack smiled in what he hoped was an apologetic manner. “Can I get you something to drink?”

As he asked her the question—as more of a reflex more than anything else—he had to wonder: what did he actually have to drink? Convenience store teabags, beer, diet soda that had lost all its fizz about three days ago, and of course water, but what kind of a drink was that...? As he ushered Rider into his humble abode, Jack silently cursed himself. He should have made a grocery run before Saturday rolled around.

Ah well—there was no helping it now. He’d have to make do with what he had. Didn’t make him feel any less nervous, though he thought he was keeping it to himself. Mostly.

“How was your walk? Weatherman says there might be rain soon, maybe even a thunderstorm. Would’ve been terrible if you got caught out in that.”

[tuzvrukave]

samsara (03): scrapbooks and photo albums

For what felt like the twelfth time that afternoon, Jack wondered if this was all a big mistake. By this, of course, he was referring to that... well, what was he supposed to call it? A private exhibition? Nothing so formal, surely--or one laden with double entendres. It was. Well. It was what it was, nothing more, nothing less.

But still. It had been years--literally--since he had the opportunity to show his work to someone new. Work at the newspaper didn’t count, due to the terrible falling-out he’d had with the editor, and besides, it wasn’t much fun to take pictures of quaint local oddities, now was it?

And so Jack was busy cleaning up his studio-apartment--normally he was a clean man to begin with, but recent events had caused him to forget his fastidious ways temporarily--and setting out his work, both those that had been printed and those that had never been (which outnumbered his printed works three to one.)

He felt... odd. Energetic. Sure, Rider was little more than a stranger, but he wondered (with only a little hopeful anxiety on his part) if she’d like his work. Then, Jack wondered if he was supposed to provide snacks for this sort of thing...

[7ns-deactivated20200918]

drawing jack is hard for multiple reasons bc like fandom draws him rly  twinky and small but he’s like 6’2” and thick canonically?????? dude swings a wrench and ppl die, idk what tO DO LMAO. he’s also like 24 but his model makes him look so old, g OD PLS I JUST NEED A CONSISTENT MODEL

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samsara (02): strangers, still

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

It dawns on him slowly. 

A few seconds more than necessary, but those scant seconds allow Rider to savour the look on his face; the slow change from blissful ignorance into pure, red-faced blushing. Jack’s countenance is that of a beetroot now – flushed and fully red, only lacking a stalk and some fine foliage. It mixes well with what he’s wearing, she thinks vaguely, popping the last piece of cake into her mouth.

She hums, though it comes out quiet and muffled beneath her rising laughter, and waves a hand at his flailing form. “It’s fine. I doubt you realized how it came across when you said it, anyway.” Yet she had, and in a single, fleeting moment, chose to run with it. It stops being funny after a few minutes.

She winces after a moment, averting her eyes as he continues his slow, spluttering breakdown. Eventually the waitress returns, much to their shared relief. Rider sighs and pushes her plate aside, watching the older woman turn to her; eyes sparkling something dark. Perhaps it’s revenge she’s looking for. Not that Rider can blame her. After that slow burning spectacle, she’s half willing to let it happen.

“How about you, Miss?”

She looks to the waitress and her bevy of complimentary items atop her tray then to Jack’s cup, and finally her own. Slowly she inclines her head into a half-nod. “Yes, thank you.” 

But still, the waitress lingers like an unneeded afterthought. She scoops up their empty plates and Jack’s still-warm cup, smiling all the while. The temptation to ask why she’s so curious is there, on the tip of Rider’s tongue, just waiting to be spat. Yet she reclines. Pushes the thought to the back of her mind, and adds another spoon-full of sugar to her coffee.

Eventually she retreats off elsewhere, leaving them alone once more.

“So,” Rider starts, cupping her coffee between both hands. “When can I stop by your place? To look at your photos, I mean. Though you can count this as a sort-of date, if you want. I can’t promise anything beyond that.” Her lips tip into a smile and she laughs, once more, for good measure. A little kinder this time, however.

[tuzvrukave]

“Well, that’s good.” He pauses. “I guess.” That was certainly a train of thought that Jack wasn’t ready to follow. When Mary finally left the two of them alone—Jack was not sure if he wanted to strangle her or thank her profusely—Rider continued to speak, further cementing the fact that she was serious about seeing his work, rather than playing with him for whatever reason.

Then, as he quietly looked back at their conversation, Jack noted that she was having fun at his expense. Normally that was something Jack wouldn’t abide, to say the least—but for some reason, embarrassment aside... it wasn’t that bad, was it? He took a sip from his new cup of coffee, studiously ignoring the latter half of her sentence, instead focusing on her laugh. She had a pretty laugh, even if he was the butt of the joke that elicited it.

“Well, I’m free... pretty much all the time, so how does this Saturday sound?” He pulled out his phone, ready to exchange numbers with the woman.

That was what people did in this sort of situation, wasn’t it?

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

samsara (02): strangers, still

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

One cake remains. A small, pink, frilly thing; topped with a small flower of pure icing, smelling of sugar and cavities to come. Rider stares at it. She can hear her dentist now – tsk’ing softly, disappointing in her lacking vigilance against sweets, shaking his head, as he always does. Oh well. Rider takes a fork to it and splits the cake, spilling its soft, fluffy innards across her plate. That’s more gorey than necessary – cake’s don’t have innards, but Rider’s an imaginative person when need be.

She looks up, and regards Jack. Her gaze lowers to his cake, then back to him. Maybe that was too forward of her. The cake, and asking for a look at his photos. Embarrassment flickers through her mind, then disappears when Jack starts talking. 

“Really?” Unexpected, but it brings a small smile across her face. “Thank you.” Rider returns to slowly slicing her cake into small, mouth-sized pieces; popping another in her mouth. Jack trips over his words as he speaks, marginally better than before. Clumsy. Cute. Something escapes his lips – a sentence, nothing more – makes her stop.

She sets her fork aside and folds her arms across the table, business-like in the way she holds herself. She sits comfortably in her chair, regarding Jack with a snake’s stare. Part of her wants to lean over the table. But no, she holds back. That’s too intimidating, even for her.

“I’d like to,” she replies, coolly. “Though… you do know the implications of what you’re asking, right, Jack?” Rider inclines her head and smiles. Smirks, more like. Tight lipped and all teeth, her sisters would say. “You know. Come over to your house, see your photos. Maybe have some dinner. Who knows where’d that go? Ah, anywhere, if you’re imaginative enough.”

Rider chuckles, smooth as silk. There’s a great deal of joy, found in walking circles around this man.

[tuzvrukave]

She has a pretty laugh, he thought. It took his brain several moments to realize exactly why she was chuckling in the first place. Realization dawned upon him a split second later.

“What? Oh. Wow.” 

“No. That’s not what I meant. At... at all.” Jack could almost feel his heart stop right in his chest. “I’m really sorry. That was really inappropriate of me, wasn’t it?” To make matters worse he saw Mary in the background. She was stifling laughter with one meaty, balled up fist. She was, to Jack’s ever-mounting horror, enjoying the fruit of his egregious faux pas.

This was like high school, all over again. But he didn’t even like this girl, and it was happening when he was an adult, which made it infinitely worse! Jack spluttered on for a few more seconds, which only seemed to doom him further, before finally accepting the inevitable and falling silent.

Fortunately(?) Mary came in to the rescue, her expression miraculously returned to one of professional courtesy—though Jack thought he could still see a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

“You want a refill, Jack?”

“Yes, Mary, I’d love that. Very much.” Ignoring the fact that he had half a cup of coffee left—normally he’d despise being so wasteful, but the situation was so ghastly that Jack would accept the loss.

“How about you, Miss?” Not even Jack could miss the conspiratorial smile crossing Mary’s lined face, an expression Jack replied to with one of abject horror of his own, though he retained the grace to aim it only in Mary’s direction.

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

samsara (02): strangers, still

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

The waitress passes behind Rider to and fro, from table to table – glancing back, every so often. She has a clue she’s there, to a degree. Like someone glaring into the back of her skull, but less vindictive, more curious; not that it changes how rude it is. Rather than shoot daggers at the overtly curious woman, however, she goes to pick apart her food – a slow and methodical dissection of one of the cakes before her.

She pops a single sliver of the cake into her mouth. They’re sugary, soft and warm. Right out of the oven, but cooled enough not to scold your tongue. It’s all on purpose, to give him room to breathe. Jack settles, somewhat comfortable, and Rider, in turn, listens to him talk. His voice is nice; husky, but lacking that distinct gravel tone to it.

His shoulders slant an inch, and something close to embarrassment flashes across his face. It reminds Rider of a puppy, in a way. Bulldog, of course; the ones that look like they’d take your throat, but were soft when you got down to it and rubbed their stomach. 

She can’t help but quirk a smile at the idea – however It comes and goes like the wind, dissipating when he looks back at her. 

“You can call me Rider,” she says with a nod. “It’s more of a… nickname, I suppose. I prefer it to my real name, at any rate.” She regards him softly, dancing around the subject with little subtlety. Names. She disliked them, as much as she disliked a plethora of other concepts within the world. Besides, the last thing she wants is to flash her name around for all to see.

“It is nice to meet you, Jack. Properly this time.” She puts another piece of cake in her mouth and thinks. Regards the other cake with a flat stare, then pushes it over the table to Jack. “If I may… would you show me what you’ve photographed so far?” she asks, a soft murmur from her lips. “If you want. I don’t want to seem overbearing.”

[tuzvrukave]

Maybe it was just Jack, but he felt there was something... forced about the way Rider picked at her food. Or maybe that was just how she was--he wasn’t sure.

“Yes. It’s nice to meet you, too.” He nodded. What an odd name. But for some reason it was one that... fit her. For a moment Jack wondered what her real name was, but he dismissed it as she pushed her cake across the table, to him.

Jack stared at it for a moment as if it were an alien creature that had crawled up to say hello. She was the one who gave him the cake that she didn’t want to eat, so was it so rude to accept? No, he thought a moment later. It wasn’t. But it wouldn’t do to be so eager to eat it!

"O-overbearing?” Well, this was certainly unexpected. Jack smiled at her. “No, you wouldn’t be, not in the least.” He paused to think of a better thing to say--he didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already has. “I mean, sure. Yes, I’d love to show you my work.” 

He winced internally. Was that too eager of him? He didn’t want to come off as some weird loner who was suddenly graced by this pretty stranger who showed the least bit of interest in his life... ignoring the fact that he was in fact a weird loner who was graced by the attentions of this beautiful stranger. 

“Uhm, I got... a couple of albums of my stuff on a computer back at my place, or... well, uh. Do you want to see that? I’m sure I can dig something else up but--but that’s what comes to mind, my, er, main body of work.”

Unfortunately, Jack didn’t realize the exact implications (unintended as they were) in his answer to her query.

[zodgory]

Bioshock Characters (7/?): Jack

“They told me, ‘Son, you’re special. You were born to do great things.’ You know what? They were right.”

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

samsara (02): strangers, still

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

She regards the woman as she does everyone, brow raised and mouth set. Then, when it dawns that she’s the waitress – one familiar with the photographer, to boot – she expression softens, somewhat. There’s still ice, if you squint hard enough, but that’s just how it is for Rider. Her eyes flicker briefly to the menu, before returning to the waitress.

“Ah. Coffee, black, no sugar. And… one of those cute, frilly cupcakes, please.” She nods, then pauses. “No, wait. Make it three. Three cupcakes. That’s all, thank you.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

She’s unperturbed by the look the waitress gives her (a strange mix of mirth and slight confusion), as she jots down her order and retreats behind the counter. Rider watches her, a flat look in her eye, before she turns back to Jack.

“So you worked at the local paper for three years? That’s not too bad.” As if the waitress hadn’t appeared and interrupted them, Rider returns to the conversation at hand. “Do you do specialize in any particular style, or just.. do as you do? Photography, I mean. I suspect you don’t get much wildlife here, so you’d probably focus on landscapes.”

The waitress reappears not long after; two coffees in hand, and a tray of food she slides deftly between the two of them. She winks at Jack, before milling off after another customer. Rider blinks at her, then stirs her coffee during the quiet lull. Her cakes are especially frilly, and something about the looks of it stops her from eating them off the cuff.

“Your name is Jack,” she mutters, softly. It’s more an observation than anything, but it comes out odd, despite that. She lets it hang in the air for a moment. “It suits you.”

[tuzvrukave]

If only she knew the story behind that, he thought grimly. The story of his dismissal from the local paper wasn’t a pretty one, that much was for certain.

“Yeah, there’s not a lot going on around here.” It--talking to her--got a little better as time went on, he noted. Despite that, Jack still felt a little tense. Well, okay, more than a little, but this wasn’t so bad. Was it? “I do... er, did some work for a local travel agency; take snapshots of the cliffs... stuff like that. So, yeah, to answer your question, I’m best with landscapes. But I’m not... I mean I’m open to other stuff.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I did a couple of weddings--for friends and family, you know?--when I started off.”

In contrast to Rider’s reserve, Jack snatched the sandwich and took a bite as soon as it was set down on the table--pointedly ignoring Mary’s obvious wink all the while. He’d talk to her about that--later. 

 “I... thanks.” Was that a compliment? Jack reached out and poured some sugar--too much, actually--into his coffee. He took a sip--frowned again--then set his cup down onto the saucer. “Guess I should have introduced myself before. Sorry.” He smiled in embarrassment. “So... I guess you have me at a disadvantage.” As soon as he’d spoke Jack wondered exactly what prompted him to say such a wooden, cliched thing, and regretted it immensely. “What’s yours? Your name. I mean.”

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

samsara (02): strangers, still

[unbleue-deactivated20171219]

She doesn’t quite grasp why he’s embarrassed. There’s a reason. There’s always a reason, an explanation, to these things. But even so, she can’t seem to find it. Why is he so flustered? Unless it’s right in front of her – where it’s hardest to see.

Right in front of her.

Her.

Oh.

Wait, no. No, that can’t be right. Can it? No, of course not. She’s not all that pretty, not brilliant or bright or stunning, like her sisters. She was, well, her. It must be something else, she thinks. Maybe he’s nervous because… of the photo, maybe? Yeah, lets go with that. 

She pushes the idea of, god, such notions out of her mind and moves to the table. Seating herself, she fumbles with a napkin, then the cutlery, before shoving her hands into her lap. Deep breathes, now. A small part seems to recognize he’s sitting there, across the table from her; but its detached and floating off into unknown regions.

“Do you take yours with sugar or milk?” she asks, cool and calm.

God, what was she doing? 

She was just trying to be nice; a genuine person of the community. But now she’s thinking about – stuff, and it’s throwing her completely off course. She shakes her head and rests her hands on the table, business-like.

“So. How long have you been here, exactly?” Ah, small talk. Right, perfect way to clear away those awkward feelings. “Last time I saw you, you said you had worked for the local paper. Is that right?”

Some higher deity, please strike her down now.

[tuzvrukave]

The cafe was a quiet place run by an old Australian couple and their adopted daughter. Jack had been there hundreds of times, ever since he’d moved out of his father’s home and into his own apartment. He loved going here whenever he had time to kill–which was most of the time, when he thought about it. 

“Both.” He chuckled weakly. “Don’t forget the cream.”

“My whole life, actually.” A wistful smile came over his face. “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration–I moved around a lot during my college years, but afterwards I came back and settled down here.”

“And, yeah, yeah. I worked for the Asphodel Gazette for three years. Photographer… but… I guess that was obvious.“

He was interrupted by the arrival of Mary, the middle-aged co-owner of the cafe. She wore her usual stained apron and beatific smile on her careworn features. This time, it was tinged with curiosity, aimed at the stranger.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Hi, Jack.” She smiled at him in a way that meant ‘who is this?’ Jack gave a sheepish smile of his own–one that said ’I’ll tell you later, please leave us alone!’

“I’ll have a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich.”

“Sure thing.” She nodded as she scribbled it down, then turned to Rider.

"What about you, hon?”