Fic: play hearts, kid, they work well

[leigh57]

title: play hearts, kid, they work well
word count: 854
disclaimer: Do I have a disclaimer? Well, frequent brushing prevents cavities. So does not reading my Jack/Renee fic;)
warnings: show spoilers, language
a/n: This is a sequel to yes the heart should always go one step too far.

I'm technically not (quite) behind yet, but this was supposed to be posted on the 3rd. Attempting to write Jack/Renee liquifies my brain, I tell you. This is for elisa_trapt. I'm sorry if you wanted Beverly and Jean-Luc. This is what took over when I sat down to write. The complete list of prompts is here.

Title is from 'Go Places,' by The New Pornographers.

Rushed and fumble-fingered, he changes his shirt three times. The black thermal Henley wins, because his cab is waiting and he can’t undo the fucking button.

*******

On the plane, he lands a window seat, declines the peanuts and the drink.

Next to him, a rumpled forty-something guy plays chess with his preteen son, who slouches with practiced attitude inside a green Under Armour hoodie.

Jack smiles to himself, thinks of Kim.

*******

Even in the surging sea of people washing through Dulles on December 23rd, he can’t miss her -- deep red hair that reflects the light and a halo of sadness that threatens to escalate the tremor in his hand until he drops his duffel.

Determined, he grips the bag harder and walks in her direction.

She turns her head when he’s ten paces away. A nervous grin illuminates her face, but it’s her eyes that sock his gut (no warning to let him tighten the muscles, minimize the damage), make it hard for him to keep moving forward.

He remembers how they looked the day he met her, the light that flickered there.

Before they were haunted.

He’s seen more than enough to know this damage isn’t the reversible kind.

“Jack,” she breathes out like a sentence, that softened K that’s unique to her. “You look terrific.”

She’s standing, uncertain; he surprises the shit out of himself by being the one to drop his bag and wrap her in his arms. She smells like cinnamon, feels like gratitude he can touch. “So do you,” he manages, despite his protesting vocal cords. The hammer of her heart against his chest makes him smile.

As he holds her (she’s lost weight, air in his arms), he wishes a hundred things, not the least of which is that she won’t feel him shaking.

The last time he touched her (hand on the bone of her cheek, thumb wet with her tears), he’d given no thought to the risks.

Imminent death, a consequence-free environment.

Now, all he can think of are the risks.

One more person who stretches his heart.

One more person for him to destroy.

But she pulls back (eyes too shiny, voice too taut) and says, “Come on. Let’s get some coffee and a scone or something.”

And he knows he’s lost.

*******

The two hours of his layover roll by in what feels like ten minutes.

Stumbling at first, the conversation gathers momentum until she’s laughing sometimes, between sips of pumpkin-spice latte and bites of iced lemon pound cake. (When she offers him a corner, it’s all he can do to make himself take it; he wants her to eat the entire thing. He also drinks every last sip of the gingerbread latte she recommended, even though it’s too sweet for him and he would have pitched it if she weren’t sitting across the table, rubbing the edge of a Starbucks napkin between her fingers.)

The PA system blasts his flight number; he’s never been so ambivalent about a boarding announcement.

“That’s you!” The manufactured enthusiasm in her words echoes while she throws all the trash onto a tray, concentrating on each crumb.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she exclaims, finally turning to face him. She rummages in her shoulder bag, hands him a small box wrapped in smiling snowmen who wear red and green scarves and ski over a snow-covered background.

“It’s for Teri,” she adds quickly, nervous eyes darting. He’s pretty sure the explosion he hears in his head is a land mine detonating under his last line of defense. “It’s probably all wrong,” she adds. “I have no idea how to shop for kids.”

“She’ll love it.” He tries to weight each word with conviction. “But you didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” she interrupts, looking straight at him. “It was the first Christmasy thing I did this season,” she admits, with a self-deprecating eyeroll for emphasis.

They call his flight number again.

“You’d better go.” She picks up her bag and stands very straight.

“Yeah.”

Before the better-judgment demons can grab him by the collar, he leans in to kiss her cheek, close as he dares to the edge of her mouth.

When he steps back, her face is hot pink.

He clears his throat. “Can I call you once I get settled at Kim's?”

She nods, hand tight on the strap of her bag, five white circles.

*******

Back on the plane, he muffles what has to be a ridiculous smile and wedges his duffel under the seat, declines the peanuts and the drink (again).

For probably the three hundredth time since he bought his plane ticket (click of his shaky finger on the ‘purchase’ button almost unreal), he imagines Teri's face when she wakes up wide-eyed on Christmas morning, pictures her in her Rudolph pajamas, stuffing her face with cinnamon rolls.

He thinks of Renee, laughing with lemon icing on her lip.

No better gift she could locate in this universe than those two hours and the knowledge that tonight, he’ll call her.

And she'll pick up.

*******

I've been under a rock between extra work, kid sports, and holiday (tree procurement, blah blah blah) craziness. What's going on with you guys? I am making the most epic Pandora Christmas station, but every now and then they freakin' sneak in Mariah Carey or Hillary Duff. Wtf, Pandora?