trigger_man | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's the pounding in his head that wakes him the following morning, and for a moment he has that stomach-roiling panic of where am I why does my head hurt--

That is, until he realizes the real reason his head feels like someone's tried to bash it in and it's not just panic making him feel close to puking. If there's one thing Jack's pretty familiar with, it's a hangover.

Even just the light coming through his eyelids gives him the sensation of an ice pick being stabbed into his brain, and so he slowly rolls away from the window, curling into a ball with a moan and wishing the rest of the world would just go away already.

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Jack notices, absentmindedly, that his hand is trembling slightly as he reaches for his coffee cup. He wraps his hands around it, as though desperate for something to hold on to. Maybe it's even true.

As she straightens up, there's a tiny impulse deep inside him to grab her arm and pull her back down to him; to really kiss her this time. He ignores it; the feeling of needing space tells him that probably wouldn't be a good idea, and even if his mind can picture it, he's not sure he can actually do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Not when the memory of the last time he'd kissed someone like that--and what happened to her--still haunts his dreams.

He should say something, though, something to diffuse the cloud of awkwardness around them. He seems to have forgotten how to say every word in the English language, though.

Of course as soon as he has that thought, the only response possible at the moment immediately come to mind.

"You win," he says, his voice a little rough.

She draws in a breath, picking up the plate, steeling herself for any potential reactions. Turning her gaze back to his face for another second or two, it's easy to see his expression is as unreadable as hers likely is. He's fighting to say something, that much is clear; meanwhile, she's struggling to not say something for fear she'll either downplay or make too much of what just happened.

His final answer surprises her - but the even bigger surprise is how she responds: a soft chuckle, an exhale that turns into a more audible laugh, and she tightens her grip on the plate to keep from dropping it while her shoulders shake and she ducks her head, lifting her free hand to rest against the side of her jaw.

She's relieved, ultimately, and her vision blurs as the laugh builds.

Jack lets out a long, slow breath, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as Beckett starts to laugh. He even smiles a little as he sips his coffee, though it's part due to her infectious laughter and partly relief that the awkwardness is gone, at least for a moment.

The laughing fades away eventually, and then she looks at him after wiping underneath her eyes, flashing him a quick grin, her nose wrinkling up slightly.

"I did kind of just win, didn't I?"

"Good thing we didn't decide on any kind of stakes."

"Is that your way of saying you want there to be some?"

She shoots him a look, then takes the plate to the sink to wash it.

"Kind of late now, isn't it?" Jack says, raising an eyebrow. "Unless you plan on this being a running competition."

She chuckles again, her back still turned.

"I'm not so sure you want it to turn into a one of those."

"No, I'm pretty sure I don't. I'm not sure I want to know how creative you'd get to keep winning," he says around the last of his toast.

"No comment."

She looks over her shoulder at him, shutting off the faucet with the back of her hand.

"Dare I even ask how your head feels right about now?"

"Feels more like I've been run over by a sedan instead of a truck. It's an improvement."

"Don't tell me if you actually know what that feels like."

Given his track record, it may not actually come as much of a surprise.

Jack thinks for a minute. "Actually I don't think so. I've gotten bumped pretty hard when I was chasing someone through traffic or trying to slide across a car's hood, and I've been in car accidents before when I was in the car, but haven't actually gotten hit by one."

"You're completely serious, aren't you."

The way she says it, it isn't a question, and she looks at him with a mix of incredulity and retroactive worry.

Jack tries to hide a small smile, but can't quite manage it. "Yeah, I am. Don't look so worried, Beckett."

After all he hasn't even scratched the surface with all the stuff that could have killed him and didn't. Like the stuff that *did* kill him, technically. For a couple minutes.

If he thinks she looks worried now, he should try scratching that surface a little deeper.

"Frankly, I'm just amazed you're still all in one piece," she quips, tilting her head slightly.

"From what I can tell."

"Mostly; some parts might not line up like they used to. I'm not the Six Million Dollar Man or RoboCop or something, though."

"No, I don't think so."

The corners of her mouth start to twitch.

"I wouldn't have kissed RoboCop."

"I'd hope not. I'd hate to think of the static shock you'd get from him after walking across a carpet in the winter."

She looks over.

"A little coffee and somebody turns into funny man."

"Maybe stand-up's my new career," Jack says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "'Hey, did you hear the one about the suitcase nuke?'"

Oh, this ought to be good. She leans back against the kitchen counter, folding her arms over her chest.

"Lay it on me."

"It was a hypothetical set-up. Surprisingly enough I don't actually have a punch line about nuclear weapons," he says, wry.

From what he remembers of the TV shows he'd seen after Valencia--usually droning in the background when he didn't want to sleep--neither had the professional comics, either.

"Oh, come on. All that build-up and no follow-through?"

She's still grinning as she says it, though, moving back over to the table.

"Way to leave a girl hanging."

"Sorry to disappoint, but better now than later."