My heart is thumping like a jackrabbit when Jack appears in the entryway. A spitfire of elation roars to life inside my gut, and everything else seems to fade into insignificance. I'm so ridiculously glad to see him, to see he's alive and not off somewhere on his own, it's like a head rush of euphoria knocks me sideways.
It takes me a couple of seconds to clock the gratuitous amount of blood covering Jack, flecks of red on his face and splattered across his arms, soaking his T-shirt. Most of it appears dried and hours old. He looks like someone out of a B-list horror film. There's thick blood in hishair,as if he repeatedly ran his bloodied fingers through it.
There's a wildness in his eyes, too, the pale green almost appearing to glow like jack-o’-lanterns lit up by green flames. It's something I rarely see in him unless he's fighting against overwhelming odds, when death laughs with jaws gaping wide beneath him, and survival burns like flash paper from above. In those moments, Jack seems to retreat inside himself so that another version of him can take the reins. He becomes a darker, more insidious man than I know him to be. A man with no remorse or sense of mercy. It's the closest he ever gets to the monster OI tried to mould him into.
Looking at him now is like seeing a completely different person from the one who kissed me as if I was something precious, who worried so much about hurting me that he tried to sabotage our partnership and force me into protecting myself from him.
Except it isn’t. This manisJack. The same man he was yesterday and last week and months ago when we met.
I'm not too proud to admit it scares the hell out of me to acknowledge this is a part of who he is and likely always will be. It’s been too easy for me to forget the truth: that just because the tiger lets you touch him without ripping your arm off, doesn’t mean he isn’t still a fuckingtigerthatcouldrip your arm off.
Bullet turns his questioning look on Jack, his interest clearly piqued. He seems strangely excited, like a child on Christmas Eve.
When Jack throws the canvas bag down onto the coffee table, I'm confused, thinking ludicrously for a moment it's the money we were meant to pay Bullet with. It's only when I lean in a little closer that I’m able to see a man's severed head peeking out from the unzipped bag. I have to clench my teeth to stop myself from outright gagging the moment my mind registers what I’m looking at.
There are more heads in the bag, the stench of them finally reaching my nose and causing me to recoil with further disgust.
I turn back to my partner, who hasn't moved from the entryway, unable to help myself from staring at him in disbelief and horror.
Jack's expression is grim, his handsome face set in stone, marred by the blood and a slight edge of apathetic cruelty that I'm not shocked by but still hate.
Bullet doesn't seem in the least bit perturbed by the bag of heads Jack dumped on his table. He peers inside the bag with rapt fascination for a handful of seconds before looking at Jack again, a sick twist of satisfaction having overtaken his face.
"I assume this isn't all of them," he prods.
"Couldn't fit all of them in there. Did what I could. Burned the rest," Jack replies, like he's delivering his typical abbreviated report of a mission.
"Ah," Bullet says, nodding along as if he expected as much. "And the guns?"
At this, Jack heaves an uncaring shrug. "They put up a good fight. The guns were lost in the crossfire."
It's so clearly a lie, Jack isn't even trying to sound like he means it.
Bullet's eyes narrow, a brief spark of suppressed rage rising to the surface and exploding like a small firework across his face. He looks apoplectic for about three seconds before he tamps it down, drawing back his temper and schooling his features.
Then for reasons I don't understand, Bullet smiles widely at Jack, as if something very obvious has just occurred to him. He pulls his hands apart and claps them back together.
"Alright, Jack." Bullet sighs, begrudgingly accepting. "I suppose you owed me some trouble after what happened with Veronica."
Veronica? Who the hell is that, and what does she have to do with any of this?
Jack reacts to the name with a slight tic of his jaw, that green glow seeming to become more intense for a split second, like he's overcome by some unknown emotion at the mention of this person. I wrack my brain, trying to think if he's mentioned her before, but I draw a blank. Jack's told me some things about his past with OI, but I feel like I've barely scratched the surface.
"Honestly," Bullet goes on, "I didn't think you had it in you. But well played. I'll take the hit and make us even, yeah?" He’s giving Jack the same look of exasperated fondness, as if he’s managed to impress him by doing something unexpectedly cunning.
Jack’s lips curve into a snarl. "Alright, you melodramatic fuck, does that mean you'll give us the information you promised us before all this bullshit?"
It's somehow even more horrifying to me that he can talk so casually with Bullet when there’s a literal bag of heads on the table. A bag of heads he brought with him and is, presumably, responsible for.
Also, it's a bit rich for Jack to call anyone else melodramatic, when once again, he's the one who broughtthe bag of severed headsto the meeting. I mean. JesusChrist.
Bullet doesn't seem bothered by the accusation or the hypocrisy. "Yes, yes, don't upset yourself, Agent. I'll cough up my end of the bargain." He reaches into his cargo pocket and takes out a piece of paper, much like he did yesterday. No doubt the paper has another set of coordinates, this time of Rohan's location.
Bullet offers the paper to me. I'm just about able to gather myself enough to take it from him without my hand shaking.
"You're not getting the money either," Jack states, openly belligerent, like he just can't help himself from digging his teeth in a bit deeper, searching for bone to sharpen his canines on. "You have enough as it is."
"Ah, keeping me humble, Agent Jack?" Bullet croons. "Yes, indeed, it does no good to become greedy. You keep the money. Maybe use it to take your handsome friend somewhere nice if FISA ever deigns to give you vacation time."
