King gets excited when he smells the steaks cooking, and I banish him to his large dog bed on the other side of the room. He goes, but not without giving both myself and Jack some supremely executed cow eyes. Manipulative little shit.
It takes about five minutes of King’s soulful staring from his dog bed for Jack to ask if we have anything to give him. Weak. I would have lasted at least ten.
Whilst I’m finishing up the steaks, Jack goes to a cupboard I indicated and gets out a dog treat for King. He kneels down next to King and feeds him the treat, showering more attention on the little pest.
I load up two plates with steak and potatoes, taking them over to the island so we can sit up on the stools together. Jack comes around the side and grabs his bowl of salad, putting it on the island in front of us with a pair of tongs stuck in it.
When we slide onto the stools, I belatedly realise how close we’re going to be sitting. Jack’s arm brushes mine when he picks up the knife and fork that I put next to the plate for him. But when Jack doesn’t comment on the casual touch, I relax a little and snatch up my own utensils, a surprise pang of hunger clenching my gut.
We eat our meal in companionable quiet. Jack was clearly ravenous as he digs into his food like a man half starved. He must have been hiding his discomfort at not having eaten in a while from me. He did it flawlessly, showing no signs of hunger all day.
It makes me wonder if he’s used to going without food and having to bear it. Or perhaps even having food kept from him intentionally as a punishment. In that case, Jack would likely have developed the ability to hide his base needs from his OI guards so they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing him struggle. I fully believe OI is packed with those sorts of people. People who enjoy watching the vulnerable suffer, especially on their whim.
Once we’re both done eating, and Jack looks more chilled out, I consider he might be open to conversation. I really want to talk to him if he’ll let me. There are so many things I’m curious about. I doubt he’d enjoy another inquisition from a FISA agent, but a friendly back-and-forth might be acceptable at this point in our relationship.
“Did OI teach you how to cook?” The idea seems ludicrous on the surface, but if Jack was sent on long undercover missions, he would need to know how to look after himself. They must have taught him some basic survival skills, and for a Liquid Onyx survivor, preparing high-protein food would be a priority.
“Yeah. But I was never into it like my brother was.” Jack falters when he mentions his brother, a haunted look skittering across his face. He clears the old horror away, frowning tightly instead, his gaze carefully averted.
Unsure if I should ignore the brief show of sorrow over his brother or not, I take the risk of another question.
“Did Daniel like cooking, then?”
“He did. It was some of few times I saw him happy for real.” Jack turns his head to look at me properly, a more serious tenor to his voice as he adds, “Call him Dan, yeah? Daniel is whattheycalled him. Agent Daniel. He hated it.”
I consider the statement, rolling it around in my head for a minute. Returning my gaze to Jack, I make a guess.
“Claiming the name Dan was his way of taking some part of himself back from them?”
Jack seems surprised, like he didn’t expect me to understand, which is a fair thought. I don’t understand. Not really. How could I? How could anyone? What Jack and Dan experienced was so unique, in the worst way. I can’t imagine what it would take to survive a lifetime of being treated like a weapon by an organisation who took everything away from you. Even your name.
“I guess so. Dan was big on that.” He sounds bitter about that last.
It’s impossible for me to guess why. There’s so much about Jack’s life with OI I don’t know. I know even less than the interrogation agents who questioned him when he first came to FISA.
“Autonomy and cooking,” I say gently, hoping not to upset Jack by pushing too hard, too fast. “Not bad things to care about.”
Jack takes that in and processes it, a slight wince clicking at the corner of his eye. He shakes his head and heaves his shoulder in a small shrug. He avoids looking at me again.
“He was the fighter. Dan. Strongest fucking person I’ve ever known,” Jack tells me, voice low and undeniably tortured, like he’s admitting a terrible fact rather than delivering a commendation upon his brother’s character.
I imagine Dan, a man who would look almost identical to the man sitting beside me. He would probably have a harder edge to him. More scars, maybe, from getting into fights he can’t win. I picture him standing in front of a stove, making something from scratch, with a precarious smile on his face. Unused to being uncomplicatedly happy. Having no idea what to do with a feeling so foreign to him.
Then Jack is there with him in my imagination, the two of them standing side by side, fighting side by side, suffering side by side.
What would it feel like to lose the only person in your life who really knows you? Who’s been through it all with you? Who understands every buried memory, every flinch, every nightmare you wake up screaming from?
It would be enough to drive anyone mad, even putting aside all the hell which came before at the hands of OI.
I hesitate before putting my hand on Jack’s arm, uncertain if he will welcome such a thing, or if he will find it too intimate a gesture when he’s already telling me things I know can’t be easy for him to talk about.
Jack finally allows his eyes to meet mine when my hand presses down on his forearm.
An offer of comfort I’m barely qualified to give.
“I’m so much less than he was, Leo,” Jack says, voice rough with raw emotion. “You want to know something? I hate him for it. For making me live with being the weak twin. For making me do this, all thisshit, without him. It wasn’t supposed to be me who had to live with the things we’ve done. He left me here on my own, and I fucking hate him for it.”
There’s despair in those green eyes. A deep well of it. The anguish seems endless, carrying on and on, like the parts of the ocean where no one’s seen the floor. Where you can’t travel the extent of it without being crushed by the pressure.
