When Beckett wakes up, there's a crick in her neck and a fuzzy feeling in her mouth - not to mention the pounding on the inside of her skull
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There's a weight on his lap, leaning against his chest, a pounding in his head. The weight moves, and most of the fuzziness in his head clears as instinct kicks in. He's not sure what the weight is, and opening his eyes only sends more pain lancing through his skull.
All he knows is he needs to get the weight off, and he fumbles to push against it.
"Yeah, there are," he says, and for once on saying something like that he's not immediately deluged with memories of the much, much worse wake-up calls he's had.
"Especially after a night when you've had too much to drink."
"Don't even talk to me about alcohol right now," she groans, but there's a chuckle in it.
When she sits up, she can still feel that stiffness in her neck, and she tilts her head from one side to the other, trying to work out the kinks herself.
For the briefest of seconds, a tiny voice in his head pipes up with wanna share? Jack hastily pushes it away, the idea almost scaring him in a way. He definitely hasn't thought about...well, that in a long time, and at the moment it's way too far outside his comfort zone to contemplate voicing the offer.
"Go ahead," Jack says, a beat too late for it to sound entirely natural. "Feel free to use mine, unless you want to stop in your room and get some fresh clothes."
She's already heading in the direction of his, glass still in hand, and tosses a teasing remark over one shoulder.
"Or I could just wear yours," she murmurs, and halts in her tracks as soon as the suggestion leaves her lips, eyes squeezing shut in a near-wince. Where did that come from? Still, she doesn't exactly feel inclined to take it back.
"I'll figure something out," she replies, hiding her own blush from view as she disappears behind the door.
Once inside, she glances at her own reflection, nearly wincing at the severe case of bedhead and the bags under her eyes, and turns on the water in the shower, rolling her shoulders.
Once the door closes behind her, Jack leans his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes again.
"What in the hell are you doing, Jack?" he asks himself in a whisper.
This probably isn't a good idea for so many reasons, and yet... And yet he can't deny the way he feels, even if he doesn't want to think the word. He has no idea why or how things changed, they just have, with all the force and suddenness of getting hit by a truck.
He wants to spend time with her. Wants to share things with her, even things he wouldn't otherwise dream of talking about. Wants her to be there when he goes to sleep and when he wakes up in the morning.
And all of it kind of scares the shit out of him.
Eventually, Jack gets up from the couch and staggers over to his bedroom, changing into some fresh clothes before starting a pot of coffee. God knows he's going to need it.
The shower is hot, but not nearly scalding enough yet, so she adjusts the temperature slightly, stripping down and stepping in to scrub off the lingering scent of alcohol that feels like it's coming off her skin in waves, not to mention the grungy feeling that comes from sleeping in regular clothes.
When she steps out a good number of minutes later, wrapping a towel around herself, she's not exactly inclined to put her own dirty clothes back on, and peeks a head out of the bathroom, glancing in both directions before tip-toeing into his room to look for something to borrow.
Jack's zipping his fly as he hears the door start to open. In that first, vital split-second, he's torn between jumping for the door and keeping it from opening and grabbing the shirt he'd laid out on the bed.
"Beckett, wait--" He grabs for the shirt, but it's just a little too late as the door opens. From the door, she'll have a full view of his chest and arms and all the things he tries to keep hidden: scars from electrical, chemical and thermal burns, knife wounds--the story of twenty months of torture engraved in his skin.
She'd walked into the room backwards, keeping her attention on the hall in case he showed up there, so when she turns around, she's promptly greeted with the sight of him, standing shirtless, and reflexively, she clutches the towel a little tighter against herself before quickly averting her gaze.
"Oh, God. Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't - " She can see him in her periphery, and she swallows, wondering if she can just curl up into herself and die now. At the very least, she searches around for something to hide behind apart from the white cotton of the towel, but she's very actively not looking at him.
Jack quickly tugs the shirt over his head, his hair sticking up in all directions.
"It's okay," he says, and meaning it. It's still awkward as hell, but he doesn't think she saw much, and she's the one standing there in only a towel.
He turns his body away from her, trying not to stare at the way the towel curves over her form. "I'll just...wait in the living room," he says, quickly edging toward the door.
"Okay," she says, very quietly, and waits until he's disappeared through the doorway before literally sagging against the wall, exhaling in the form of a sigh.
She doesn't even look to choose in the drawers, just yanks out the first t-shirt and pair of sweats she finds. The waist is a little loose, but she just pulls the drawstring tighter, doubling it around into a second knot to keep them from sliding down her hips, and vigorously towels her hair dry.
By the time she reappears, cheeks still rosy from the combination of hot water and embarrassment, she can't quite meet his eyes.
"Like I said, it's okay," Jack says, looking in her direction but not really meeting her eyes either. "And I wasn't the one wearing a towel. I hadn't realized you were done in the shower."
Of course not meeting her eyes means he happen to look at other parts of her, and the sight of her dressed in his sweats and t-shirt is surprisingly attractive.
All he knows is he needs to get the weight off, and he fumbles to push against it.
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"Especially after a night when you've had too much to drink."
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When she sits up, she can still feel that stiffness in her neck, and she tilts her head from one side to the other, trying to work out the kinks herself.
"Shower might help, though."
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"Go ahead," Jack says, a beat too late for it to sound entirely natural. "Feel free to use mine, unless you want to stop in your room and get some fresh clothes."
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"Or I could just wear yours," she murmurs, and halts in her tracks as soon as the suggestion leaves her lips, eyes squeezing shut in a near-wince. Where did that come from? Still, she doesn't exactly feel inclined to take it back.
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Once inside, she glances at her own reflection, nearly wincing at the severe case of bedhead and the bags under her eyes, and turns on the water in the shower, rolling her shoulders.
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"What in the hell are you doing, Jack?" he asks himself in a whisper.
This probably isn't a good idea for so many reasons, and yet... And yet he can't deny the way he feels, even if he doesn't want to think the word. He has no idea why or how things changed, they just have, with all the force and suddenness of getting hit by a truck.
He wants to spend time with her. Wants to share things with her, even things he wouldn't otherwise dream of talking about. Wants her to be there when he goes to sleep and when he wakes up in the morning.
And all of it kind of scares the shit out of him.
Eventually, Jack gets up from the couch and staggers over to his bedroom, changing into some fresh clothes before starting a pot of coffee. God knows he's going to need it.
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When she steps out a good number of minutes later, wrapping a towel around herself, she's not exactly inclined to put her own dirty clothes back on, and peeks a head out of the bathroom, glancing in both directions before tip-toeing into his room to look for something to borrow.
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"Beckett, wait--" He grabs for the shirt, but it's just a little too late as the door opens. From the door, she'll have a full view of his chest and arms and all the things he tries to keep hidden: scars from electrical, chemical and thermal burns, knife wounds--the story of twenty months of torture engraved in his skin.
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"Oh, God. Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't - " She can see him in her periphery, and she swallows, wondering if she can just curl up into herself and die now. At the very least, she searches around for something to hide behind apart from the white cotton of the towel, but she's very actively not looking at him.
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"It's okay," he says, and meaning it. It's still awkward as hell, but he doesn't think she saw much, and she's the one standing there in only a towel.
He turns his body away from her, trying not to stare at the way the towel curves over her form. "I'll just...wait in the living room," he says, quickly edging toward the door.
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She doesn't even look to choose in the drawers, just yanks out the first t-shirt and pair of sweats she finds. The waist is a little loose, but she just pulls the drawstring tighter, doubling it around into a second knot to keep them from sliding down her hips, and vigorously towels her hair dry.
By the time she reappears, cheeks still rosy from the combination of hot water and embarrassment, she can't quite meet his eyes.
"Sorry about that."
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Of course not meeting her eyes means he happen to look at other parts of her, and the sight of her dressed in his sweats and t-shirt is surprisingly attractive.
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"Making coffee?" Beckett turns her head toward him, smiling slowly.
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His focus on measuring coffee into the filter is a little more intent than truly necessary.
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