(Batman fic) Speak, chapter 3
Title: Speak
Author: larissafae
Fandom: Batman, Nolanverse.
Pairing: Past Jack Napier/Harleen Quinzel, future Jack/Rachel
Chapter rating: PG-13
Warnings: Light swearing.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, this wouldn't be a fanfic, now, would it?
Summary: A rehabilitated Jack Napier is brought into police custody after his wife of four years, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, falls to her death from their apartment. The only ones who seem to be on his side are Gordon and Rachel, who are haunted by the fact that 'rehabilitated' doesn't always mean 'cured'.
Previous chapters:
1
2
Rachel stood and held her hand out with a smile. “Dr. Morgenson; I'm sorry about the wait. What may I do for you?”
The older man --- thinning hair, a bit of a paunch, but clear gray eyes --- took her hand gently and smiled with his mouth only. “I'm sorry to bother you, Ms. Dawes. I'm worried about Jack.”
Rachel's own mouth went dry and her smile melted. “Has he done anything? When was the last time you spoke with him?”
The doctor shook his head. “He hasn't done anything that I know of. He showed up at the police department a few days ago and asked to be put in a cell for a night or two because he missed his morning medication after Harleen died --- which was quite the forward-thinking thing for him to do --- and I spoke to him last night.” He sat and fingered his mustache. “What do you know about Jack's psychiatric case, Ms. Dawes?”
Rachel started to gesture toward her cocoa machine, but he waved her off and she settled into her chair. “I've read a lot, actually. I have a rather . . . personal interest in what makes him like he is.” Morgenson nodded, his eyes flicking to the picture of Harvey she kept on her desk. “A lot of it confused me, but I got the general gist of the 'super-sanity' theory. Sounded crazy to me, but . . . still, it made some sense.”
Morgenson nodded again and leaned forward. “Jack can not handle daily life, Ms. Dawes. He's a sociopath, psychotic, antisocial . . . I don't know what sort of upbringing or background he has, but for how he's turned out, it wasn't good. The point is, at some point he lost the ability to filter all the information he receives on a daily basis, and it overloads his system. He can't handle it, so he breaks it down into the smallest bits he's capable of; that's why sometimes he's pulling 'pranks,' as he calls them, like filling that fire hydrant with foam and lighting that bakery on fire, and sometimes he's going on a murdering spree. He adapts his personality to his immediate surroundings.” He paused to see that Rachel was following, and she nodded to show she understood. “He's highly obsessive-compulsive, and extremely jealous of things that he considers his. More, I believe that his long-standing . . . ah . . . infatuation, you could say, with Batman is because Batman provided him with a constant that he'd never had before. Jack defined himself in terms of existing in Batman's world, rather than Batman existing in his.” He cocked his head as if waiting for something, then offered more information. “What made Harleen so successful in her treatment of him, and why I was able to talk the Psychiatric Board down from revoking her license, was that she replaced the Batman constant with a much healthier one.” Again he paused.
“Herself,” Rachel said, and was rewarded with a warm smile and a nod.
“Exactly. She gave him the attention he wanted, and kept him in a tight routine that he could work with, even if he resented being on such a short leash at times. Now, this doesn't go further than us --- and never reaches Jack --- but Harleen was a mediocre psychiatrist at best. I was one of her professors in college; she slept with a good deal of them in order to pass, and she never had much ambition or talent. Jack's case challenged her, I think. She actually began to work at finding a way around his issues in order to help, rather than relying on textbooks.” He looked proud of the dead woman. “By the way, if he ever lets you, look at his notes. The man's da Vinci reincarnated, I swear it . . . albeit it's the drawings that are doodles in the margins, not the war machines. He and Harleen would sit up all hours of the night, talking about whatever had caught his attention that day. Sometimes it was taking over a small country, sometimes it was an improvement on something, and sometimes they made clothes.” Morgenson smiled. “Jack likes to make his own clothes; it's a point of pride for him.” He sat back and ran his fingers down his maroon tie. “Do you see the problem?”
Rachel thought about it, but it was painfully clear. “With Dr. Quinzel dead, he's lost his stability, hasn't he?” Morgenson nodded. “Will he take his medication with her gone? And for that matter, how effective is his medication?”
Morgenson pursed his lips and spoke slowly. “It . . . has some effect. I'm not sure if it works because Harleen was there to stabilise him enough, or if it stabilised him enough for Harleen's methods to work, but . . . I know they worked in tandem.”
A thought had been nibbling at her for a while. “Are you asking me to babysit him, Doctor? Or assign him a babysitter?”
The man had the grace to look embarrassed. “I'm afraid I am, Ms. Dawes. He told me that you shaved him; I doubt you realise how much trust he put in you to do that. He's obsessively touchy about his scars, he hates people touching him . . . I think he's beginning to transfer his . . .” He scratched an eyebrow. “I don't want to call it an obsession, but . . . I think he's focusing more on you in order to keep himself stable. I'm not saying you have to take Harleen's place,” he said as Rachel's eyebrows went up and she opened her mouth. “Not at all; I think that's one of the worst things that could happen. Jack needs time to mourn her. But if he trusted you that much --- and it was an extreme act of trust, no matter how flippant he may have been about it --- if he trusted you that much, it's important for his mental stability that you not push him away. That's why I'm here. I didn't think you realised what was going on.” Rachel sat back as he eyed her. “He said you fed Rory without anyone asking you to. He's fascinated that you don't seem to bear a grudge against him.”
He was probing. Rachel shrugged. “Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge, and I was always bad at those, anyway. He seems to be making so much progress, and I just want to leave the past behind me.”
Morgenson looked at Harvey's picture again and Rachel wanted to snap at him, but she held her tongue. “I understand. Here, let me give you my card in case you need to discuss Jack with me.” He held the embossed card out and Rachel took it, sliding it into her purse. “He likes that you eat those huge burritos. It amuses him.”
“I know,” she returned. “He said I'd get fat from eating them.”
“Usually it's things like blind babies and AIDS that amuse him. And sombreros.” Morgenson shrugged as he stood, and Rachel followed suit. “So laughing at you and your burritos is progress.”
Rachel offered her hand and shook it with a nod. “Glad to be useful, Doctor. I'll . . .” She hesitated, then took the plunge. “I'll be able to stop by his apartment after work. Do I need to call to warn him?”
The relief on Morgenson's face was almost painful to see. “Please. He works best on a set schedule. I'll call to let him know you'll be in touch with him; it will give him time to clean the apartment, if he hasn't been over it twenty times today already. Thank you so much, Ms. Dawes. And please, call me after you leave to let me know how things went. Jack is still very unpredictable, and what seems like an adverse reaction isn't always.”
Rachel walked him to the door and shook his hand again. “I will, Doctor. Thank you for your time.”
“No, thank you,” he said, then turned and walked away.
Rachel sighed as she closed her office door and sat back at her desk, taking Harvey's picture in her hands and staring down at it as tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Harvey,” she whispered. “I miss you so much . . . Oh, God, I hope I'm doing the right thing . . .”
~
The phone rang six times before it was picked up, but there was silence on the other end. Rachel frowned, but when Dr. Morgenson had called to let her know it was all right to place her own call, he'd said Jack usually didn't speak when he picked the phone up. Rachel listened, and caught faint breathing.
She swallowed. “Mr. Napier? This is Rachel Dawes.” The breathing increased in volume, and she went on, her heart pounding. She tried not to talk like he was a simpleton. “I'm just off work, and I thought you might like some company. Would it be all right if I came over?”
There was at least thirty seconds of silence before his low voice answered. “Are you bringing your burrito?”
It sounded scratchy, like he'd been crying. Or yelling. Rachel forced a smile. “I already finished it.”
“. . . Oh.”
There was more silence.
“Are you coming over or not?” he asked suddenly, sounding slightly irritated.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “I'll be there in half an hour.”
There was a faint 'Goodbye' just before the line died, and Rachel rubbed her eyes as she wondered what she'd gotten herself into. Well, in this traffic, she had half an hour to stew over it. She sighed and started her car, heading west to the address that Hideki had given her.
~
It was actually about forty minutes later when Rachel stood in front of Napier's apartment and stared at the numbers. She raised her hand, then lowered it. She still wasn't sure if she should be putting herself in this position, but her heart was screaming that she had to find some way of helping this man who couldn't seem to catch a break. She sigh and rapped firmly on the door and it opened so quickly that he must have been waiting right beside it. Rachel stepped back in surprise, then smiled lest Napier think she was offended.
He stood before her, wearing a dark gray . . . yes, crocheted pullover, dark blue jeans that fit like a second skin and left her wondering wear he got them tailored, and bare feet. His hair looked like he'd run his fingers through it to comb it, and he was once more covered in stubble. No matter; she'd brought his razor. Dark eyes looked her up and down, then he gestured her in.
“Quick, before that damn cat gets out,” he muttered.
She had to squeeze past him, and it made her uncomfortable, but there was a beautiful medium-haired flame-point Siamese creeping toward the door. Napier shut it as soon as Rachel was in and the cat took off to a different room, his escape plan foiled.
“Asshole,” Napier called after him. “What?” he asked as he turned and caught Rachel's smile.
“It's nothing,” she assured him. “I'm sure Rory just missed me.”
“Missed trying to kill you,” Napier corrected. “Well?”
“Hm?” She'd been looking at some sort of project he had laid out over the floor. It looked like a patchwork 3D puzzle, almost.
“What do you want?”
Oh, that. Rachel regarded the nervous man in front of her and smiled. “To socialise with you.”
“Morgenson sent you.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you I'm crazy?”
“I have firsthand experience of that,” Rachel returned.
Napier seemed taken aback for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Rachel repeated as she rolled her eyes. “Are you hungry?”
“Got plenty of leftovers. Still cooking for two.” Napier was bouncing on his heels slightly, unsure of what to do with the woman in his living room. He obviously wasn't good with company. “Could use a Jamba Juice, though. Haven't had once since . . .” He turned suddenly and flounced with surprising grace back to his project, sinking to the floor Indian-style and picking up pieces, carefully sewing them together. Rachel had been right, he was making some sort of patchwork 3D object. She almost laughed as his tongue snaked out of his mouth as he concentrated, but he'd probably get upset, so she squished the urge. She sat across from him and he spared her a glance, brown eyes rolling up in their sockets to follow her downward movement, then he returned his attention to the project. He was focused completely on his work, but energy radiated from him, barely contained by what currently held his attention.
“Would you like to get some?” Rachel asked after a moment.
“Huh?” He looked up like he'd forgotten she was there, and maybe he had.
“Would you like to get some Jamba Juice?” Rachel asked again.
He was quiet for a while as he looked at her, then slowly set the pieces of fabric in his hands down. “. . . Yeah, sure. Please and thank you.”
She smiled, relieved that he hadn't taken offense at the offer. “It'll be my treat.” She stood up, conscious of his gaze on her, and tugged her skirt down a bit. It was a moment before he stood, shuffling to the door to slip into a pair of sneakers. Rachel recognised the signs of depression and was gripped with the sudden urge to hug him, but she held back. He looked so damn lost. “Mr. Napier ---”
“Christ, just call me Jack. I hate being called 'Mister' all the time. Any time.” He looked to the side as she walked up to him, hiding most of his scars from her sight.
“Jack, then, so long as you call me Rachel.” He blinked once. “I brought your razor,” she said as he opened the door. That got his attention and he looked at her fully, eyebrows going up. “I figured you'd need a shave.”
He took a deep breath. “. . . That's a dangerous thing to do, Rachel.”
She glanced up at him with a slight smile as he locked the door. “I'm not going to have sex with you, Jack.” He made a noncommittal sound, but she could see that her response had startled him. He moved down the hall and she stepped quickly to keep up. “And unless you want to look like a mountain man, I'm the only one you have to give you a shave right now. Oh, there's Doctor Morgen---”
“No.” Rachel laughed at the forcefulness of his voice and Jack glared at her before his lips screwed up into a reluctant smirk. “It's not nice to use a man's weaknesses against him.”
“I was just listing your choices. Either I do it and you keep your hands to yourself, or Doctor . . .” She trailed off at the face he made, still chuckling. He sighed before grinning reluctantly. The scars on his face twisted his smile into something less than pleasant, but it was still good to see.
They continued on in an easy silence, and Rachel glanced over when Jack raised his left hand to his mouth and started chewing on his wedding band. He kissed it briefly, then went back to chewing. The pattern repeated, and she pretended not to notice.
“Do you know what you want?” Rachel asked as they approached the smoothie shop.
“They know,” Jack muttered. He was following close behind her as she opened the door, and the reason was clear as the redhead at the cashier spotted them.
“Hi! Welcome to Jamba Juice! How are you?” A chorus of greetings followed as the other team members greeted them, and she heard Jack grit his teeth.
“Good, thank you,” Rachel replied. She'd forgotten Jamba Juice's apparent behavioral policy: the more upbeat, the better.
“Hey, Jack's back! You want your usual?”
He was nodding into her hair, and Rachel realised he was hiding his scars from the girls. When the cashier tilted her head with a quizzical look, she nodded. “Yes, please.”
“No problem!” That energy couldn't be natural. Rachel glanced over the menu; she'd never been in a Jamba Juice. Harvey or Bruce had always brought it to her. “Do you need help choosing a smoothie?”
“Ah . . . yes.”
The girl came around the corner and Jack stiffened, leaning away a bit. Foosh, her name tag read. Foosh stopped and Jack relaxed, and she turned to the menu board. “Do you like sweet or sour?”
Rachel frowned. “Sweet.”
“How about a Caribbean Passion? It's got passion fruit-mango juice, orange sherbet, strawberries and peaches.”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“You also get one of our free nutritional boosts,” Foosh went on, gesturing to another board in front of the cash register.
Rachel glanced down at it. “Ah . . . Daily Vitamins?”
“No problem! What size? Sixteen ounce, Original, or Power?”
Rachel found the three example cups and pursed her lips. “Sixteen, please.”
“Sure. We've got a one hundred-percent guarantee, by the way. If you ever don't like your smoothie, give it back and we'll make you a new one of the same size.” Once more in her proper spot, Foosh put the information in the computer and nodded. “Original for you, Jack?” The man nodded, fingers gripping Rachel's shirt at her lower back. “Okay, that'll be . . . four-thirty-five.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “For two smoothies?” Hers alone was three-fifteen.
Foosh pursed her lips and gave Jack a sympathetic look before striving for innocence. “Yeah. Because I can. Those'll be out in just a minute. Unless you wanted one of our baked goods . . . ? No? Okay.”
That seemed to settle it. Rachel paid her and then moved out of the next customer's way, Jack still holding on to her shirt.
“Are you all right?” she murmured.
“Mm.”
“That doesn't tell me much.”
“You're taller than Harley,” he murmured.
Rachel blinked and craned her neck around to look at him. “Pardon?”
“Makes it easier to hide behind you.” He wouldn't let her turn around, resting his chin on the top of her head.
Oh. Harleen. Harley. A nickname. It made him eerily normal, and Rachel cleared her throat as he clutched at her. “If you insist.”
“Here you go, Jack!” the girl pouring smoothies --- Ashley --- called out with a smile. Rachel and Jack moved forward to take their smoothies, and Rachel thanked her. “Oh, no problem. We miss you, Jack. Come visit us soon, okay?”
He didn't reply, just looked at his feet and then to the side, and Rachel smiled and thanked the girl again before taking his elbow and leading him out. A chorus of goodbye's followed them, and once they were around the corner Jack stopped and slumped against the wall. He wiped at his forehead as he sipped at his smoothie, then gave Rachel a tired smile.
“I hate going in there.”
Rachel was surprised, but then again, she wasn't, not if that was the reception this shy and socially awkward man always got.
“I'm sorry,” was all she could think of to say.
He sighed and watched her try her drink. “Good?”
“Surprisingly.” Rachel looked up at him and tilted her head, smiling gently.
“I tried to kill you,” he said suddenly.
Rachel's eyebrows went up. “Pardon?”
“I tried to kill you. I killed your fiance. Stop looking at me like you care.”
Oh. She shook her head. “That was ten years ago. You've changed, you know. Haven't you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah. I've changed. Why don't you hate me?”
“Because it takes too much energy,” Rachel replied. He raised his eyebrows. “And besides, you're very hard to hate at the moment.”
“I don't want to be pitied.”
“I don't pity you. I sympathise with your loss.”
He paused. “Oh.” His arms went across his stomach and he looked to the side.
Rachel watched him, then sighed softly. “There's a park down the street. It's a nice day.”
“. . . I hate the park,” he muttered, but he walked off that direction anyway. Rachel followed at his side, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. He missed a step and stared down at her sharply, but Rachel just smiled up at him as they waited for the light to change. “Why?” he asked.
“Because you don't need to suffer all alone,” she replied. His reply was cut off by the light changing, and she tugged him across the street.
“I hate being touched.”
He wasn't trying to pull away. If anything, the man was leaning in closer. Rachel nodded. “Well, as soon as you don't like it, you can pull away.”
“Why are you going to give me a shave?”
“Because you need one, Jack.”
“It turns me on.”
Rachel looked up at him. “Does that bother you?” He turned his face away, avoiding her gaze and her question. “Because I'm not Harleen?”
Jack flinched. It answered her question. Rachel was quiet, thinking of a reply, and then he spoke. “Is that bad? I mean, obviously, but . . .” He sighed and kicked at a rock.
They turned into the park and Rachel headed for a quiet spot. “It's . . . something you've been conditioned to respond to,” she replied. “So it's not surprising that you respond to it. You're also . . . vulnerable, right now. You . . . you don't have the physical comfort you used to. So . . . I don't think it's bad.”
Jack didn't say anything until she'd found them a quiet patch of ground to sit on, and watched her arrange herself decently before sitting and speaking again. “She's not . . . there. I make breakfast, and she's not there. I make dinner, and she's not there. I started our castle, and she's not there.” He was breathing more deeply, swallowing past tears. “I . . .” He sighed. “I'm fine when she used to leave, up until she used to get back home. But when she's supposed to be there, and she's not, I . . . I don't know what to do.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at her for a moment. “Was it like that after Harvey died?”
Rachel's heart clenched more, and she wiped tears from her eyes as she nodded. “It was. I'd expect him to walk into the office with our morning coffee, and he wouldn't. Sometimes I'd stare at the door for a half hour or more, just . . . waiting. And he never came.”
If she was expecting an apology, it wasn't forthcoming. Jack just stared at her, then slowly tilted over until he lay on his side. He was still watching her when his eyelids fluttered closed, and a few minutes later his breath evened out fully. Rachel sighed and idly tipped her empty cup over, watching him sleep. His face was so relaxed, she hadn't realised it had been tense. Over his shoulder, then, she caught sight of a man standing a hundred yards or so off and her eyes went wide before narrowing. He was scowling at her and she made shooing motions with her hands, but he started walking toward her. Rachel shook her head and shooed him off, then gave him the finger, but he kept coming closer and she dug her phone out of her purse.
'If you come ANY closer, I SWEAR I'll kill you,' she texted. He paused to flip his phone open, and scowled at her message. 'I mean it, Bruce. Go away.'
'We need to talk,' was his reply.
'I'll call you later. Go away.'
She closed her phone, indicating the text message argument was over, and glared at him until he turned in a huff and stalked off. Then Rachel sighed and looked down at Jack, still asleep, his dark brown hair falling into his face. She started to reach over to brush it away, but stopped herself. She didn't know if it would wake him, and with Bruce still undoubtedly watching, it was petty besides.
After a while, though, she cleared her throat. “Jack?” He stirred a bit, but didn't open his eyes. Rachel reached her foot out to nudge his leg. “Jack, wake up.”
“Mm?” He blinked and then rubbed his eyes, yawning. Rachel smiled at it, then he looked up at her and yawned again. “Time to go?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“I didn't mean to fall asleep,” he said by way of apology as he stood, then helped her stand.
“It's all right,” Rachel assured him as they headed back toward his apartment. They were both content with silence, until they were at his front door and Jack cleared his throat.
“You know . . . if you bring your burrito tomorrow, I'll tease you about it.”
It was an invitation back and Rachel kept her smile small. “I'd hate to miss out on that,” she said lightly. Jack raised his eyes to her and an even smaller smile crept along his face, but it was there. “Have a good night, Jack.”
“You too . . . Rachel.”
Author: larissafae
Fandom: Batman, Nolanverse.
Pairing: Past Jack Napier/Harleen Quinzel, future Jack/Rachel
Chapter rating: PG-13
Warnings: Light swearing.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, this wouldn't be a fanfic, now, would it?
Summary: A rehabilitated Jack Napier is brought into police custody after his wife of four years, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, falls to her death from their apartment. The only ones who seem to be on his side are Gordon and Rachel, who are haunted by the fact that 'rehabilitated' doesn't always mean 'cured'.
Previous chapters:
1
2
Rachel stood and held her hand out with a smile. “Dr. Morgenson; I'm sorry about the wait. What may I do for you?”
The older man --- thinning hair, a bit of a paunch, but clear gray eyes --- took her hand gently and smiled with his mouth only. “I'm sorry to bother you, Ms. Dawes. I'm worried about Jack.”
Rachel's own mouth went dry and her smile melted. “Has he done anything? When was the last time you spoke with him?”
The doctor shook his head. “He hasn't done anything that I know of. He showed up at the police department a few days ago and asked to be put in a cell for a night or two because he missed his morning medication after Harleen died --- which was quite the forward-thinking thing for him to do --- and I spoke to him last night.” He sat and fingered his mustache. “What do you know about Jack's psychiatric case, Ms. Dawes?”
Rachel started to gesture toward her cocoa machine, but he waved her off and she settled into her chair. “I've read a lot, actually. I have a rather . . . personal interest in what makes him like he is.” Morgenson nodded, his eyes flicking to the picture of Harvey she kept on her desk. “A lot of it confused me, but I got the general gist of the 'super-sanity' theory. Sounded crazy to me, but . . . still, it made some sense.”
Morgenson nodded again and leaned forward. “Jack can not handle daily life, Ms. Dawes. He's a sociopath, psychotic, antisocial . . . I don't know what sort of upbringing or background he has, but for how he's turned out, it wasn't good. The point is, at some point he lost the ability to filter all the information he receives on a daily basis, and it overloads his system. He can't handle it, so he breaks it down into the smallest bits he's capable of; that's why sometimes he's pulling 'pranks,' as he calls them, like filling that fire hydrant with foam and lighting that bakery on fire, and sometimes he's going on a murdering spree. He adapts his personality to his immediate surroundings.” He paused to see that Rachel was following, and she nodded to show she understood. “He's highly obsessive-compulsive, and extremely jealous of things that he considers his. More, I believe that his long-standing . . . ah . . . infatuation, you could say, with Batman is because Batman provided him with a constant that he'd never had before. Jack defined himself in terms of existing in Batman's world, rather than Batman existing in his.” He cocked his head as if waiting for something, then offered more information. “What made Harleen so successful in her treatment of him, and why I was able to talk the Psychiatric Board down from revoking her license, was that she replaced the Batman constant with a much healthier one.” Again he paused.
“Herself,” Rachel said, and was rewarded with a warm smile and a nod.
“Exactly. She gave him the attention he wanted, and kept him in a tight routine that he could work with, even if he resented being on such a short leash at times. Now, this doesn't go further than us --- and never reaches Jack --- but Harleen was a mediocre psychiatrist at best. I was one of her professors in college; she slept with a good deal of them in order to pass, and she never had much ambition or talent. Jack's case challenged her, I think. She actually began to work at finding a way around his issues in order to help, rather than relying on textbooks.” He looked proud of the dead woman. “By the way, if he ever lets you, look at his notes. The man's da Vinci reincarnated, I swear it . . . albeit it's the drawings that are doodles in the margins, not the war machines. He and Harleen would sit up all hours of the night, talking about whatever had caught his attention that day. Sometimes it was taking over a small country, sometimes it was an improvement on something, and sometimes they made clothes.” Morgenson smiled. “Jack likes to make his own clothes; it's a point of pride for him.” He sat back and ran his fingers down his maroon tie. “Do you see the problem?”
Rachel thought about it, but it was painfully clear. “With Dr. Quinzel dead, he's lost his stability, hasn't he?” Morgenson nodded. “Will he take his medication with her gone? And for that matter, how effective is his medication?”
Morgenson pursed his lips and spoke slowly. “It . . . has some effect. I'm not sure if it works because Harleen was there to stabilise him enough, or if it stabilised him enough for Harleen's methods to work, but . . . I know they worked in tandem.”
A thought had been nibbling at her for a while. “Are you asking me to babysit him, Doctor? Or assign him a babysitter?”
The man had the grace to look embarrassed. “I'm afraid I am, Ms. Dawes. He told me that you shaved him; I doubt you realise how much trust he put in you to do that. He's obsessively touchy about his scars, he hates people touching him . . . I think he's beginning to transfer his . . .” He scratched an eyebrow. “I don't want to call it an obsession, but . . . I think he's focusing more on you in order to keep himself stable. I'm not saying you have to take Harleen's place,” he said as Rachel's eyebrows went up and she opened her mouth. “Not at all; I think that's one of the worst things that could happen. Jack needs time to mourn her. But if he trusted you that much --- and it was an extreme act of trust, no matter how flippant he may have been about it --- if he trusted you that much, it's important for his mental stability that you not push him away. That's why I'm here. I didn't think you realised what was going on.” Rachel sat back as he eyed her. “He said you fed Rory without anyone asking you to. He's fascinated that you don't seem to bear a grudge against him.”
He was probing. Rachel shrugged. “Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge, and I was always bad at those, anyway. He seems to be making so much progress, and I just want to leave the past behind me.”
Morgenson looked at Harvey's picture again and Rachel wanted to snap at him, but she held her tongue. “I understand. Here, let me give you my card in case you need to discuss Jack with me.” He held the embossed card out and Rachel took it, sliding it into her purse. “He likes that you eat those huge burritos. It amuses him.”
“I know,” she returned. “He said I'd get fat from eating them.”
“Usually it's things like blind babies and AIDS that amuse him. And sombreros.” Morgenson shrugged as he stood, and Rachel followed suit. “So laughing at you and your burritos is progress.”
Rachel offered her hand and shook it with a nod. “Glad to be useful, Doctor. I'll . . .” She hesitated, then took the plunge. “I'll be able to stop by his apartment after work. Do I need to call to warn him?”
The relief on Morgenson's face was almost painful to see. “Please. He works best on a set schedule. I'll call to let him know you'll be in touch with him; it will give him time to clean the apartment, if he hasn't been over it twenty times today already. Thank you so much, Ms. Dawes. And please, call me after you leave to let me know how things went. Jack is still very unpredictable, and what seems like an adverse reaction isn't always.”
Rachel walked him to the door and shook his hand again. “I will, Doctor. Thank you for your time.”
“No, thank you,” he said, then turned and walked away.
Rachel sighed as she closed her office door and sat back at her desk, taking Harvey's picture in her hands and staring down at it as tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Harvey,” she whispered. “I miss you so much . . . Oh, God, I hope I'm doing the right thing . . .”
~
The phone rang six times before it was picked up, but there was silence on the other end. Rachel frowned, but when Dr. Morgenson had called to let her know it was all right to place her own call, he'd said Jack usually didn't speak when he picked the phone up. Rachel listened, and caught faint breathing.
She swallowed. “Mr. Napier? This is Rachel Dawes.” The breathing increased in volume, and she went on, her heart pounding. She tried not to talk like he was a simpleton. “I'm just off work, and I thought you might like some company. Would it be all right if I came over?”
There was at least thirty seconds of silence before his low voice answered. “Are you bringing your burrito?”
It sounded scratchy, like he'd been crying. Or yelling. Rachel forced a smile. “I already finished it.”
“. . . Oh.”
There was more silence.
“Are you coming over or not?” he asked suddenly, sounding slightly irritated.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “I'll be there in half an hour.”
There was a faint 'Goodbye' just before the line died, and Rachel rubbed her eyes as she wondered what she'd gotten herself into. Well, in this traffic, she had half an hour to stew over it. She sighed and started her car, heading west to the address that Hideki had given her.
~
It was actually about forty minutes later when Rachel stood in front of Napier's apartment and stared at the numbers. She raised her hand, then lowered it. She still wasn't sure if she should be putting herself in this position, but her heart was screaming that she had to find some way of helping this man who couldn't seem to catch a break. She sigh and rapped firmly on the door and it opened so quickly that he must have been waiting right beside it. Rachel stepped back in surprise, then smiled lest Napier think she was offended.
He stood before her, wearing a dark gray . . . yes, crocheted pullover, dark blue jeans that fit like a second skin and left her wondering wear he got them tailored, and bare feet. His hair looked like he'd run his fingers through it to comb it, and he was once more covered in stubble. No matter; she'd brought his razor. Dark eyes looked her up and down, then he gestured her in.
“Quick, before that damn cat gets out,” he muttered.
She had to squeeze past him, and it made her uncomfortable, but there was a beautiful medium-haired flame-point Siamese creeping toward the door. Napier shut it as soon as Rachel was in and the cat took off to a different room, his escape plan foiled.
“Asshole,” Napier called after him. “What?” he asked as he turned and caught Rachel's smile.
“It's nothing,” she assured him. “I'm sure Rory just missed me.”
“Missed trying to kill you,” Napier corrected. “Well?”
“Hm?” She'd been looking at some sort of project he had laid out over the floor. It looked like a patchwork 3D puzzle, almost.
“What do you want?”
Oh, that. Rachel regarded the nervous man in front of her and smiled. “To socialise with you.”
“Morgenson sent you.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you I'm crazy?”
“I have firsthand experience of that,” Rachel returned.
Napier seemed taken aback for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Rachel repeated as she rolled her eyes. “Are you hungry?”
“Got plenty of leftovers. Still cooking for two.” Napier was bouncing on his heels slightly, unsure of what to do with the woman in his living room. He obviously wasn't good with company. “Could use a Jamba Juice, though. Haven't had once since . . .” He turned suddenly and flounced with surprising grace back to his project, sinking to the floor Indian-style and picking up pieces, carefully sewing them together. Rachel had been right, he was making some sort of patchwork 3D object. She almost laughed as his tongue snaked out of his mouth as he concentrated, but he'd probably get upset, so she squished the urge. She sat across from him and he spared her a glance, brown eyes rolling up in their sockets to follow her downward movement, then he returned his attention to the project. He was focused completely on his work, but energy radiated from him, barely contained by what currently held his attention.
“Would you like to get some?” Rachel asked after a moment.
“Huh?” He looked up like he'd forgotten she was there, and maybe he had.
“Would you like to get some Jamba Juice?” Rachel asked again.
He was quiet for a while as he looked at her, then slowly set the pieces of fabric in his hands down. “. . . Yeah, sure. Please and thank you.”
She smiled, relieved that he hadn't taken offense at the offer. “It'll be my treat.” She stood up, conscious of his gaze on her, and tugged her skirt down a bit. It was a moment before he stood, shuffling to the door to slip into a pair of sneakers. Rachel recognised the signs of depression and was gripped with the sudden urge to hug him, but she held back. He looked so damn lost. “Mr. Napier ---”
“Christ, just call me Jack. I hate being called 'Mister' all the time. Any time.” He looked to the side as she walked up to him, hiding most of his scars from her sight.
“Jack, then, so long as you call me Rachel.” He blinked once. “I brought your razor,” she said as he opened the door. That got his attention and he looked at her fully, eyebrows going up. “I figured you'd need a shave.”
He took a deep breath. “. . . That's a dangerous thing to do, Rachel.”
She glanced up at him with a slight smile as he locked the door. “I'm not going to have sex with you, Jack.” He made a noncommittal sound, but she could see that her response had startled him. He moved down the hall and she stepped quickly to keep up. “And unless you want to look like a mountain man, I'm the only one you have to give you a shave right now. Oh, there's Doctor Morgen---”
“No.” Rachel laughed at the forcefulness of his voice and Jack glared at her before his lips screwed up into a reluctant smirk. “It's not nice to use a man's weaknesses against him.”
“I was just listing your choices. Either I do it and you keep your hands to yourself, or Doctor . . .” She trailed off at the face he made, still chuckling. He sighed before grinning reluctantly. The scars on his face twisted his smile into something less than pleasant, but it was still good to see.
They continued on in an easy silence, and Rachel glanced over when Jack raised his left hand to his mouth and started chewing on his wedding band. He kissed it briefly, then went back to chewing. The pattern repeated, and she pretended not to notice.
“Do you know what you want?” Rachel asked as they approached the smoothie shop.
“They know,” Jack muttered. He was following close behind her as she opened the door, and the reason was clear as the redhead at the cashier spotted them.
“Hi! Welcome to Jamba Juice! How are you?” A chorus of greetings followed as the other team members greeted them, and she heard Jack grit his teeth.
“Good, thank you,” Rachel replied. She'd forgotten Jamba Juice's apparent behavioral policy: the more upbeat, the better.
“Hey, Jack's back! You want your usual?”
He was nodding into her hair, and Rachel realised he was hiding his scars from the girls. When the cashier tilted her head with a quizzical look, she nodded. “Yes, please.”
“No problem!” That energy couldn't be natural. Rachel glanced over the menu; she'd never been in a Jamba Juice. Harvey or Bruce had always brought it to her. “Do you need help choosing a smoothie?”
“Ah . . . yes.”
The girl came around the corner and Jack stiffened, leaning away a bit. Foosh, her name tag read. Foosh stopped and Jack relaxed, and she turned to the menu board. “Do you like sweet or sour?”
Rachel frowned. “Sweet.”
“How about a Caribbean Passion? It's got passion fruit-mango juice, orange sherbet, strawberries and peaches.”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“You also get one of our free nutritional boosts,” Foosh went on, gesturing to another board in front of the cash register.
Rachel glanced down at it. “Ah . . . Daily Vitamins?”
“No problem! What size? Sixteen ounce, Original, or Power?”
Rachel found the three example cups and pursed her lips. “Sixteen, please.”
“Sure. We've got a one hundred-percent guarantee, by the way. If you ever don't like your smoothie, give it back and we'll make you a new one of the same size.” Once more in her proper spot, Foosh put the information in the computer and nodded. “Original for you, Jack?” The man nodded, fingers gripping Rachel's shirt at her lower back. “Okay, that'll be . . . four-thirty-five.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “For two smoothies?” Hers alone was three-fifteen.
Foosh pursed her lips and gave Jack a sympathetic look before striving for innocence. “Yeah. Because I can. Those'll be out in just a minute. Unless you wanted one of our baked goods . . . ? No? Okay.”
That seemed to settle it. Rachel paid her and then moved out of the next customer's way, Jack still holding on to her shirt.
“Are you all right?” she murmured.
“Mm.”
“That doesn't tell me much.”
“You're taller than Harley,” he murmured.
Rachel blinked and craned her neck around to look at him. “Pardon?”
“Makes it easier to hide behind you.” He wouldn't let her turn around, resting his chin on the top of her head.
Oh. Harleen. Harley. A nickname. It made him eerily normal, and Rachel cleared her throat as he clutched at her. “If you insist.”
“Here you go, Jack!” the girl pouring smoothies --- Ashley --- called out with a smile. Rachel and Jack moved forward to take their smoothies, and Rachel thanked her. “Oh, no problem. We miss you, Jack. Come visit us soon, okay?”
He didn't reply, just looked at his feet and then to the side, and Rachel smiled and thanked the girl again before taking his elbow and leading him out. A chorus of goodbye's followed them, and once they were around the corner Jack stopped and slumped against the wall. He wiped at his forehead as he sipped at his smoothie, then gave Rachel a tired smile.
“I hate going in there.”
Rachel was surprised, but then again, she wasn't, not if that was the reception this shy and socially awkward man always got.
“I'm sorry,” was all she could think of to say.
He sighed and watched her try her drink. “Good?”
“Surprisingly.” Rachel looked up at him and tilted her head, smiling gently.
“I tried to kill you,” he said suddenly.
Rachel's eyebrows went up. “Pardon?”
“I tried to kill you. I killed your fiance. Stop looking at me like you care.”
Oh. She shook her head. “That was ten years ago. You've changed, you know. Haven't you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah. I've changed. Why don't you hate me?”
“Because it takes too much energy,” Rachel replied. He raised his eyebrows. “And besides, you're very hard to hate at the moment.”
“I don't want to be pitied.”
“I don't pity you. I sympathise with your loss.”
He paused. “Oh.” His arms went across his stomach and he looked to the side.
Rachel watched him, then sighed softly. “There's a park down the street. It's a nice day.”
“. . . I hate the park,” he muttered, but he walked off that direction anyway. Rachel followed at his side, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. He missed a step and stared down at her sharply, but Rachel just smiled up at him as they waited for the light to change. “Why?” he asked.
“Because you don't need to suffer all alone,” she replied. His reply was cut off by the light changing, and she tugged him across the street.
“I hate being touched.”
He wasn't trying to pull away. If anything, the man was leaning in closer. Rachel nodded. “Well, as soon as you don't like it, you can pull away.”
“Why are you going to give me a shave?”
“Because you need one, Jack.”
“It turns me on.”
Rachel looked up at him. “Does that bother you?” He turned his face away, avoiding her gaze and her question. “Because I'm not Harleen?”
Jack flinched. It answered her question. Rachel was quiet, thinking of a reply, and then he spoke. “Is that bad? I mean, obviously, but . . .” He sighed and kicked at a rock.
They turned into the park and Rachel headed for a quiet spot. “It's . . . something you've been conditioned to respond to,” she replied. “So it's not surprising that you respond to it. You're also . . . vulnerable, right now. You . . . you don't have the physical comfort you used to. So . . . I don't think it's bad.”
Jack didn't say anything until she'd found them a quiet patch of ground to sit on, and watched her arrange herself decently before sitting and speaking again. “She's not . . . there. I make breakfast, and she's not there. I make dinner, and she's not there. I started our castle, and she's not there.” He was breathing more deeply, swallowing past tears. “I . . .” He sighed. “I'm fine when she used to leave, up until she used to get back home. But when she's supposed to be there, and she's not, I . . . I don't know what to do.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at her for a moment. “Was it like that after Harvey died?”
Rachel's heart clenched more, and she wiped tears from her eyes as she nodded. “It was. I'd expect him to walk into the office with our morning coffee, and he wouldn't. Sometimes I'd stare at the door for a half hour or more, just . . . waiting. And he never came.”
If she was expecting an apology, it wasn't forthcoming. Jack just stared at her, then slowly tilted over until he lay on his side. He was still watching her when his eyelids fluttered closed, and a few minutes later his breath evened out fully. Rachel sighed and idly tipped her empty cup over, watching him sleep. His face was so relaxed, she hadn't realised it had been tense. Over his shoulder, then, she caught sight of a man standing a hundred yards or so off and her eyes went wide before narrowing. He was scowling at her and she made shooing motions with her hands, but he started walking toward her. Rachel shook her head and shooed him off, then gave him the finger, but he kept coming closer and she dug her phone out of her purse.
'If you come ANY closer, I SWEAR I'll kill you,' she texted. He paused to flip his phone open, and scowled at her message. 'I mean it, Bruce. Go away.'
'We need to talk,' was his reply.
'I'll call you later. Go away.'
She closed her phone, indicating the text message argument was over, and glared at him until he turned in a huff and stalked off. Then Rachel sighed and looked down at Jack, still asleep, his dark brown hair falling into his face. She started to reach over to brush it away, but stopped herself. She didn't know if it would wake him, and with Bruce still undoubtedly watching, it was petty besides.
After a while, though, she cleared her throat. “Jack?” He stirred a bit, but didn't open his eyes. Rachel reached her foot out to nudge his leg. “Jack, wake up.”
“Mm?” He blinked and then rubbed his eyes, yawning. Rachel smiled at it, then he looked up at her and yawned again. “Time to go?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“I didn't mean to fall asleep,” he said by way of apology as he stood, then helped her stand.
“It's all right,” Rachel assured him as they headed back toward his apartment. They were both content with silence, until they were at his front door and Jack cleared his throat.
“You know . . . if you bring your burrito tomorrow, I'll tease you about it.”
It was an invitation back and Rachel kept her smile small. “I'd hate to miss out on that,” she said lightly. Jack raised his eyes to her and an even smaller smile crept along his face, but it was there. “Have a good night, Jack.”
“You too . . . Rachel.”