2007-08-06: DF: Can't Have You


DFJack_icon.gif DFTrina_icon.gif

Summary: First rule to good relationships: Don't bother your man with business as soon as he walks in the door. Wait a few sentences.

Dark Future Date: August 6, 2009

Can't Have You

Dark Future - NYC - Phoenix Rising Towers

Okay. So Elena wasn't the only one to get nearly giddy over the prospect of having hot showers again. Nor was Ali. No, Trina was just as glad as her estrogen-filled cohorts to feel the now-strange and euphoric sensation of bathing in water that isn't freezing cold or lacking pressure because it's out of a solar-heated rubber bag.

Water-warmed skin is now wrapped in a luxurious burgundy-hued bath sheet, Trina just sprawled on the REAL BED, basking in the beautiful afterglow of an entirely fulfilling experience in hygiene. Never you mind that her hair, nearly waist length now, is brushed but still thoroughly wet and leaving a little dark spot on the pillow.

Ernie and Rubber Duckie were right: Bathtime *is* fun.

Another day, another dollar. After passing out and subsequently being carried inside on the night of Elena's pickup, Jack hasn't acutally been inside Phoenix Rising Towers. When he left he was in too much of a hurry to properly enjoy the scenery. After frantically working the radio for almost two days straight, he's finally earned himself enough free time for a much-needed respite. Though the drive from Weichsel Carcass house to Phoenix Rising wasn't what one would call short, curiosity and desire to see his lady won out over the immediate need to crash on the thoroughly hated futon. Having parked Julia IV in the lavishly large garage area, he's now wandering from room to room, marveling at a level of comfort that he'd be so thoroughly accustomed to just a couple of years ago. Carpet. Drywall. Coffee. Silverware. These are the things that dreams are made of.

Walking quietly on the balls of his feet and rolling doorknobs silently, he peeks into each room until he finds what he really came here to see. "Trina. Hey, baby."

Jack is sneaky liek woah. Maybe that's why it is that there is a start from the woman on the bed when she hears him speak, breaking the silence with first his voice. That jumpiness is something that has only grown worse as time has marched ever onward. In one swift movement, Trina sits up and curls her legs under her so she can get to her knees, a hand gripping her towel to her with one hand while the other one comes to rest just in front of her, palm facing the door.

When recognization finally softens her hard expression, the young woman smiles and then settles back onto her heels. The hand getting ready to push a forcefield through the door drops limply to her side. "Jack. Was beginnin' to think you weren't gonna move in."

"I figured there's no sense in sleepin' in a dirty, bloody meat packing plant if there's a perfectly good bed with a perfectly beautiful woman in it right here." As always, Jack's voice is dry and rough, but today it carries an odd inflection that's hard to decipher through all the croaking. He limps out of the dim doorway, revealing tired eyes, a half-hearted smile, and BDUs that are torn and patched at the knee and across the abdomen. When he reaches the bedside he eases down next to Trina with a soft, content sigh. He tugs one of his gloves off with his teeth and brushes his knuckles against her cheek. "You like it here?"

"We got showers," the mechanic confides, as though it were some beautiful secret. "But I like it better now," Trina replies, blue eyes searching his for a moment before sliding her arms about his waist and laying her damp head atop his shoulder so that she can make his shoulder damp, too. Her gaze turned now towards the wall, she speaks more loudly to accomodate for its effect on the clarity of her words, despite her first inclination to do just the opposite. "Everythin' alright?"

Jack clings to Trina gratefully, soaking up both her warmth and her still-dampness. "'M fine," he replies as he fingers a lock of her hair. "Thinkin' about absent friends, is all." He presses a kiss to the top of her head and gives her a squeeze. "How's things here? Ali and 'Lena doin' okay after what they've been through?"

At Jack's gentleness, there is a pleased murmur against his shirt. The odors that betray his extended time at the plant mingle with that of her soap and shampoo. The perfume it creates smells like home. "Elena, yeah. She woke up fine, considering that we've got the Douchebag, PreDouch runnin' around." Peter. She never really knew him well until things were already working their way to bad. Trina can't help but to be a little suspcious now that they've got v.1.0 running around. "Voice ain't transitionin' so well. But at least she's eatin'. Cass said to keep an eye on her. The malnuwhatsit's done a number on her immune system, 'n' we don't need her gettin' worse."

Finally pulling her head back, Trina searches her boyfriend's face with a somber curiosity. Her fingertips lightly trail over the muscles hinted at beneath his shirt, but the action is distracted. "Where you been, baby?"

Jack nods once, briskly, pleased to hear that Ali is doing better. Though she's never lacked in constitution or strength of will, her ingrained gentleness has always made him slightly more protective of her than the others. Much of the tension sloughs from his neck and shoulders when he hears the news. Rather than dwell on the issue, he moves on to Trina's question. "Been in the radio room. Masterson's team made it through to Jersey, but they lost a shooter and three of the refugees."

"Masterson'll be better 'n fine. 'm sure he'll be back to tease you plenty in no time." And it's best not to linger on his mission. Gently, Trina gingerly pulls her slender, bare arms back and then moves to put her feet on the floor. Probably should work on getting dressed. She, of course, is in no way moving away so Jack can't see her fa— Okay, maybe she is.

The mechanic waits until she's facing the dresser and starts to rifle through the drawers that she's filled with her meager and largely worn and faded belongings, her face ends up getting lost behind the curtain of ebony hair that falls on either side of it. Behind that curtain, there's a nasty little scowl on her lips. "I… I ran into an old headache yesterday. That bitch that Petrelli married."

Though Jack is partially deaf and completely clueless when it comes to women, there's no mistaking Trina's tone. Half-slumped on the bed, he groans quietly as he sits back upright. A frown creases his forehead, though it seems more confused and annoyed than angry or hateful. "M-Kate?" As always, he stutters over a name change that he considers vain. "Yeah, I saw a couple o' days ago, too. She's gotten bloody odd, hasn't she? Not that marryin' the Douchebag weren't odd… But she bowed to me. Can you believe that?" Wearily incredulous, he scrubs one gloved hand and one bare, scarred one over his face and up through his hair.

"I'd believe anythin'. She's a gawdamed nutjob," Trina mutters darkly. And then… Then there's a bright smile that threatens to turn that frown upside down, visible from the mirror over the vanity if Jack has the right view. "I told her to shove her head up a carburetor," she notes with pride, regardless of what the fallout with her man may be. Okay, back to frowns and being cranky about Kate Petrelli. Because really, that *should* be the overlying sentiment; it's only right. That any Petrelli got within fifteen feet of him is irksome to say the least. "But… yeah. Anyway. She kinda got to hintin' that she'd been droppin' words in your ear." A drawer gets closed too hard as Trina forgets to be gentle in her frustration, slamming back into place. "So. What'd she want with you?"

"She wanted to borrow the Saints." Jack's mouth presses into a flat, unpleasant line, his eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Needless to say, I wasn't amused. Then she tried to get me to wade into the fray with her like the Dynamic Duo. I think she's realized that she's put herself in quite the predicament bein' between the President…" Growl. "…and the Douchebag." Growl. "That's not our problem, though." He shrugs, then smiles crookedly at Trina in the mirror. For a moment, he looks like his old self again. "You said that to her? Ha! That's m'girl."

Jack could have said a lot of things to get her attention, but there's nothing that he could have said to get it any faster. His praise is lost in the wake of the words that came before. While she's getting dressed under the towel, moving with the ease of someone used to the practice of wide open living quarters, the young woman stops midway in pulling on the beatup pair of sweatpants 'borrowed' from Jack over a year ago in order to twist and look at him directly.

Her unpainted blue eyes are wide, and her jaw sets. He told her 'no'. He must have told her 'no'. "She can't have you," comes Katrina's plain reply, just in case he entertained the idea. Her voice is snappish, but it's that strange defensiveness that is laced with fear and hurt. Kate's husband is an asshole who leads subordinates on suicide missions and the entire resistance knows it. Moreover, the word has come down about the trains. The thought of Jack trouncing off behind Peter out of some misplaced sense of hope or duty is nearly more than she can bear. It's even worse that the request came from her of all people. "She ain't got no right to ask."

"I know she doesn't," Jack reassures her. "If she's itchin' to get in the shit, she's gonna have to find someone else to buddy up with. My place is with our people. With you." He sags back against the bed. His eyelids are growing heavy. They drift closed, then snap back open again. He blinks several times in a futile attempt to restore his alertness. Again, he rubs his hands over his face. "Besides, we don't do things the way they do things. We're in the business of savin' lives wherever possible, not t-t-takin'…" His eyes are closed again. "Takin' 'em. Man. Baby, will you wake me up in an hour? I think I just ran outta gas."

It's not his fault that he's exhausted. It's just bad timing, s'all. And he's saying the right things. She's mad at Kate, not Jack. Jack hasn't even been *home* to tell her about the strange experience of meeting with Peter's strange wife. He hasn't done anything wrong.

Trina tries very hard to internalize these facts so that it can alleviate the furious churning in her gut. It… doesn't really work. Her own eyes close for a moment as she draws in a very deep breath and then quietly pushes it out again, trying to push the hostility out of her voice with it. Her voice just ends up sounding quiet as she masks the strain. "Yeah, sugar. I'll get you up." She won't, really, but she says it anyway. He needs the sleep. Throwing the towel on top of the dresser so she can throw on her tank top, the feminine form makes her way to Jack's side so she can press a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep well, babe. I'll miss you 'til you're back to the wakin' world."

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