2007-05-21: The Best Part of Getting Shot


Jack_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Trina obviously loves Jack more than Elena because she gives him alcohol with refills! Effects of booze on the blood? PFFT! PFFFFFFFT, I say!

Date It Happened: May 21, 2007

The Best Part of Getting Shot

Jack's Apartment

After being accidentally shot and then subsequently patched up by Elena, Jack made his way home to try and relax a bit. He's presently sprawled out on the couch, stripped to a pair of grey boxers and a black undershirt. Thick bandages wrap his upper thigh, and faints spots of blood are visible front and back where the bullet entered and exited.

An empty hot dog wrapper is wadded up on the table next to his ashtray and a glass of liquor. The remote is close at hand, and he's listening to a homemade CD while he ponders and lounges with his hands propped behind his head.

She's unexpected. For a few moments, Trina debates whether or not to turn right back around and go home. She stands in the hall, probably looking terribly out of place with her beat-up black heeled boots, seemingly too-small black tank, and low-riding bootleg jeans with that black sash tied about her waist. A hand reaches up to fluff the loosely waving falls of dark hair as she wrestles indecisively with herself. What if he's not even home? Well, then that would solve the dilemma of whether to stay or go pretty darned quick. And what if he is and he doesn't want the company? …Well, she'd hope he'd say as much. It is in this way that moments become minutes. A good eight minutes to be precise. Finally, however, Trina simply does what she does best: she plunges in head first. Don't lose anything by trying, right? Right.

That repeated to herself, Trina lifts her slender right hand with its heavy ring on her middle finger with its red stone set into the very fake silver and knocks.

Jack hauls himself up off of the couch and winces. He's stiffened up a bit since he got back to his apartment. Groaning, he limps over to the door as fast as he's able. When he peers through the peephole though, he starts to look a little nervous. How exactly does one explain to one's new girlfriend that one managed to get oneself accidentally shot?

It doesn't stop him from opening the door, though. After all, it's Trina. "Hey," he murmurs, meeting her eyes. "Did you get more beautiful since the last time I saw you?"

The smile that curls Trina's lips is painted in hues of relief, pleasant surprise, and that small amount of veiled self-consciousness that beats within many a feminine breast. "If I did," she finally manages after letting a nervous chuckle escape her lips and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I guess you just got lucky. Between me and you, I think it's just you. If you still wanna think it, though, I surely ain't gonna stop you." She starts to bite her lip after that, but she quickly stops before it's in there for more than a couple of seconds. No. Don't act like you shouldn't be here, Trina. Don't! "I— I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Oh, good job, dumb ass. A stutter. That sounds so confident.

"Not at all," Jack replies. "Uh. Unless you count me listening to music in my underwear." A little embarrassed, he crosses his arms over his chest and smiles sheepishly. "Come on in. I'll put something on." Turning, he limps back across the apartment toward the ladder leading to his loft bedroom.

The confusion that Jack's embarrassment causes is only compounded by the fact that he's limping. As Trina pushes her way into the apartment, she's quick to shut the door behind her and latch it. Then she turns to face the apartment once more, brow creased in concern. And then… sight of a bandage finally processes. "What the hell happened, hon'?" Quickly crossing the room to try to catch up with him and hopefully cut him off at the pass, the dark haired, profanity-gifted girl goes on to attempt to prove that cussing should be considered her superpower. "And who the fuck do I have to hunt down to kick the ever-loving shit out of 'em?" Because Jack doesn't seem the sort to just go blundering around with those sorts of ugly results. He must have had help.

When Trina starts out behind him and ends up in front of him, Jack halts his approach toward the ladder. "My clothes are up there," he protests weakly. Still, he's dated enough to know when he isn't getting off without an explanation. Sighing, he gestures to his wounded leg. "It was an accident. And you can't beat up the person that shot me. Can't," he repeats. "I was trying to teach my niece how to shoot. She's occasionally a little.. overzealous."

The fact that Trina just threatened to kick someone's ass on his behalf isn't lost on Jack, though. Smiling, he reaches up and strokes the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "You'd do that for me, though? That's so damn sweet."

"She SHOT you?" The words are out of Trina's mouth before she can even fully realize what they mean. Mouth moves faster than the brain sometimes. When it catches up, she almost sneers. She's allowed. Elena hurt her man. "What she do? Forget which side was the business end?" Shaking her head softly, she closes her eyes and starts again. "Yeah. Well. Um… Yeah. I would." Her hand moves slowly to cup Jack's savoring the touch for a moment before allowing it to wash some of the panicky concern from her features. She's not really used to anyone calling her rough edges sweet, and it's enough to cause just the tiniest bit of a blush. It's a color rising in her cheeks that she moves to hide, cradling his hand in hers even as she lowers it so that she can get to turning and carefully picking her way up the ladder herself. "I'll get 'em if you want 'em. Go sit down, babe."

"Thanks. Just pants. Something loose and comfortable that isn't jeans. Look to the right in the wardrobe." Jack snuffles in a deep breath, then lets out a happy sigh. "Man. That's one hell of a girl," he mutters to himself as he limps over to one of the chairs in the living room. "But yeah, she shot me," he calls up to Trina. "She's the gentlest girl in the world, and I worry about her. I just wanted to teach her something about protecting herself. Should've left well enough alone."

"You couldn't have started with pepper spray? Or handed her self-defense class listings?" Trina's voice gets a little muffled as she rifles through the wardrobe at Jack's request. Rifles. Hee. Anyway. "I find it's best gentle people either learn to stay out of the way or learn to get not-gentle." A-ha. Sweatpants. Worn thin-ish. Perfect. Closing everything back up, Trina then traverses back to the ladder. "Gentle girl's likely to not shoot if she gets herself a body for a target." And then she pauses at the top of that ladder, arms crossing over her chest. "Well, unless it's you, apparently."

Smirking up at Trina, Jack sticks out his tongue briefly. "Thanks, love. Your compassion is heartwarming," he teases. Reaching down next to his chair, he paws around on the floor for a moment until he comes up with a pack of cigarettes. After shaking two loose, he sticks them both between his lips and lights them with a stick match. One is held in his hand, awaiting Trina's return. The other he puffs and speaks around simultaneously. "The girl lives a dangerous life, though. I figured she needed all the help she could get. I probably should've started smaller, though," he agrees.

With that same care that she used in getting up the ladder, Trina descends it with the pants simply tossed over one shoulder. Then she crosses the room, holding the dark fabric out towards Jack in one hand while the other hand reaches out empty to claim the second cigarette as her own with a small, tried smile. She hates seeing him hurt. She really, really does. "Trade you, sugar."

Jack passes his cigarette over to Trina, then takes the sweats and slides them on without getting up. He winces when the waistband presses against his bandages, and sighs with relief when everything is in place. "I'm lucky, really. It went in and out, both sides. No surgery or anything, just a few stitches." He reaches up to takes his butt back, and his free arm curls around Trina's waist.

Trina takes a puff off of Jack's cigarette before she hands it back to him. Now with his arm about her waist, she's inclined to oh-do-carefully alight herself on the arm of his chair. "You and I got different definitions of lucky," she contends. Then she leans over to kiss the top of his head. "But I'm glad it ain't more serious. I'd really hate to have to hurt your niece 'fore we're properly introduced."

Smiling, Jack nuzzles his cheek against Trina's belly and he hooks his thumb in the sash that's around her waist. "You met her once before, at the pub. Elena. We're not actually related, but she's the closest I'm got to family anymore." For a few seconds he thinks of his parents, far separated by both distance and ideals. "She and I have been looking out for each other ever since I got to the city."

Softly cradling the back of Jack's head, Trina lightly runs her fingers through his hair as she listens. And then more as she thinks. Finally, she shakes her head. She doesn't remember. "I'll take your word for it, babe." Vodka and stress, after all, makes most of the faces seen that night a blur. "The important thing is that you're alright. Coulda been a lot worse, and I s'pose if it had to happen it's best it was someone who didn't really mean it." Blue eyes then look down at Jack once more, drinking him in as she goes about pensively curling her fingers through the short-chopped hair still. He's a lot more forgiving of the situation than a great many others would be inclined to be. "…Is there anything I can do?"

"Not so much," Jack replies, smiling ruefully. "It hurts. Och, it hurts. I'll be sound again soon, though." He lets out a happy, throaty purr, unabashedly enjoying the fingers dragging through his hair. "Errr.. Wait," he backpedals. "No. I'm terribly injured. Near mortal, I think. Must be showed with affection. And fed chocolate cake. Doctor's orders." He's using his best deadpan, but can't entirely suppress his laughter.

"Well, far be it from me to disobey doctor's orders," Trina replies with not even half the success of Jack's faulty facade. Her laughter is soft and filled with genuine amusement, finally allowing her non-stroking hand to reach out and grab the cigarette intended for her. Her body curls around Jack's head carefully, doing its best to not disturb him as she then reaches for the fire tool needed to release its blessed and toxic medicine. As she continues to speak, it's mumbled by the rolled tube hanging from her lips. "But if you don't already have cake here, you're out of luck, buddy. I have strict orders from the Fire Marshall to never attempt baking."

Jack nods, then leans back on the overstuffed recliner. He takes a final drag from his own cigarette, then stubs it out in the ashtray. "I'll bake, you feed," he agrees. He stretches his lean body languidly, almost catlike, then winces at the pressure on his thigh. Briefly, his eyes flick over in Trina's direction. It's a self-conscious gesture, but it doesn't keep him from relocating his bourbon and a bottle of painkillers close to hand. He shakes a couple of the tablets out into his palm, then caps the bottle and tosses it over his shoulder. "Want a drink?" he queries, gesturing now with the bourbon bottle.

There's that moment of surprise as Jack pulls his trick, Trina starting for a moment until she remembers that it's fine. That's just what he does. She sighs quietly to forcibly release that sudden, momentary tension before finally disentangling herself and pushing herself up onto her feet. "Sure. I'll get the glasses." After she rounds the chair to pick up the bottle so she can walk it to the counter, that is. Once the bottle is nestled in the crook of her elbow, she cups both hands around her cigarette as she lights it, only to shove the lighter in her pocket and carry it properly once she's got that beautiful first cloud in her lungs and then out into the room after pressing it through her pursed lips. Goodness, cigarettes are such wonderful little things.

"Glasses are in the cupboard above the sink and to the left," Jack directs. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Way to go, self. As if getting accidentally shot by your niece isn't enough, why don't we just remind the girl that we're a freak?

"So…" he murmurs. "Did you come here for any reason in particular? Or was it just to see me?" he finishes with a hopeful smile.

"Do I sound desperate if I say I just wanted to see you? I mean, I don't wanna… I mean, with me startin' up work at your place soon and all…" Reaching up per Jack's instruction, Trina's hands find their way to the glasses. If she knew Jack was beating himself up at all about his stunt, she could tell him she doesn't really mind. That some part of her rather envies that ability to control what he does. But she doesn't know, and she therefore can't offer up that reassurance. "I just wanna make sure you have your space if you need it," comes the completion of that sentence, Trina setting the cups down on the counter and spending an overly long period of time inspecting them. Not that she's putting off turning around. No, no. Not her.

Jack shakes his head vigorously and drops his hands back to his sides. "No! No, definitely not." His crooked smile is much in evidence as he studies Trina's back. "It feels good to know that you're as fond of me as I am of you," he admits. With her turned to face away from him, he indulges in a bit of nervous lip-nibbling. Fine lines crease his brow, and he lets out a soft sigh.
GAME: Save complete.

Fond. It's a word that the dark-haired motorhead wasn't really expecting, but the sound of it on Jack's lips brings a small smile to her own. "I am." Another deep breath and then Trina turns around with a smile and the two glasses in her hands, held shoulder high with a triumphant aire. Trina quickly strides back to his side, only to stoop in front of him and set one glass on each of the recliner's two arms. "Now that we've got all of the gushy stuff out of the way, I think it's time to get some booze in ya'. My poor guy. You've been just sittin' there while I'm just babblin' away."

"I can agree with that." Jack's face smooths, and he nods. Scooping up one of the glasses, he takes two fast sips, then lets out an appreciative mrrrr. "God invented liquor so the Irish wouldn't rule the world, y'know," he paraphrases, smiling up at his lady. "I think it was a good trade."

"You rule my world anyway," Trina says with a quiet smile before taking hold of her own glass in one hand and the ashtray in the other before finally moving away to perch on the couch nearby. Bourbon's so sweet in comparison to her scotch, demanding a slower treatment in her mouth and so she rolls it about with her tongue for a moment before sending it on its merry way down her gullet. Her legs spread wide with an adopted masculinity, elbows moving to rest on her knees as she cradles the glass in one hand and finally lifts a hand to pluck her cigarette from her mouth finally and flick it against the ashtray. "I guess that just makes you more talented than most."

Jack has the good grace to duck his head and blush. "You honor me too much," he replies modestly. He covers his embarrassment by gulping down another practiced swallow of liquor. Carefully, he hauls himself fully upright in his seat. With his good leg propped on the floor, he swivels his chair around to face Trina. "But I have to admit, it feels good. I.." He lifts one fist to cover his mouth and coughs. "I find you're on my mind very often." Gulp. There goes the rest of his drink. "Uh. Sorry. No more gushy, right?"

"No more gushy," Trina agrees with a lop-sided grin. "You gotta remember the Door Rule, anyway." She then points up to her head with her pinkie since her fingers are otherwise engaged with the cigarette. "This thing." Then she indicates through the door. "Through there." Then her eyes roll upwards as the recites something heard a long time ago. "'Sides. Too much flattery makes us girls just *impossible* to deal with." Her hand then lifts to take another deep drag of her cigarette, eyes focusing on it as she pulls it back out of her mouth to observe its curling smoke. "Never was much good at takin' it anyway." She clears her throat and then frowns. "Right. So. Um. Movin' on." Need lighter topic. Something like… her eyes drift down to her glass. "When'd bourbon catch your heart?" Lame topic, but maybe it'll help 'em get past all that sentimental stuff that she really doesn't know what to do with. And who knows? Maybe there's a good story there.

"It's always been a favorite of mine," Jack replies, happy to move to a topic they're both more comfortable with. "But I worked with this lady once upon a time. Judy. Ball-bustin' old pitbull. Kept bourbon in her office, and you knew you'd done a good job if she ever offered you a nip." He raises his empty glass to the light, studying the rosy glow of the faint traces that cling to the inside. "Guess we never stop cravin' the approval of the people we look up to, eh?"

"Not really," Trina muses, finally throwing back the rest of her glass to catch up to her host. There's a sharp sniff as she gets back up, cigarette tucked in her lips once more so she can do her well-practiced task of refilling the two glasses. "My grandma used to tell me that you look up to folks too long, 'though, and you're just gonna end up trippin' on your own feet. In the end, folks are just folks."

Jack nods agreeably. "I suppose you're right." Relieved of his glass, he toys with the hem of his undershirt to keep his hands occupied. Conversationally grasping at straws while he waits for his refill, he asks, "How about you? Scotch always been your favorite?"

"Nah. Had my first glass when I was fifteen. HATED it. I was a whiskey girl for a few years. Then I dated a guy who always reeked of it for a bit." Trina rolls her shoulders in response to the memory. "Never really got the taste for it back. When I got the job at Della, scotch was what I convinced one of the regulars to pick up for me on his tab." Then her eyes lift, that smile threatening to come back now. "And don't you dare tell Rob I was drinkin' on the job. He'd have my head, bar or not."

"Your secret's safe with me," Jack responds with a smile of his own. Reaching up, he drags one hand through his short hair, tousling it up into rough spikes. "No such rule at my place. So long as you can do the job, I don't see any harm in partaking a little. Some nights you almost have to, y'know?"

A laugh escapes Trina's lips as she finally finishes pouring her own glass and holds out the bottle towards Jack's. "As long as you can still tap in a tab and get the orders straight, ain't no harm," she agrees, before remembering that she's talking to her future boss. "Um. Or I could just, um…" She stops pouring, a look of guilt painting her features. "Can we just pretend I *didn't* say that? That would be totally awesome. Because I'm not gettin' sloshed at work. I promise a million times over, I'm not."

"Whoa.. Relax." Jack holds a hand out wardingly, a sympathetic smile on his face. "You're nervous like a little bird sometimes. It's adorable, but I feel sorry for you." As soon as his glass is full, he sets it aside and pats Trina's bottom affectionately. "I've no doubt that you're a great deal more responsible that I am, lass."

Sorry for her? The words cause an odd, wary expression to settle on Trina. She doesn't need sympathy, and she's not entirely sure why she's getting it. But then she gets that playful tap, and she finally decides to lean over and peck Jack lightly on his cheek. "Just ain't in a hurry to see you go anywhere, sugar. S'all." After a quick few steps to ash her cigarette again, she moves back to sit closer to the bottle. In this instance, 'closer' means the floor by Jack's feet whereupon she revels in the amazingly comfortableness of it all. Cigarette. Booze. Prince. She so wins. After killing half the glass, she rests her head against the seat of the recliner so she can lazily look up at Jack. "It doesn't feel like just a couple of weeks, y'know."

"I know what you mean," Jack quietly agrees. One of his hands slips down to toy with Trina's hair. Here she is, in his private sanctum. Sharing his secrets. There are very few people he can say that about. With his other hand, he pinches the rim of his glass between finger and thumb to raise it up to his lips. When he sets it back down, his tongue snakes out to catch a stray drop. Can't waste bourbon.

Bourbon blazing in her belly and a gentle hand in her hair. It's heavenly. Trina sighs deeply and contentedly, eyes closing as her head shifts to the side to rest against Jack's good leg. She wishes it could always be this way. Part of her debates bringing up deep topics relating to the modified genetics that they — to some extent — share, but she's not sure she even possesses the language to start that conversation. Maybe that's why she goes back to what she knows. Light-hearted and teasing, she opens her eyes and then turns her head to look back at Jack before taking another inhalation of her cigarette. Classlessly, she throws back the rest of her drink and then squishes her cigarette out with a quick twist of her fingertips, letting the ickies drop into that glass so she can put both things on the floor some distance in front of her without getting up. "Y'know. I think I know what really happened tonight."

"Uh?" Guilelessly, Jack quirks an eyebrow. On instinct, he also tips his glass and empties it. After stooping low to set it on the floor next to his chair, he cocks his head to the side curiously. Things start going through his mind, but as yet he doesn't make any connections. "What do you mean?" he finishes, brushing the backs of his fingers along his jawline as he speaks.

"I think you knew I was coming over." Twisting around to settle on her hands and knees with a playful grin, Trina then devilishly quirks her brow as she sets her chin on that good knee. "And I think you got shot on purpose."

Jack's eye is twitching again. This usually only happens when he's flabbergasted by a female in some way, and now is no exception. "Shot on purpose?" he splutters. "And what the bloody hell good would that do me?"

"Because I think you were tryin' to get out of another late night," Trina finally replies with a chuckle as she slowly slides her way back up to her feet, only to allow her hands to continue sliding along the arms of the generous recliner until at last she's up close and personal. If he lets her, she's not stopping until she's finally found her way to his lips so she can feel that softness against her own. "Admit it. I totally wore you out the last time. Just 'fess up."

Now that he's in on the joke as well, Jack's eyes twinkle merrily. "It's true," he admits. "In my present condition, I might not survive the same treatment. You're very… vigorous." His last sentence is a teasing purr as he cups both hands against the sides of Trina's face and kisses her deeply.

Trina murmurs her pleasure against Jack's mouth before — after taking her sweet time in kissing him — she pulls back. Just a little, 'though. She really want to do even that, but her brain isn't done with the retorts. Well. And a question. "Vigorous, huh? That better not be some back-handed compliment! Else I might not be gentle on you tonight, either, mister." C'mon, Jack. Things are bad, sure. But they're not that bad, right? Don't shoot her down tonight!

…Okay, seriously. These gun jokes just keep coming.

"Is that a promise?" Jack's grinning when he leans forward, silencing Trina's protests with another kiss. His heart is racing, his hands are roaming, and from the look of things, there'll be no shooting down in /this/ apartment tonight.

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