Around New York, Sunday Evening
Mar. 23rd, 2025 12:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
suitably_heroicFor the most part, Jack had settled fully into his New York life; the ebb and flow of jobs and gigs, the mundanity of groceries and early morning coffee and evening records, walks through the city and little restaurants with friends.
Except twice a week, he came back here. Their practice space by day, and his practice space by evening. Twice a week, like tonight, he took his lightsabers out from the little compartment behind the fan, and he made sure all the instruments were stowed away, and he rolled out the mat– and moved.
Snap-hiss.
Yellow blades cut through the air, following familiar patterns, muscle memory. He moved easy at first, staying in place as he ran through his juyo katas one at a time. Then, when warm-up was done, he moved faster. Pushed himself up along the walls, jumped, dodged. It wasn’t like the gym he went to to really put the acrobatics to the test, no, there wasn’t enough space for that.
But in terms of making sure he remembered how to avoid cutting off a limb while he moved around? Yeah, it was fine.
It always helped clear out his head, too. It was kind of like meditation, the buzzing of the blades through the air, the burn in his muscle. For an hour, he went at it, bisecting a dozen imaginary opponents. Then, just as quickly as he’d begun, he came to a stop in the middle of the floor.
Snap-hiss.
He let out a breath as his body came down from it. Took in another one, deeper, better.
“All right,” he muttered to himself, and sank down on the ground. He tried not to leave the lightsabers assembled all the time. It was better for them and for the safety of the space if he took them apart each time.
Another little bit of meditation.
He took the first blade and let it float into the air before him. Took off the emitter, then the extension. The focusing crystals popped out and hovered there, shimmering, and then the yellow, faceted crystal that gave the blade its hue. The mount, the power cell, the hilt. He lowered them all gently onto the fabric, and then repeated the process again.
He looked down at all the pieces and a thought cropped up, unbidden: what if they need me right now? Mical was probably still short on well-trained, adult knights. People used to going out into battle, hardened by death and war. What if the entire Order had fallen apart without him? What if some of the kids had died, because Mical couldn’t make the hard choices? What if Mical still needed him?
The next breath was sharp. But he closed his eyes. He let the feeling wash over him.
It wasn’t the first time.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
I’m here now. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
Breathe in. Feel the heartbeat of the city.
Breathe out. Feel the heartbeat of the mouse skittering around in the vents.
Slowly, the feeling receded, bleeding out of him. He brought the corners of the fabric together, bundled up the lightsaber pieces, and sat back.
“Okay,” he murmured.
He got up to open up the fan again.
-
Of course, it came back in his dreams. Atton had seen enough kids die in his day, and his brain was happy to serve them all up again. The torn-up bodies, the empty eyes. And always him, walking out. Alive.
Why him? Why always him?
She stared at him with a dead gaze. “Why always you?” she asked. “Why are you so special?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Then the fire came and took it all away, and Jack’s eyes popped open, the “I don’t know,” still on his lips. Fuck. Ugh.
He stared up at the ceiling. He listened to himself breathe. Reached up, pushed the hair out of his face, and took a moment to just. Feel the city.
Just the same old, same old.
“Jack?” Dane mumbled, half-turning in the bed. “What’s going on?”
Jack sat up. “Just – nightmares,” he said. “Again. I – I dunno. I had a weird brain day, you know?” He looked aside and caught worried eyes under a messy spray of black hair. His expression softened into something wry. “I started thinking during training today."
“Always dangerous," Dane said, rubbing at his eyes.
“It's stupid."
“Try me anyway."
Snort. Jack messed with his hair again. He really did have to get it cut. No idea how Dane dealt with having so much of the stuff. He almost made a crack to that affect, but... thought better of it.
“Just wondering if everyone's doing fine back home," he admitted. “Or if this desertion wasn't the worst, most selfish one of the bunch."
A soft sigh. Shifting in the darkness. And then, a companionable arm over his shoulders. “Look, man, I get the guilt," Dane said quietly. “You know I do more than anybody. That's why I also know you can't keep trying to carry everyone."
“I don't know if that's even what it is," Jack said, though yeah, maybe it was a part of it. Big one, actually. “Maybe I just miss feeling useful. I was good at it, being useful, even when I was terrible at everything else."
“That's basically another way of saying you miss carrying everyone," Dane said, faintly amused. “Just FYI."
“Maybe."
He rubbed at his eye and leaned in for a moment, just soaking in some warmth, reassurance, the quiet lack of judgment or drama. “I'm not going anywhere anyway."
“I know." Dane pressed a quick kiss against his temple. “Except out to the living room."
That, at least, managed to wrench a chuckle out of Jack. “Yeah, sorry," he said. "My night's screwed, but I can still save yours."
The arm slid away. Dane collapsed back onto the bed. “My hero."
Jack tossed one more look at him, fond, and let the warm settled in him. Then he tossed the blankets aside and slid onto the floor, grabbing a random band shirt to tug over his head as he walked into the living room. Might as well get some work done while the emotions were fresh and he had somewhere to put them.
He grabbed his notepad and sank down on the floor - at least there wasn't a Skywalker sprawled on the sofa this time - and eyed the top of the page. I'm still an asshole, it read. And underneath, Look, I know I'm an asshole. But... that was about it. Right. He'd coined the title but hadn't actually written the lyrics.
Well. He had some ideas.
He put his pen to paper, humming quietly to an unheard beat.
[o] Look, I know I'm an asshole
I don’t know how to sit still
And there’s not a problem I can’t fix
With a punch and some kicks
I’m a boxer
[v1]
I’ve got nothing to offer you
Besides a bad attitude and a line to St. Jude
Who the fuck falls in love anyway?
I got my bags packed and the goalposts in hand
I’m ready to ghost you into no man's land
Like the inveterate liar that I am
[v2]
I’m not a lover and you don’t ask me to be
I won’t bring you roses but I can promise you one thing
When the bleeding and the fighting’s done
I’ll still be standing in the ring
Breathing hard and crying firm
And never truly gone
And never truly gone
I'm a boxer
He'd get somewhere eventually. Just had to go over it a few more times.
(It might not have been meditation, but it cleared his head anyway. Fuck, what rhymed with night? Flight, fight...)
[[ mostly establishy, but i guess can be open for the guest or late-night texts ]]
Except twice a week, he came back here. Their practice space by day, and his practice space by evening. Twice a week, like tonight, he took his lightsabers out from the little compartment behind the fan, and he made sure all the instruments were stowed away, and he rolled out the mat– and moved.
Snap-hiss.
Yellow blades cut through the air, following familiar patterns, muscle memory. He moved easy at first, staying in place as he ran through his juyo katas one at a time. Then, when warm-up was done, he moved faster. Pushed himself up along the walls, jumped, dodged. It wasn’t like the gym he went to to really put the acrobatics to the test, no, there wasn’t enough space for that.
But in terms of making sure he remembered how to avoid cutting off a limb while he moved around? Yeah, it was fine.
It always helped clear out his head, too. It was kind of like meditation, the buzzing of the blades through the air, the burn in his muscle. For an hour, he went at it, bisecting a dozen imaginary opponents. Then, just as quickly as he’d begun, he came to a stop in the middle of the floor.
Snap-hiss.
He let out a breath as his body came down from it. Took in another one, deeper, better.
“All right,” he muttered to himself, and sank down on the ground. He tried not to leave the lightsabers assembled all the time. It was better for them and for the safety of the space if he took them apart each time.
Another little bit of meditation.
He took the first blade and let it float into the air before him. Took off the emitter, then the extension. The focusing crystals popped out and hovered there, shimmering, and then the yellow, faceted crystal that gave the blade its hue. The mount, the power cell, the hilt. He lowered them all gently onto the fabric, and then repeated the process again.
He looked down at all the pieces and a thought cropped up, unbidden: what if they need me right now? Mical was probably still short on well-trained, adult knights. People used to going out into battle, hardened by death and war. What if the entire Order had fallen apart without him? What if some of the kids had died, because Mical couldn’t make the hard choices? What if Mical still needed him?
The next breath was sharp. But he closed his eyes. He let the feeling wash over him.
It wasn’t the first time.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
I’m here now. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
Breathe in. Feel the heartbeat of the city.
Breathe out. Feel the heartbeat of the mouse skittering around in the vents.
Slowly, the feeling receded, bleeding out of him. He brought the corners of the fabric together, bundled up the lightsaber pieces, and sat back.
“Okay,” he murmured.
He got up to open up the fan again.
-
Of course, it came back in his dreams. Atton had seen enough kids die in his day, and his brain was happy to serve them all up again. The torn-up bodies, the empty eyes. And always him, walking out. Alive.
Why him? Why always him?
She stared at him with a dead gaze. “Why always you?” she asked. “Why are you so special?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Then the fire came and took it all away, and Jack’s eyes popped open, the “I don’t know,” still on his lips. Fuck. Ugh.
He stared up at the ceiling. He listened to himself breathe. Reached up, pushed the hair out of his face, and took a moment to just. Feel the city.
Just the same old, same old.
“Jack?” Dane mumbled, half-turning in the bed. “What’s going on?”
Jack sat up. “Just – nightmares,” he said. “Again. I – I dunno. I had a weird brain day, you know?” He looked aside and caught worried eyes under a messy spray of black hair. His expression softened into something wry. “I started thinking during training today."
“Always dangerous," Dane said, rubbing at his eyes.
“It's stupid."
“Try me anyway."
Snort. Jack messed with his hair again. He really did have to get it cut. No idea how Dane dealt with having so much of the stuff. He almost made a crack to that affect, but... thought better of it.
“Just wondering if everyone's doing fine back home," he admitted. “Or if this desertion wasn't the worst, most selfish one of the bunch."
A soft sigh. Shifting in the darkness. And then, a companionable arm over his shoulders. “Look, man, I get the guilt," Dane said quietly. “You know I do more than anybody. That's why I also know you can't keep trying to carry everyone."
“I don't know if that's even what it is," Jack said, though yeah, maybe it was a part of it. Big one, actually. “Maybe I just miss feeling useful. I was good at it, being useful, even when I was terrible at everything else."
“That's basically another way of saying you miss carrying everyone," Dane said, faintly amused. “Just FYI."
“Maybe."
He rubbed at his eye and leaned in for a moment, just soaking in some warmth, reassurance, the quiet lack of judgment or drama. “I'm not going anywhere anyway."
“I know." Dane pressed a quick kiss against his temple. “Except out to the living room."
That, at least, managed to wrench a chuckle out of Jack. “Yeah, sorry," he said. "My night's screwed, but I can still save yours."
The arm slid away. Dane collapsed back onto the bed. “My hero."
Jack tossed one more look at him, fond, and let the warm settled in him. Then he tossed the blankets aside and slid onto the floor, grabbing a random band shirt to tug over his head as he walked into the living room. Might as well get some work done while the emotions were fresh and he had somewhere to put them.
He grabbed his notepad and sank down on the floor - at least there wasn't a Skywalker sprawled on the sofa this time - and eyed the top of the page. I'm still an asshole, it read. And underneath, Look, I know I'm an asshole. But... that was about it. Right. He'd coined the title but hadn't actually written the lyrics.
Well. He had some ideas.
He put his pen to paper, humming quietly to an unheard beat.
I don’t know how to sit still
And there’s not a problem I can’t fix
With a punch and some kicks
I’m a boxer
[v1]
I’ve got nothing to offer you
Besides a bad attitude and a line to St. Jude
Who the fuck falls in love anyway?
I got my bags packed and the goalposts in hand
I’m ready to ghost you into no man's land
Like the inveterate liar that I am
[v2]
I’m not a lover and you don’t ask me to be
I won’t bring you roses but I can promise you one thing
When the bleeding and the fighting’s done
I’ll still be standing in the ring
Breathing hard and crying firm
And never truly gone
And never truly gone
I'm a boxer
He'd get somewhere eventually. Just had to go over it a few more times.
(It might not have been meditation, but it cleared his head anyway. Fuck, what rhymed with night? Flight, fight...)
[[ mostly establishy, but i guess can be open for the guest or late-night texts ]]
