perfume, cognac, lilac fumes

"I'm the lucky one," he reminded her, and he felt it so strongly. Phoebe could have had anyone in the world. She was so, so easy to love. Jack was not sure that anyone else could deal with the things that he'd put her through. She was it for him. She was all that there was. Again, he felt like the lucky one.

Jack closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion from the day seeping in. He'd been drinking for hours now, and it was a miracle he'd even been able to make his way over to Phoebe's.

"Young Jack would love you, too."

He nestled into Phoebe's neck again, eyes closing. He didn't want to go to sleep. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to stay awake forever so that nothing changed. He didn't tell Phoebe this, but he was terrified of waking up, sober and heavy, full of shame for the way he'd shown up at Phoebe's door.

But he really was exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well. He'd missed her. And maybe things would be okay. When he woke up to find Phoebe still in his arms, Jack was certain that everything would feel okay.

It had to.

"I'm really tired, baby," he admitted, stifling a yawn, keeping his eyes shut. She smelled really nice— she wore the same perfume she always did, the one that Jack loved. He offered a gentle kiss there at her neck, breathing slowed, thumb brushing at the end of her camisole.

Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong! It was Phoebe who was blessed, and lucky— it was Phoebe who was so insanely fortunately to have run into Jack. Orientation week, thousands of students, thousands of brushed shoulders and almost-introductions, and she had somehow crossed paths with Jack? Had gotten to love him? Be loved by him?

She was eighteen, not even a quarter of her way through her lifespan, and to think she had already met the love of her life? Other people had to wait years. Agonizing years.

Phoebe giggles. Presses a lingering kiss against his cheek.

"No, no, no. It's me. It's me, I just know it."

She felt that at a bone-deep level. A cellular one. She was in love with Jack, she was lucky, and she'd already met the love of her life. Now all that Phoebe had to do was to protect it, like cupping a hand around a precious flame— guard the love, look after Jack.

There were still hills to climb, still obstacles, still the weight on Jack's chest on some mornings, uncertainty and heaviness and things that were difficult to speak about. But they love each other. And Phoebe is determined to help Jack— even when he can't verbalize it, Phoebe would be there.

It's what he deserves. It's what their love deserves.

'Young Jack would love you, too.'

And then the return to where Jack belongs— nuzzling his way back between neck and shoulder, lips warm against her skin, her pulse that beat solely for him. It was a good spot for Jack to be. Safe.

'I'm really tired, baby,'

She can feel the tremor of the yawn that Jack stamps down. Feel the kiss, the gentle offering at her throat, feel even Jacks' fingers working slowly at the hem of her camisole. Jack's touch is everywhere. Jack is everywhere. Even half-asleep, sluggish from alcohol, exhausted, Jack is everywhere— just wanting Phoebe.

'Thank you for letting me in tonight. I love you. I love you— I don't want to fall asleep.'

A soft hum, one of Phoebe's hands still stroking up his back.

"I'll always let you in. I love you."

Always. Here at the dorm, here at any other door, Phoebe would always let Jack in, no matter the hour. Her other hand raises too— sinks into his hair, nails beginning to circle softly along his scalp. That always seemed to relax him. The light scratch of her nails, as soft as a feather, lazy circles that go again and again and again.

Her sweet Jack didn't want to sleep.

"We were still each other's firsts for a lot of things," Jack said, hoping it offered some reassurance. "Like, you're the first girl I've ever loved. The first girl I've ever made love to."

Jack caressed the side of her face.

"But I do wish we had more firsts."

Jack wanted Phoebe to be his first and only for ... pretty much everything. He thought toward the future, and all the firsts that could (potentially) await them there. They could own a house together, if they were lucky — if Jack got his life together, they could have that, and more. So much more.

Phoebe was giggling again. It made him smile.

"Mmm. No. I would have made you some regular ones too. Not just triple chocolate. I wouldn't make you suffer through my sweet tooth."

Jack chuckled.

"Oh, thank you. I didn't know that young Phoebe could be so benevolent. Maybe I was wrong about her."

'Like, you're the first girl I've ever loved. The first girl I've ever made love to.'

Phoebe stares at him softly through the darkness. Feels her eyes flutter gently shut when Jack caresses her cheek, skin glowing with warmth wherever his fingers travel. It was true, wasn't it? It was true for Phoebe as well. Jack was the first person she'd ever loved— first person she'd slept with, first person she had ever made love to, and it had been the most sacred thing. The most special thing. It felt like her entire body and heart had been transformed.

Her and Jack were each other's first loves.

"I'm so glad," Phoebe whispers. "It felt so right with you. Like the universe gave me a gift. I felt so lucky. I still feel— so insanely lucky right now, Jack."

To wake tomorrow with Jack in her bed, hair mussed, limbs tangled and warm where they intersect is it's own special bliss. No matter the hangover, no matter what came with tomorrow, it would be okay.

Jack wishes they had more firsts.

"We can make more. There's still so many big ones."

They make something within Phoebe beat tremulously in excitement. Jack could be the first person she lives with. The first person to make a home with.

And.

Well.

What if he's her husband too? What if she's his wife? What if they make the future what they want, and Phoebe is given the biggest blessing in the world? She wonders a bit shyly what Phoebe Kennedy would look like in looping, lovely script. And maybe that can't happen tomorrow, or the day after, but maybe it's theirs. Maybe that beautiful can be theirs— maybe Jack wants it too.

'Oh, thank you. I didn't know that young Phoebe could be so benevolent. Maybe I was wrong about her.'

She snuggles in closely to Jack. Twines an arm around him.

"Well. Young Phoebe would love you so much. So you'd be surprised about just how saintly she would be for you."

"You had crushes before me? What the hell?" Jack let out an exasperated sigh, as if Phoebe had just delivered the worst news he'd heard that day. She sort of had! "I just don't understand why you couldn't have known that I was going to be in your life one day and waited?"

All jokes, of course, but Jack did feel a little jealous of anyone that had known Phoebe longer than Jack, which was ... most of the people in her life. Crushes, friends, ex-boyfriends, teachers.

"I used to— make stuff, when I had crushes. So I would have made you a really big paper Valentine. I learned how to make pop-up cards, so it would have been like, a 3-D pop up Valentine, with the twitterpated lovebirds from Bambi in it, or something. Would you have been my Valentine?"

Jack listened intently, raising a brow as he pondered his options.

"I would have been your Valentine," he decided. "But you probably already had other Valentines that you preferred. Clearly..."

Jack was milking it now, but it felt easier than focusing on the sad. The idea that Phoebe would never know his mother, and his mother would never know Phoebe. If he and Phoebe ever got married, if he was ever lucky enough to be a father, his mother would not be there.

It was very sad to think about.

It was easier to joke about Phoebe's crushes and her sweet tooth.

"Would you try to kill me with your triple chocolate cookies with chocolate sprinkles and whip cream?"

'You had crushes before me? What the hell?'

Uh-oh. There's even a sigh accompanying Jack's words too— it was serious! As funny as Jack's tone his, the noise of indignation, Phoebe felt it. Actually felt it. Wouldn't have life been so much better if it had always had Jack? Teamed up during dodgeball. Exchanging paper Jack o' Lanterns during Halloween. Trading secrets after school, trading a first kiss too.

Maybe she could have even met his mom.

A fierce pang overtakes her heart. What Phoebe would have given to have met the woman who had made Jack — who had loved him so well. She would have loved to look her in the eye and promise to love Jack just as seriously.

'I just don't understand why you couldn't have known that I was going to be in your life one day and waited?'

Which— fair question! Extremely fair. If Phoebe had any gift of foresight, any knowledge about the existence of Jack, the eventual intersection of their lives... of course she would have waited! Of course. There was no question of the matter.

'I would have been your Valentine,'

Jack, graciously, would have still accepted— but there's certainly a specific tone to his words now.

'But you probably already had other Valentines that you preferred. Clearly...'

Uh-oh. Phoebe had better smooth this over.

Phoebe beams up at Jack, bats her lashes apologetically as she smooths a hand along the crown of his head.

"I didn't know!" she giggles. "I'm sorry! You would have been my only Valentine, Jack, you're the only one who would have gotten one from me! And I wouldn't have taken any random guy's stinky Valentine either!"

Yuck! Phoebe can see it perfectly in her mind's eye— her explosion of gluesticks, craft scissors, paper, studiously ignoring all other boys in favor of completing Jack's gift.

Phoebe wiggles in— kisses him again, soft and slow.

"If I had known about you... I would have waited. So you could have had my first kiss."

Her brows push together. If only she had known— known about the miracle, the perfect alignment of stars and ley lines that had led her to Jack. It feels exceptional that she knew him now, felt like a rare gift, an opportunity that could not be wasted.

Phoebe was not particularly religious, but a part of her wants to ask God for help, for guidance. Please help me to make the most of this. Please help me to love Jack right.

'Would you try to kill me with your triple chocolate cookies with chocolate sprinkles and whip cream?'

Another soft kiss. A giggle.

She was smiling, though, despite the watery eyes. Jack smiled, too. She thought that he was perfect, still, even after all he'd done.

"I actually wish I had known you my entire life."

That was the comment that really made Jack emotional. He tried not to show it very much— tried to blink away any lingering tears. It was a very sweet thing to say, and Jack had wished for it, too. Jack wished that from the minute he made it into the world, he'd known Phoebe. How different would things have been for him? Would he still be using? Drinking excessively, skipping classes? He didn't think so.

Jack's biggest wish was that he'd known Phoebe his whole life, and that she'd had a chance to know his mother. He was more than certain that they would've loved each other. He wanted to say it out loud and tell Phoebe that his mother would've loved her just as much as he did. Jack thought he'd done more than enough to bring the mood down that evening, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Maybe one day, he'd tell her.

"Me too," was all that Jack managed to reply back, throat tight, afraid that Phoebe might pick up on the emotion. He kissed her mouth softly, a brief distraction, before he buried his face into the side of her own, nose nestling somewhere in between her neck and shoulder. He stayed like that for quite some time, not saying anything at all.

"When I was little, I used to follow my crushes around. I would've definitely followed you around. And I would've asked you to come over all the time, so I could show off on the monkey bars, and then I would've tried to kiss you, probably."

Jack smiled gently, kissing the side of her neck very tenderly.

"I would've asked you to be my girlfriend on day two."

Phoebe just remains quiet. Strokes on his hair, loves on him, watches as the emotion works through his body.

Did he wish it too? That they had known each other forever? Phoebe knows her life would have been so much more full— so much more happy. She was blessed to have Teddy and her father, beyond blessed, but imagine a life with Jack? From the very beginning?

She would have loved Jack immediately.

'Me too,'

Phoebe smiles gently. Welcomes the sensation of Jack burying his face at the intersection of her shoulder and neck, even angles herself so that he can situate himself deeper. It was always bliss. Phoebe loves physical touch, loves the weight and feel of him, and she knows Jack is like that too— knows that touch is a way for him to express himself when words prove impossible to dislodge and speak.

He falls silent for a moment, and Phoebe simply rubs at his back. So sweet, her Jack. She hopes it's like this tomorrow. Even with a hangover looming, she hopes she can just love on Jack, cuddle him through any headache, be close to him after missing him for so long.

And then—

'When I was little, I used to follow my crushes around. I would've definitely followed you around. And I would've asked you to come over all the time, so I could show off on the monkey bars, and then I would've tried to kiss you, probably.'

Oh, God. Phoebe melts. Phoebe actually melts, dissolves into nothing as she looks at the wall and smiles, shifts a little to stare at the crowd of Jack's head.

"Oh my God," she whispers. "Really? Jack that's so fucking cute."

She shakes her head, strokes her hand over his hair. "I would have come over as much as you asked me. And I would have said yes to being your girlfriend. And I would let you kiss me. And I would want you to follow me around all day."

Jack kisses her neck— tenderly. So Phoebe shifts a little to do the same, a soft kiss to the pulse in his neck. She feels very emotional right now. Very tender, at the thought of a tiny Jack trailing a tiny Phoebe at recess, her at his house, her watching his exploits on the monkey bars.

"I used to— make stuff, when I had crushes. So I would have made you a really big paper Valentine. I learned how to make pop-up cards, so it would have been like, a 3-D pop up Valentine, with the twitterpated lovebirds from Bambi in it, or something. Would you have been my Valentine?"

At that point, it felt like Jack was just going to cry all night. That's what he'd been doing since he showed up. Under normal circumstances, he would have probably felt very humiliated. Instead, he just ... was thankful that Phoebe had even let him in the door.

"I'm only sweet for you," Jack managed to say, offering a small smile, hoping she knew how true that statement was. No one else in the entire world had seen this side of Jack. This was only for Phoebe. He could only ever open up this way with Phoebe.

Phoebe was crying now, too, and Jack was quick to brush the tear away.

"I don't mind anything about you. I love all of it, bunny," he whispered, faces mere inches away from hers. He leaned in to kiss her again, praying that she understood, that she never doubted how much he loved her, even if he made it difficult. Jack wished he could just — invite her inside of his brain, so she could understand how scrambled and complicated things felt sometimes.

Phoebe smiles— feeling special. Feeling chosen. Was it selfish, to want to hoard all of Jack's sweetness for herself like precious jewels? He was already so charming, and fun, and engaging, smart, smart, smart, Jack was charismatic and brilliant and he was going to change the world. Couldn't Phoebe just have the sweetness to herself then? Was that so wrong?

Jack doesn't seem to think so.

So quickly Jack's hands are sweeping beneath her, catching tears before they can even darken her pillowcase.

'I don't mind anything about you. I love all of it, bunny,'

Another kiss, and even though they're so close, enough that Phoebe can practically feel Jack's heart beat against her own, she shifts forward even closer to meet it, to receive it, running a hand through his hair and relishing in the knowledge Jack was here, and this was their moment, nobody was going to barge through the door and drag Jack away.

All of it. Jack loves all of her.

'You're perfect, like really, really perfect, and I can't tell you how much I feel that. I wish I would've met you at that party,'

Phoebe smiles again— still watery.

'I wouldn't have made fun of you. I would've fallen in love with you.'

And he is the sweetest fucking guy in the world, clearly? Phoebe shifts closer, if it's even possible, hooks one of her heels around Jack's calf, binding them together through another form of touch.

"You're so perfect," she murmurs.

"I know you would never make fun of me. I wish I had met you there too. I wish it had been you next to me in the chair, and it was just us on the patio, and the crickets, and the little inchworm, and I wish we had held hands on the patio and my face would have been too red to even look at you face-on."

Her chest twists all funny.

"I would have loved you so bad. Right away. It would have been such a problem. And then at that semester I would have dragged you into Christmas stuff with me."

Oh, yes. God himself would not have been able to keep Phoebe away from Jack— let alone her father! A beat, and Phoebe positions herself more along Jack's chest for a moment, quiet, wanting to hear his heart, wanting to feel it thud strong and sure beneath her cheek.

So calming. A living metronome that beat out the sense of home.

Phoebe swallows.

"If I ever get to meet your family, I'm going to ask. I hope they're honest about the way you behaved growing up."

Jack wasn't worried. He'd love Phoebe either way. Maybe even harder, knowing that she ran the house at such a young age. He pressed his lips to her forehead, gentle and light. Yeah. Laying down had made him feel better. Exceptionally better. When Phoebe slipped her hand beneath his shirt, Jack bit back a laugh. It felt ticklish, but still really nice. God, could they stay like this forever?

He listened, shifting slightly so that he could tuck his arm beneath her head. He knew she liked that more than her pillow on some nights. She'd never really said it out loud, but it had been one of those things Jack had observed back in Vermont. He'd missed doing it.

And maybe it was all of the alcohol, but Jack found himself trying not to get emotional as Phoebe told him about this fucking Frosty blow mold. She was so fucking sweet, wasn't she? Finding something discarded and abandoned, making it as good as new, and putting it on display for all of the world to love?

Phoebe liked vintage Christmas. Jack hoped, prayed, that his drunken mind would remember all of these details. Please, please, please, he begged his own mind. Don't forget this moment. Maybe, if he was very, very lucky, if he stopped making so many mistakes, he'd get to see this infamous Frosty decor. He had a feeling that he would love it just as much as Phoebe did.

"Do you have a Frosty blow mold?"

Jack shook his head, unable to really formulate coherent thoughts. Instead, he simply surged forward, capturing her mouth in a gentle kiss. He sighed, brows furrowed, eyes closed as he indulged in the taste of her.

"I love you so much," he mumbled against her lips, knowing that it hadn't been a direct answer, or a response to anything that she'd shared with him, but it sort of was! His eyes fluttered open, slow, pupils blown, while he caressed the side of Phoebe's face. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone in tender back and forth motions. His eyes glistened, but for the first time that night, it wasn't because of some awful, fucked up shame that he'd been grappling with. It was because he loved Phoebe. He was in love with her. He loved every part of her. He loved the tyrannical little Phoebe, dictating dessert toppings and baking tasks. He loved sentimental, sweet Phoebe who cried over discarded Christmas decor and who didn't mind a dented thumb. He loved the Phoebe that was in his arms now, who understood that some things just needed more love.

"I love everything about you. I love the way your mind is."

Maybe he wasn't making sense. His throat felt all tight again.

'If I ever get to meet your family, I'm going to ask. I hope they're honest about the way you behaved growing up.'

Wow— wow! Jack is threatening to go right for the source! And the thing is, God, wouldn't that be just perfect? Wouldn't that be the most perfect Christmas? Phoebe and Jack pressed close together at the breakfast nook— of course — with Jack angling for answers from her father and Teddy. Was Phoebe a tyrant in the kitchen? Did she force everyone to take great heapings of sprinkles, did she do so in a way that violated the Geneva Convention?

"I hope you do meet them," Phoebe giggles. "You're going to listen to how I was a perfect angel while I make you a big batch of waffles."

With toppings, naturally.

And it'd be perfect. It'd be the most perfect moment of Phoebe's life, and of course her family is going to love Jack, because to meet Jack is to be charmed by him, and to know Jack is to love him.

Like— how he tucks an arm beneath Phoebe. Her personal pillow, warm and alive, just for her head. No scientist in a lab could best this! No piece of foam, no pouch of feathers could ever be more comfortable than the limb that was attached to the love of her life. She nuzzles into him with a content sigh.

But the wide, beaming, mischievous smile on Phoebe's face transforms into something softer— not sadder, but softer. Jack only shakes his head at the Frosty question. Looks at her with a complicated expression, something emotional, and the look in his eyes makes Phoebe still, until Jack kisses her.

Gentle kiss, though no less passionate for its softness. Jack sighs, his beautiful lashes fluttered shut, and Phoebe studies his face when he pulls away, surprised by the action, but pleased, watching as Jack's eyes reveal themselves to her once more.

'I love you so much,'

Oh. Oh. Soft thumb sweeps over her cheekbones, something tender in the motion, as loving as the five words he'd just spoken, and then Phoebe's heart crumbles like a sandcastle when she notices the sheen to Jack's eyes.

Was he crying? Were those tears collecting at the crest of his eyelids?

'I love everything about you. I love the way your mind is.'

'I just — love you very much, Phoebe.'

He was crying. It was tears. Jack loves Phoebe, he loves everything about her, the way her mind is, and he loves her very much and is crying about it— crying over her?

What is Phoebe to do but tear up? What is she to do but be overwhelmed by the wave of love and affection that strikes her.

"Sweet boy," she murmurs, shifting to kiss right below his eye. "You're so sweet. I love you, I love everything Jack. I love you so much."

It's all tight in her throat.

"I hope everyone knows how sweet you are. And then I'm a tiny bit selfish and want to keep some of that sweetness just for me."

Does everyone know? When people met Jack, they could see the charm, the lovely smile, the humor, these things about Jack that are so quick and easy to love. But do his friend's at the frat house even understand, do they know, does everyone else know the fucking aching tenderness Jack is capable of? Vulnerable, in such an innocent way. A really beautiful way. Jack was so incredible, and couldn't everyone just see that?

Phoebe smiles at him— a tear spilling over her cheek, her hand now coming to smooth over his hair.

"You don't mind all that about me? All the silly sensitive stuff?" She presses another set of kisses, against his cheek, his jaw, another against his lips, soft and loving, other hand still rubbing gently against his stomach.

"Right. Yeah, not greedy or gluttonous at all. You're right," Jack relented, smiling softly through the dark. So what? She liked sweets. There was nothing wrong with that. "Little Phoebe sort of sounds like a tyrant, by the way. I don't know that you're being ... very fair in your depiction of her right now. It doesn't sound like the Phoebe I know. I'd be careful. I care very much about the Phoebe I know now. I'd hate to think she was like ... steamrolling all of her family members for a few extra chocolate sprinkles."

So, she'd matured some since then! Jack felt envious that he'd never get to meet little Phoebe. Would they have gotten along? He liked to think so. Jack was outgoing and made friends with everyone. He would've talked Phoebe's ear off, followed her around until she asked him to stop. And even then, he wouldn't have wanted to.

At the mention of holiday colors and plaid, Jack tried imagining what Phoebe would wear this Christmas. Did she typically wear plaid? Was she more subtle? He thought that he might like to see her in something velvet— something a little subtle and understated, because Phoebe didn't need anything to stand out. Maybe a black, or a dark red. Maybe he could even surprise her with it. Maybe, if things settled down, he could even have her over for a holiday dinner with his grandparents.

But he wouldn't want to steal her away from her family. And he wouldn't want to subject her to a holiday around his father.

So— Jack kept his thoughts to himself.

'Right. Yeah, not greedy or gluttonous at all. You're right,'

It's really great that they agree. Very great that Jack was getting with the program.

'Little Phoebe sort of sounds like a tyrant, by the way. I don't know that you're being ... very fair in your depiction of her right now. It doesn't sound like the Phoebe I know. I'd be careful. I care very much about the Phoebe I know now. I'd hate to think she was like ... steamrolling all of her family members for a few extra chocolate sprinkles.'

Except— was he? Was it mutiny, to declare that tiny Phoebe was acting perilously close to a tyrant? All for her love of chocolate sprinkles? She sucks in a tiny gasp, faux-wounded by the accusation.

"I wasn't—like, a despot, because I warmly encouraged my family not to shy away from the toppings bar? Because I'm sharing my chocolate waffles?" It's hard to bite back her smile. Phoebe manages though, to a degree, nuzzling against Jack, looking at him with eyes as large as saucers. Big, innocent. Innocent! Never mind she'd admitted to Jack in the past that she ran a serious baking program. "We eat other stuff too. My dad likes egg dishes so I make quiche florentine! I even include fruit."

Yes! Even fruit— without whip cream or candied sugar or anything.

She relaxes into the feel of Jack's finger over her camisole. Jack was curious— inquiring about her Frosty blow mold, a contentious subject in her household.

'Do you make them put it up every year? What's the story behind that?'

Phoebe slips her hand beneath his shirt, rubs gently against the warm skin of his abdomen, slow, soft, gentle, as if tender touch alone could ward off any hang over. Her other hand finds his forehead— thumb brushing over the skin there, just as slow and soft and methodical.

"So," she begins, voice almost nostalgic. "One day when I was thirteen, my dad and I were on a walk. And like ten houses down was something so sad. This Frosty blow mold! And I could tell he was vintage, and had been around for a while, and someone had just put him on the curb next to the recycling, probably because his thumb was dented? But it was so sad, Jack," Phoebe all but pleads, as if appealing to him herself. "It was still two weeks til Christmas! He didn't even get to have his last Christmas, they just cast him aside for his dented thumb?" Phoebe's voice gets thick at that– at the injustice of it all. She knows it was a nice neighborhood, knew that there was no reason for people to keep what could be easily replaced, but it had broken Phoebe's heart! "Anyway, I took him, and I fixed him, I used a hairdryer to get most of the dent out and he's fine? I cried when I saw him. Some things just need some more love..."

"Please don't make fun of me," A half giggle, a plea. Which was silly— Jack would not. Jack would never. Jack, fucking bless him, seems to love Phoebe's silly heart, her silly, sensitive heart that bruises over the funniest things. "My dad thinks he's sentient and can move on his own and might hurt us. And— he's just vintage! Vintage Christmas is so pretty, you know, I love classic Christmas decorations, velvet and glass and gold..."

Phoebe sighs against the pillow. She wishes she had a photo to show Jack. Better yet— she wishes it was Christmas. Wishes Jack was with her, installing lights, licking a glob of batter from her finger. If she was lucky enough to have Jack for the holidays, she'd make all his favorites. Christmas eve, Christmas morning, Christmas dinner, every dish would be something that Jack loves. Phoebe would discover a new kind of happiness if she would be allowed to have him then.

She runs the knuckle of her ring finger along Jack's cheek.

Another thing that made the difficult days much less difficult? Her touch. Phoebe's hand, gently brushing over his abdomen. It made him feel warm and cared for and the tiny bout of nausea that he'd been experiencing slowly began to melt away. Maybe this is what he'd needed all along.

He placed a hand over hers temporarily, squeezing her fingers in thanks. He rolled his head to one side, eyes locked on hers as she told him about the massive cinnamon rolls. Jack smiled. He wanted to meet Teddy. He'd told Phoebe that before. He wondered if it would eveer happen.

"You know, I have noticed that you always go for the chocolate desserts," he remarked, smiling softly. Yeah. Phoebe's love for chocolate hadn't been a secret by any means. Still, he wondered what a twelve year old Phoebe looked like. Very short, very in love with chocolate. Maybe even with dried bits of chocolate at the corners of her mouth after her favorite dessert.

"Chocolate whip cream, too? I think that just makes you a little greedy, baby," he teased, rolling onto his side, facing her. He wrapped an arm around her, found a way to pull her closer, somehow. Their faces were a few short inches away from the other.

"Did everyone participate willingly? Or was it a fight?"

Phoebe very much seemed like the little girl who had the world wrapped around her finger. He couldn't imagine Teddy telling her no, or her father, or even their cook.

Would he be able to sleep okay? How would Jack feel tomorrow?

But they were fixing on Phoebe now. They found Phoebe in the dark— so did his hand, a warm squeeze, finger so much longer than her own. It felt good. Being close, crammed into the bed. God, she missed it. The quiet intimacy. The lull that settles over her body. She hopes it's as nice for Jack as it is for her, that somehow, the closeness made his chest feel a little less heavy, that his swarming head and rolling stomach can calm now that he's tucked against her.

'You know, I have noticed that you always go for the chocolate desserts,'

A giggle. Guilty as charged. In the beginning, before Vermont, when they'd break their studies with a treat, wander to the dining hall, pile into Jack's truck to a favorite ice cream store, or bakery, Phoebe had unabashedly, unashamedly chosen chocolate— chocolate crumb, chocolate filling, chocolate sprinkles. Jack had seemed to like vanilla, ice cream and cake, and Phoebe found it cute, found it complimentary, their vanilla and chocolate duo.

'Chocolate whip cream, too? I think that just makes you a little greedy, baby,'

They were facing each other now, with Jack feeling well enough to haul Phoebe in closer, noses separated by only a few inches of space. His hand around her side— can she always keep his hand on her side? Did Jack know how much she had missed it, how thoroughly she had been changed on a cellular level, rewired to need Jack alongside her at night. Well. Always, actually, but especially at night. Phoebe has never missed anything so badly like Jack's body next to her own, rising and falling softly and slumber.

"It's not greedy," she breathes. "I'm not telling you about how I had crushed oreos and chocolate sprinkles there either, because then you would just think tiny Phoebe was gluttonous. And I'm not telling you that I made everyone else participate with the toppings bar too, and watched how much everyone put on. My dad and Teddy were like, very obliging."

Or else very indulgent! Playing along with Phoebe. Their chef was a kindred spirit, however, and seemed to gravitate towards the chocolate just like her!

Phoebe cuddles closer to Jack— hand still stroking along his stomach, careful to be soft, careful to soothe him to the best of her abilities. Their noses brush now. Phoebe shifts her head to press a little kiss to the tip of his nose.

'I know some people say November's too early to start celebrating Christmas, but I think it's just right. Like, right around Thanksgiving— maybe even a bit before. You have to have time to enjoy the Christmas tree and the lights and the music. Right?'

Oh my God. Phoebe knew it. Phoebe knew Jack was just like her. Immediately she's nodding, beaming at Jack across those few inches of space.

"Isn't it? Oh my God. Some people are so strict— nothing Christmas until the day after, but I wanna enjoy it as long as I can? I like having lights on the mantle already. Kinda ... incorporating the red and plaid as soon as I can."

It makes her outrageously happy, to think that Jack is just as eager to start his Christmas. They were the same like that— compatible. All Phoebe can think about how nice it would be, celebrating Christmas with Jack, leaning against his shoulder when deciding the shade of exterior lights. Could they have that?

"If you wanna know what's like, really a fight, is me advocating for my really ugly vintage Frosty blow mold."

"Yeah. Maybe we can go somewhere one weekend. Away from here."

He felt bad for not being able to finish the soup, despite having just promised to do so. His brain felt weird. HIs thoughts were everywhere, racing and intense, and the thing he was worried least about was the soup. Hopefully Phoebe would forgive him for letting her down again.

She prepared a full water bottle for him, placing it by the nightstand. He sat, watching as she began pulling back the blankets, wondering if maybe he just needed to be honest with Phoebe. She had some sort of idea that things weren't okay, but what if she knew it all? What if she knew everything? What if Jack was honest with Phoebe and himself about the things he was struggling with?

Jack got up, jaw clenched tight, finding his way over to the tiny bed that he'd grown to love. She invited him in, promised to hold him so that he felt better. Already, Jack was dreading the nightmarish hangover that he was sure to have. More than that, he was dreading the lack of medication on him to alleviate the symptoms. The Tums could only do so much. Jack needed something stronger, more effective, but how could he tell Phoebe that? He still wondered about the pills in his bag. Had she seen them and pretended not to?

Jack kicked off his shoes and jeans, leaving on his crewneck, before climbing into bed. He closed his eyes immediately. It felt nice. It felt like home. Jack stayed on his side of the bed, the one closest to the nightstand, and motioned for Phoebe to join him in the very tiny spot beside him, closest to the wall.

Instead of talking about all of the things that Jack felt were wrong, he could listen to Phoebe talk about Christmas. It felt easier, honestly. He could worry about everything else later.

"Thank you," Jack simply stated, forcing himself to bite back another apology. They could end the night like this, in bed, holding each other, talking about Christmas. Jack didn't want to be sad. He didn't want Phoebe to be sad either. So he'd do his best to simply listen. He'd do his best not to get sick or burden her with anymore of his problems.

"Tell me about Christmas, bunny. I wanna know everything."

He ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments. It was still spinning, but at least he was horizontal now.

One weekend, away from here.

Phoebe wishes they had a thousand weekends. If they could just cast off everything, the world, like heavy blankets, pile into Jack's truck and disappear from everything bad. Would it help if she had a thousand of those? Slow weekends where she could kiss Jack's cheek and ear and throat, could rub between his shoulder-blade while she poured his waffle? If there was no law school. No parties, with alcohol, with little baggies of coke, little baggies of pills, if there weren't stacks of voicemails of Jack's father in his phone, if they couldn't be reached ... would it all be okay?

Maybe they wouldn't even need to go very far. Maybe Phoebe just needs to pause things. Take a break from classes— find a way to help Jack. Get him to the doctor he needed. Get him to talk to her, about the things he could only admit at night. Would that help? Would Jack let her help? Was Jack able to?

It hurts to see the pain in Jack's eyes, she could see the loop, the struggle, the bit-off sentences that he can't finish, the sadness when he had been leaning against her door frame. It was so hard. Jack was carrying so much, and it was so hard, and it wasn't fair that he was hurting.

At least he's here. At least Phoebe can take care of him now.

"I'd go anytime. To anywhere, with you."

And God, Phoebe means it. Whether it was to several states away. To fucking Canada. To Vermont, again, to a little chapel to elope in, to a tiny town to just exist for several weeks, their lives left behind. Phoebe would go.

Jack sheds his shoes, his jeans, climbs up into that narrow bed, and Phoebe follows— taking up her usual post, situated between Jack and the wall. It was close. Cozy. She takes care not to elbow him, jostle him, do anything to upset Jack's stomach or head.

Instead, she places a gentle hand on his abdomen. Rubs at it softly.

'Tell me about Christmas, bunny. I wanna know everything.'

'What's your favorite Christmas tradition? Or what's your favorite Christmas memory?'

Phoebe is facing Jack— voice quiet in the dark, quieter than a whisper.

"Christmas breakfast is like ... the most important thing."

"I start thinking of stuff in November. What I want to try. We always make cinnamon rolls— really, really big ones, bigger than Teddy's face, with lots of icing, and we always have waffles. When I was twelve, I wanted chocolate everything? So. Triple chocolate, chocolate batter, and then I added chocolate chips, and then I asked our cook to help me make chocolate whip cream too."

Phoebe huffs. Rubs her hand softly above Jack's navel. It's what he asked for— what Jack wanted, late at night, in the dark, to hear her voice, just hear it, talk about everything, anything. It's humbling. To be missed so bad, that all Jack wants is to hear her voice in the dark.

So she would tell him everything.

"It was. Um. Very rich. Young Phoebe tried to make everyone else participate in the triple-chocolate Christmas too."

That had been funny.

For some reason, her mind wanders— wonders if a younger Jack, would have gone along with it. Would little Jack eat all the chocolate with little Phoebe? What was little Jack like at Christmas? Did he tear through his wrapping paper in a blur, bouncing off the walls until his parents relented and let him run down the hall to his gifts?

She brought up their pinky promises, which Jack had already broken. He tried not to think about it, or bring it up, or apologize, because he knew it must've been exhausting to continue to hear that, again and again. Phoebe offered him another bite of soup, which Jack accepted, chewing and swallowing, before deciding that he wouldn't be able to finish the soup after all.

Another lie. He hoped that she could forgive him. But he'd finished over half of it, and that felt like enough for now. There was something else that he needed more. He reached forward, gently grabbing the bowl, finding his balance in order to place it on the tiny nearby table.

Jack was drunk. Jack was drunk, and he was going to say things that he really wanted to mean, but there was no telling if he'd actually be able to stand by them when he was sober. Was this just hurting Phoebe more? Did it make a difference that Jack really felt like he meant the words whenever he was saying them?

"When you say things like that," Jack began, searching for her hands, squeezing, "it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world."

Jack bowed his head, staring down at their fingers in the dark. He kept his eyes there, locked on her hands, so much smaller than his, squeezing and massaging.

"It also makes me — wanna just give it all up for you? Like, what if we just—"

Jack didn't finish the thought. Even drunk, he knew it was a bad idea— it was hurtful, cruel, awful.

What if we just ran away? What if we just got married? My dad can't stop that, he can't undo it, even if he wanted to?

"—I don't know," he finally said, defeated, wishing he had the courage to speak and follow through with what he felt. He blinked, dazed and heavy, before lifting his gaze to finally meet hers again.

"My head hurts," Jack said, which wasn't necessarily a lie. "And everything's — moving weird. Can we get in bed? I feel really sick for some reason," he admitted, and Jack knew the sickness had very little to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the whirlpool of feelings inside of him.

Now it's both of their hands intertwined. He must want to really hold them. Jack must want to really talk to her. Phoebe leans in quietly, carefully, searching for Jack's gaze in the dark.

'When you say things like that,'

His face ducks down for a moment— Phoebe watches his hair fall away from his forehead in perfect strands.

'it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world.'

Oh. In the whole world. There were so many people in the world, it was so wide and wonderful, filled with so many things, and it was Phoebe's words, her reassurances and affections that somehow make Jack feel that way. What a balm it was, to hear that. What a privilege. She'd gone to sleep wondering when she'd hear from Jack, to waking up to this. Sitting in Jack's lap, soaking in this.

'It also makes me — wanna just give it all up for you? Like, what if we just—'

What if they what? What? Phoebe leans in— brows knitting together, breath frozen in her lungs as she listens. What was it he wanted? Was it to run off to Vermont again? Another state? Somewhere farther, more north, the jagged coast of Maine, icy waters and dark shores? What did he want to give up, and what did he want to do with Phoebe? There was so much she wanted to do with him. Important things— milestones — things of permanence. Her father would have a cow to think of Phoebe, eighteen, so decided on her future, but Phoebe can't imagine anyone but Jack. Can't even begin to fathom anything without Jack. Moving in? With Jack. Marriage? Jack, obviously, Jack. Maybe it's a lot, so soon, and Jack hasn't even begun to turn the subject over in his mind, but it's what she feels.

Maybe it's what Jack feels right now?

'—I don't know,'

She can hear something heavy in his voice— can see it when he finally raises his head again. Phoebe brushes his hair back against his forehead. A soft hum. Maybe Jack does know, maybe it's just too tangled inside him to voice. Or. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe it's too inscrutable, maybe he's too drunk and it's too late.

"I'm glad I make you feel so lucky. I feel so lucky to have you. I feel so lucky that you're here. I wish I could just go with you somewhere, and take you somewhere, and just. Keep all the bad out."

She'd do anything to keep all the bad out. She'd do anything to keep it like that forever— be with Jack, forever.

'My head hurts,'

'And everything's — moving weird. Can we get in bed? I feel really sick for some reason,'

Phoebe frowns deeply. Runs a finger delicately along his forehead. Sick, and an aching head? Yeah. She needs to lay down with him— needs to get him right into bed, so his head stops spinning.

Phoebe administers a gentle kiss to his temple, eases out of Jack's lap before quickly scrounging around in a cabinet. Ah. There it is. Her water bottle— pink, of course, covered in depictions of Hello Kitty and strawberries. She fills it to the brim with her infused water. Sets it on her nightstand, begins peeling back all the layers of blankets.

"Here, baby," she says gently, abandoning all her blankets to return to Jack on the couch. Finding his hand. Tugging on it gently. "It's like, one of the 32 oz ones. And a straw, so if you need to drink a bunch in the middle of the night you don't have to worry about it spilling. And I have Tums in my bedside drawer. And— me. I'll hold you so you feel better."

There was her. There would always be Phoebe. She would make it that way— there was no force on earth, God, or otherwise, that would keep her away from him.

Phoebe took a bite of the soup, too. Good. Jack didn't want the focus to be on him all the time, even though sometimes Phoebe probably felt like he needed it. He wanted to be able to look out for Phoebe, too— to take care of her.

She hadn't wanted to suffocate him, but she really just wanted him to come at anytime. He could go out with his friends as long as he came home to her.

Home.

The more Jack thought about it, the more he realized that nothing ever really felt like home. Nothing but Phoebe. She assured him that he could wake her at any time. There wasn't a time that she wouldn't answer the door for him.

It felt extremely overwhelming to hear that. She was saying that to Jack, even after he'd ghosted her. How fucked up was that? Was she okay, too? Sometimes Jack wondered if this was a Stockholm situation. He'd hurt her so terribly. How could she still love him?

And then, while Jack's mind was racing, Phoebe was struggling through a fit of giggles, brushing her nose against him. He snapped back to the present, smiling softly, but still feeling anxious and sad, for all the things that he'd done.

The soup was helping, Jack reminded himself. The close contact was helping.

Phoebe was looking ahead, to a political campaign that Jack wasn't even sure would exist. He didn't say it out loud— didn't want Phoebe to live in this state of existentialism with him. It was for him to deal with and figure out. But he smiled anyway.

"You do feel like home to me," Jack said, breezing past the comments about the eyeshadow and the future that may or may not be in store for him. What if he didn't even graduate Yale? That was a big possibility. "Like, wherever I go, I just wanna come home to you," he admitted, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers. Jack fumbled in the dark, finding Phoebe's hand— the one that wasn't holding the soup bowl. He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing. "I just get lost sometimes on the way back to you."

Jack frowned, sighing gently, keeping his forehead against hers.

"I don't know why it happens, but it just does," he explained, wishing there was a way to invite her into his mind, so she could see the way nothing made sense to Jack either. It was all confusing, all the time, and it felt like the moments that did make sense were getting few and far between.

"That's why I do sorta wish you'd just — ask me to give everything up for you," he whispered, finally opening his eyes. "I know you wouldn't ever. But I wish you would. I think everything would make a lot more sense if it was just you."

Jack's mouth twitched.

"I know that's not healthy. I know. I feel it anyway."

There was nothing that could get her off the little loveseat.

Well. Being in bed with Jack, cuddling him— she'll move for that. Of course she'll move for that! But anything else? A bomb threat, a billion dollars free to her, if only she gets in the car to collect her prize? Phoebe won't budge an inch.

She's missed him too badly, and his soft smile is too precious.

'You do feel like home to me,'

Whoosh. The sound of her heart in free-fall.

'Like, wherever I go, I just wanna come home to you,'

'I just get lost sometimes on the way back to you.'

Oh, Jack. Jack, her Jack, lost. Lost when he had sat down on the chair— gripped the baseball while he severed the cord between them, music thudding loud in the party below. Lost when he had been drinking tonight. Many, many hours later, drunk, desperate in her doorway, all but tripping over himself to explain.

His hand finds hers in the dark, and her fingers flex immediately, squeezing quick— as if trying to broadcast her location to him, even as their bodies were pressed together on the loveseat.

"Baby," she murmurs, brows pulling together softly. It makes her ache. Makes her feel powerless. Jack wanted her— Jack saw her as home. She and her heart was a home to him, but sometimes, the gales and fate and the heaviness in his chest made it impossible for him to reach her for a while.

'That's why I do sorta wish you'd just — ask me to give everything up for you,'

When Jack's eyes open, they're the most startling blue. Just like they always are. Just like they always will be. They slices right down to her heart, through bone and blood and sinew. How could she assure those eyes the best she could?

'I know you wouldn't ever. But I wish you would. I think everything would make a lot more sense if it was just you.'

How could she reassure those eyes when he's practically begging to give everything up for her?

'I know that's not healthy. I know. I feel it anyway.'

Oh, Jack.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could make it easier for you, baby," she murmurs. "I would do anything if I could just— just fix it all."

If she thought it would be good for him— if she thought asking Jack to lay everything on the floor would help him— she would. In a heartbeat. In an instant. But he seems excited about law school. Excited about making a change. And his father? That was his only remaining parent. Phoebe doesn't know what Jack needs when it comes to his dad, doesn't know what will be best. To keep, to repair, to sever? She would hate to make the wrong decision— push Jack's heart in the wrong direction.

Phoebe swallows.

"But you made it here tonight. It's a little later, and there were some stops, but you made it even though you were lost? I think if you just ... keep coming, Jack, you'll always be able to get here."

She shifts up— kisses the hollow beneath his brow now.

"And I'll always be there. Wherever you go. We, like, pinky-promised, about a lot of stuff, in the tree house. I said I would love you forever. And that always stands. Like— a lighthouse, or something. It's cheesy, but it's true? It's there for you, even if you feel like you're getting lost, and I'll always reach out so you can find me. I'll find you too."

The treehouse.

The bed.

Their bodies.

The trip that was perfect — near-perfect, until the silence of the music, the thudding of the door downstairs.

Phoebe swallows.

"You're my home. Wherever that is. I kept thinking in Vermont— like even when just making the bed, or ... I don't know. Putting something in the sink together? I kept thinking how I wanted to be doing it always, with you."

He still got all of his favorite toy dinosaurs and desserts. He got to watch his favorite Christmas movie, and at the end of the night, when he was too tired to climb upstairs, his mother and father carried him up to their bed. Jack slept in the middle, warm and cared for, all night long.

It had been so, so long ago. As Jack accepted the fresh bite of soup, he hoped that Phoebe's favorite Christmas hadn't happened so long ago. He hoped that each year, they got better.

He hoped that this year, his got better, too. Even if he didn't get to spend it with Phoebe, maybe just — knowing that they were together and in love would be enough, even if he was with his dad.

"And just let me know whenever you get full."

Jack nodded.

"I'll eat all of it," he promised, feeling like he'd be committing an awful sin to let such good soup go to waste, but he did have a condition.

"You eat, too, baby. Okay?"

She kissed his cheek, affirming that she'd gotten ready for him, of course. She never got ready without thinking of him, apparently, and her eyes were sparkly because she loved him. It made Jack's stomach feel all airy and warm, like she'd just showered him with the greatest compliment of all time.

"I love it," he declared, cupping the side of her face. He leaned in a few more inches, examining the pink shimmer closely. It was very Phoebe. And it was even named after her, too. How special was that?

"You look very beautiful," Jack told her, rubbing her side gently. "I'm very in love with you. I wish I would've shown up when I said I was going to."

But it was a good thing he hadn't, right? It was possible that he and Phoebe were just going to have sex and never talk about any of the stuff they'd discussed. This was a good thing, in its own way. He just wished that he hadn't hurt Phoebe to get it all figured out. She wasn't the type of person who deserved being stood up. Jack needed to find a way to make the right decisions the first time without hurting her.

"Do you ... think Funny Bunny would look good on me?"

'You eat, too, baby. Okay?'

Was she hungry? Most of Phoebe's body is too caught up in the euphoria of the moment to be hungry, to listen to any normal cues of biology. Jack loves her! Jack is back, and he loves her! What on earth does her stomach matter? But Phoebe acquiesces, takes a bite of the soup and swallows. She needed to be a good example! She takes another spoonful, raises it up to Jack's lips again, smiling wider when Jack presses a palm against her cheek— loving the eye shadow, Funny Bunny, declaring her, Phoebe Pruitt, beautiful.

It makes her flush, tip of her hair to her toes. It was just— so nice. It was nice when Jack wanted her, when he kissed her all over, paid special attention to her body when he invited her over. But being beautiful ... it was something that couples told each other. It was intimate and sweet and she feels like the luckiest girl in the world that Jack Kennedy would find her beautiful.

Jack Kennedy!

'I'm very in love with you. I wish I would've shown up when I said I was going to.'

Phoebe makes a soft noise. Finds herself leaning into the warmth of his hand like a cat. Round and round his palm went at her ribs.

She'd gone to sleep thinking of Jack— stomach sad and sour, wondering if he'd forgotten, wondering if he'd gone to go see another girl instead. Wondering if he was even okay. Ever since Vermont— Phoebe had just wondered if he was okay.

"I'm very in love with you," she murmurs. "I'm really glad you're here now."

"Not to like— suffocate you, but I was just hoping you'd come at any time. So I knew you were okay. Just come at any time, Jack, okay? Of course you should go out with your friends, and everything, but just come home to me. You can wake me at 2 am. Or 2 hours before my alarm goes off. You know you can always just come home to me, right?"

She leans in slow— presses a gentle kiss to his cheekbone. Jack could always come right home to her. Her, and her tiny, dumb little bed, with her dumb little pillow, her plushies and throws and pink blankets. Her fridge would be open to him— her shower too. Everything she has? There for Jack.

There was no time of night she wouldn't open the door from him.

In truth? There was no time at all, in here or the future, where Phoebe can't imagine she wouldn't open her door for him.

But it was all alright now, wasn't it? They'd cleared this hurdle— Jack had reaffirmed his love, and Phoebe too, and now they were going to tackle whatever it takes to help him.

Be happy together.

They wouldn't have to deal with this again. It would be okay— all of it — from here on out.

'Do you ... think Funny Bunny would look good on me?'

Phoebe is surprised by the question, so much so that her fit of giggles edges almost dangerously into the territory of a snort. But she reels it in, shifts forward on Jack's lap in order to nuzzle her nose against him.

"Of course you'd look good in Funny Bunny. I'm Bunny, and you look good with me, so it's only right you look good with the eyeshadow too."

Phoebe exhales. Purses her lips while she surveys Jack thoughtfully. That was so fucking cute. He was so fucking cute.

"You look good in everything. One day, some political stylist is gonna have like, a field day with you, realizing she has a candidate who looks like he's from a Ralph Lauren campaign."

She sighs.

"It just won't be fair to your opponents."

He kept his hand at her back, rubbing gently, exhaling whenever she kissed his cheek. It felt nice. All of the contact, the closeness, the comfort — it was incredible. Jack felt special and loved for the first time since Vermont. He wanted to stay forever.

She offered him another bite of soup. Jack accepted, grateful that she was patient enough to even feed it to him. He felt guilty for that, too, but he blinked hard, tried to push the thoughts away so he could just — enjoy the food. And her voice.

"I wanna hear about the Christmas food," Jack replied, smiling softly. "I like the idea of you at Christmas. Never thought about it until now."

Jack wondered what Phoebe's holiday celebrations were like. Did she and Teddy get all dressed up? Did they stay in their pajamas? Did they open their presents on Christmas morning? Did they open a small present on Christmas Eve? Maybe one day, if Jack was the luckiest man in the world, he'd get to find out for himself.

"Tuesday?" Jack repeated, blinking, trying to remember what he'd done that day. "I think I failed a test on Tuesday," he said, half smiling like it was a joke, because it sort of was. He was sort of a joke. He didn't have the results back yet, but he was certain that they weren't very impressive. "But I did eat. I think Bear and I went out for pizza that night. And I thought about you all day."

He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.

"I like the soup a lot, baby. Thank you for warming it up for me. I love you. You look so gorgeous right now. Did you get all ready for me? When I texted you earlier?"

It made Jack happy. Even if he wasn't in the mood to fool around anymore, it was so wildly attractive that Phoebe got ready for him. She looked really pretty. She always did, but especially right now, when she was taking such good care of him.

"You have like— sparkles in your eyes."

Onion, celery, green bean, garlic— lots of veggies! A good hearty broth as well.

And the reward that she gets in exchange? Oh, the reward of Jack's soft smile, the soft, affectionate look he gives when he wants to hear about her Christmas food.

'I like the idea of you at Christmas. Never thought about it until now.'

Phoebe giggles.

"Okay. I'll tell you all about Christmas."

That was sweet— the idea of her being liked at Christmas time. It makes her chest feel warm, makes her wonder if she would ever get to have Jack there to see it in person. The cinnamon rolls. The whip cream, the waffles, the croquembouche tower, the dusting of powdered sugar that fell over it all like snow. Would his father ever allow it? Jack, at her place, for the holidays? Would Jack ever want it? Seated next to her by the Christmas tree, fire crackling, flannel pajamas warm?

Maybe she could hear all about Jack's. Though, there's a prickle of sadness, a question pressing gently at the periphery of her mind. Was it hard— without his mother? Were holidays nice for Jack, or something heavy and to be avoided?

That wasn't fair.

It just wasn't fair that Jack was without.

Phoebe scoops up a nice portion of Parmesan, carrot, garlic, offers it up to Jack's lips.

"And just let me know whenever you get full."

Who knew how much a drunk Jack could handle? And, conversely— Phoebe could always heat more, always toast up some bread to serve as an accompaniment too. It felt a bit like a miracle that Jack was here. Sitting with her, close, answering her questions; apparently Jack had failed a test that day. Phoebe silently hopes it's a joke, if only for Jack's sake, if only for future interactions with his dad.

"Hmm. I bet you did really good, baby."

Phoebe smooths a hand against his temple, gratified to learn he had eaten, at least, pleased and flushed when Jack compliments her, compliments the soup. He had been thinking of her on Thursday— all day, gave her a forehead kiss that cements the fact.

'You look so gorgeous right now. Did you get all ready for me? When I texted you earlier?'

'You have like— sparkles in your eyes.'

She leans in slow, presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Of course I got ready for you." Another delicate kiss by his eye. "I like getting ready for you. I never put on an outfit without imagining if you'll like it." Which was— true. Aside from her silly pajamas, her sleep shirts with Looney Tunes characters, every animal from Sanrio, Phoebe put a great deal of thought into her outfits, found it gratifying, even, to know she would look cute if he ran into Jack.

"My eyes are so sparkly because I'm in love with you. And I'm really happy you're here. And because I have you in my arms." A smile. "And. Um. I got a new eye shadow, too." That too was specially chosen— a warm, pinkish quartz, shimmering and sparkling and meant to coordinate with her camisole. It feels good to talk about this. Something so mundane. Something so innocent, and regular, something two people in love might remark on on the couch. Two people who were together.

"It's actually called Funny Bunny."

Phoebe was reassuring him again, even though he didn't deserve it.

She wasn't going to ask him to give anything up, but Jack sort of wanted her to. Maybe it would help in some way? If he dropped out of law school to focus on getting better? What if he could dedicate all of his spare time to Phoebe? He was convinced it would fix everything, somehow.

Phoebe loved him. She really loved him. She wanted him to listen for a second. She wasn't going to leave, and she wanted Jack to be nicer to himself. He was her favorite person.

It didn't feel earned. His vision got blurry— especially when Phoebe littered his faces with kisses.

"Maybe we have a little bit more soup, to settle your stomach? And then you can climb in bed with me and I'll hold you."

Jack opened his mouth to apologize again, but stopped himself before getting very far. He needed to stop. What if she was tired of hearing it? It didn't stop Jack from feeling it. Fuck, he was so sorry. He would be sorry for the rest of his life. At least, it felt that way in the moment.

He nodded once.

"Okay. Yes."

He didn't want food, but he told himself that if he got through this — if he had a few more bites, he could crawl into bed with Phoebe. Maybe then the room would stop spinning? Maybe then he'd feel a little more settled. Besides— the soup was good. It was delicious. There was nothing wrong with it. It was Jack. Jack was the fucking problem, like always.

All the time, he felt like a problem.

"I'm really drunk."

He had to stop himself from apologizing for that. The word sorry needed to leave his vocabulary for the night. Or, at the very least, it needed to stay in his head.

"My head just feels— weird, like I can't think about anything the right way."

I'm sorry.

"I do want to eat your soup, and I want to get in bed with you."

I'm sorry for being so difficult. I'm so sorry for doing this to you— showing up like this, making you take care of me when I'm trashed. After the way I treated you.

Jack tried to find the right words or actions, but there was nothing. He hugged Phoebe tighter. He rested his cheek against her shoulder, eyes shut. She smelled nice. She always did.

"When we get in bed, can you just talk to me for a while? About anything? I've missed just talking to you. I missed hearing your voice. Maybe you could tell me about what you and Teddy liked to do growing up? Or how your classes have been lately? Or you could read something, maybe, or make up a story? Any story?"

Jack kept his face there, pressed against her shoulder for just a few more moments, eyes closed. He could stay like that all night. He rubbed her back gently, before finally pulling away from her shoulder, facing her. He felt very vulnerable. Shy, in a way. This was strange for Jack— not the norm. No amount of alcohol could mask how out of sorts he felt.

She could see the struggle— Jack in the whirlpool he can't extract himself out of, can't swim his way out of now matter how hard he tries.

He's too drunk, and it's too hard, and everything is too much, too heavy. All Phoebe can think about is how she would do anything to help. Anything to just... get him out of there. When she looks in Jack's eyes she can see him fighting against the instinct to apologize instead.

'I'm really drunk.'

'My head just feels— weird, like I can't think about anything the right way.'

Phoebe frowns gently, thumb stroking along his hairline in repetitive sweeps. How fucking awful, that had to be. Unable to control his thoughts. Unable to control his body, even, drunk and out of it and miserable, held captive by what was churning in his skull, an endless loop.

"I'm sorry, baby," she murmurs, attempting to hold Jack even closer, even tighter, knowing he likes the contact, missing the feel of him herself. "I wish I could just pull it out of you, so your head feels okay."

She would take the dizziness, the sick head, the nausea, the guilt, the hurt, any and all she'd load herself up with. If she could siphon it out of Jack, she would, and for a moment Phoebe curses that no such technology has been created, curses God that Jack is hurting in this way.

"But I love you no matter how your head is doing, okay? Nothing will make me leave. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you."

She just wishes she can help. Hasn't he had enough? Hasn't he wrestled with enough? It wasn't fucking fair. Phoebe doesn't like the idea of anyone suffering, but seeing Jack tortured in this way, seeing the distress in his eyes, the sadness ... it's fucking visceral. She feels it in every cell of her body. A wrongness. A need to fix it, fix it, do something, every cell is vibrating tensely until Jack is okay.

He still, at least, wants to have some soup— crawl up with Phoebe beneath the covers.

'When we get in bed, can you just talk to me for a while? About anything? I've missed just talking to you. I missed hearing your voice. Maybe you could tell me about what you and Teddy liked to do growing up? Or how your classes have been lately? Or you could read something, maybe, or make up a story? Any story?'

Phoebe stares at Jack for a long moment, the line between her brows cut deep. It was moments like this where Jack seemed ... so innocent that it kills her. Something very innocent, and boyish, such simple requests that he makes of Phoebe, pure enough that her throat tightens and her eyes smart and it takes her several seconds to wrangle back her composure.

'I missed you like crazy, and I think about you all the time.'

At last, Phoebe swallows. Her voice. Jack just wants to hear her voice. When he's buried in her shoulder, all she does is rub, rub, rub, relishing the feel of his hand against her spine, marveling at the beauty and the miracle that was Jack. So perfect, and alive, well-muscled and lovely, and Jack. The firm muscle of his trapeziums is all Jack, and it's beautiful.

And best of all, it's here. He's here. Tonight— and Phoebe hopes after this— she won't have to wonder where he is, whether or not he's okay.

"Of course, baby. 'Course I wanna talk to you." Phoebe ducks in— kisses at his cheek. "When we get into bed, I'll ... tell you all about the crazy breakfasts Teddy and I used to have. The ones at Christmas time were extra special, we'd make extra special recipes just for that day. I think you'd like them."

Phoebe takes the bowl of soup up again— carefully scoops a level spoonful, raises it up to Jack's lips, waiting.

"I would love to talk to you about anything. I missed you, You have, like— no idea." She smiles gently. "We had to watch this video on supply trains, in the war of 1812? Like in my Tuesday class. And I kept thinking about you. Like not just class, but the whole day, baby, I wondered what you were having for dinner. And if you ate a snack. And whether if you'd watched this documentary before, and if you had a good day, and. At one point I accidentally walked past my dorm, I was thinking of you so hard."

"I'm sorry," he said for probably the hundredth time that night, meaning it more and more each time. He was sorry that she'd made the soup.

Still, Phoebe, selfless and kind, held up a spoonful of minestrone. She blew on it to bring down the temperature. He leaned in, accepting the bite offered, swallowing. It was really, really good, like everything that Phoebe made, but it made him sad to enjoy. Even more so when she was encouraging him to come over for soup whenever he wanted. If he felt unwell, if he didn't want to talk, or if he did want to talk, he could just come over. Whenever.

Jack wrapped his arms around Phoebe tightly, hugging her fiercely, resting his head against her shoulder. It wasn't the most ideal way to eat, he knew that, but he was unconcerned with the soup and more concerned with feeling close to her.

"I love you so much."

His voice was gentle, quiet, something close to a whisper.

"Please don't ever go," he pleaded, eyes glistening again, throat tight with emotion. "I'm gonna fix everything for you."

He was going to fix his life. He was going to fix himself. He wouldn't do this again. This was the last time, Jack thought. He would be okay after this. No more ghosting her or hurting her like this.

"I really would drop everything for you, if you asked? Law school and my dad and all of my bad habits. I'll give it all up."

It's another dagger in her chest, an ache of sympathy, Jack sounds so fucking sad? He sounds so fucking sad and so fucking mired down by how sorry he is. It kills Phoebe— makes her tighten her grip 'round the spoon til it bites at her palm.

He manages about one bite of the soup before crushing himself against Phoebe's chest.

'I love you so much.'

Phoebe ducks her head to catch it. It's so quiet. His voice is so quiet, barely able to be heard above the silence of the night. It's quiet and soft, a half-whisper, but what really gets her is the strain there. Before Jack turns his head, before their eyes meet, Phoebe can hear it. The choking emotion, the fucking sadness gathering there, cresting, threatening to spill over.

Phoebe shifts in his lap to stare better. Sets the soup onto an adjacent cushion so that she can hold his head with both hands.

'Please don't ever go,'

'I'm gonna fix everything for you.'

Oh, Jack.

As if that were ever possible, as if that even existed— even the fucking idea of Phoebe ever leaving him. She wasn't going to leave Jack. She wasn't going to leave Jack even if he didn't fix it all. There was no knife, no force of nature or man or God that could unstitch Phoebe from the way she'd decided to attach herself.

Phoebe's brows push together sadly as she swipes a thumb along his orbital bone. Guilt was gnawing at him now— more than any hunger of any kind.

'I really would drop everything for you, if you asked? Law school and my dad and all of my bad habits. I'll give it all up.'

Phoebe hums.

"Baby. I'm not going to ask you to do that." Her thumb rubs beneath his eye. "You're excited about your career, and learning all about law, and stuff. It won't make me feel good to take that from you." Jack was going to be a politician— a good one. A special one. How could Phoebe take that away from the world? From Jack? And for the others .... "And I just want you happy and healthy, okay. I want whatever is going to make you happy and healthy, however you do that, and get there."

Phoebe can't tell Jack what to do about his father— doesn't know the man like Jack does, doesn't know the history and intricacies of it all. But she would support Jack, in no matter what he did. Yes, it rankles inside her, thinking about Vermont. Yes she felt ... judged, and dismissed, by her brief interaction with the man. But this was Jack's father! His family! He'd already lost a parent. If Jack needed her to, Phoebe would stand by whatever he did— she'd make an effort to get to know the man, befriend him, do whatever Jack needed her to do. And if Jack didn't want to talk to his father, any more? Phoebe would support that as well.

Whatever Jack needs from her ... he can have. Especially trying to get sober. Especially trying to detach himself from all the poisons that were leeching everything out of him. Especially if he went to get help— help with the crushing thoughts, the leaden attachments he can't control, weighed to his chest, keeping him in bed, overwhelming him.

"I feel ... really humbled, okay, that you're willing to give me so much. I love you. I really love you. But will you listen to me for a second?"

Phoebe brings her thumb up to below his eye— swipes to collect the tear before it falls.

"I'm not gonna leave. And you're my favorite person, Jack. It makes me sad to think that you haven't forgiven yourself like I have, or that you think really harshly about yourself... that's my favorite person. Please be nice to my favorite person, okay?"

Phoebe kisses him. Peppers a trail along his cheek and temple, again, again, again, willing to kiss the sadness out of him, willing to keep it all at bay.

Phoebe gives him a lingering kiss on the mouth, then pulls away.

"I could use some luck," Jack responded, smiling small and gentle, while Phoebe offered her stupidly tiny couch. Then, very bashfully, Phoebe wondered if she could sit in his lap and feed him.

Oh. Yes. Jack nodded quickly, no hesitation there.

"Yes, please," he replied, as if she were the one doing him a favor. And she sort of was. Jack walked past her, but not before he dipped in at the last second, kissing her forehead. He stumbled his way over to the couch, unsteady and uneven, before he plopped down. Jack hadn't been very hungry to begin with, but the soup looked and smelled appetizing. Anything that Phoebe prepared was automatically the best thing he'd ever eaten.

He patted his lap, motioning for Phoebe to join him. If Jack weren't so drunk, he would have probably offered to carry the hot bowl— but doing so now, in this state, would only be a liability. Her floor would smell like minestrone soup, and then her roommates would really hate him. But he still felt very dizzy, hypersensitive and sad, so he was allowing Phoebe to do all of the heavy lifting. And he was grateful for it, too.

"I haven't had soup in a really long time," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair, pushing the strands away from his forehead. "When did you make this?" Jack wondered. Had she made this because she was sad? Over him? It hurt to think about.

But she has no genie's lamp to give, no rabbit's foot or charm. Phoebe would just have to try to make things good for him herself. Really, really, try.

She can start with dinner— try to stave off Jack's hangover.

Phoebe bites down at the inside of her cheek, endlessly charmed at how long Jack is compared to her couch. Those long, long legs. Those tiny ass cushions. He'd plopped right down, drunk, and out of his body, but not before delivering a precious kiss to Phoebe's forehead. It was outrageously sweet.

Phoebe follows much more carefully— easing herself into Jack's lap, keeping careful hold of the piping bowl, the spoon that swivels as she eases herself down.

'I haven't had soup in a really long time,'

'When did you make this?'

Was there something sad in his voice? It sounds a little sad— mumbled though it is. Phoebe swallows, tries to ignore the pang in her own chest.

"The day before yesterday," she says. Comfort food, meant to comfort her aching heart. It had been hard, thinking of Jack, unable to think of anything else except his absence, the hole in her heart and the space in her bed that was only very rarely filled.

Her hook-ups with him only briefly stopped the ache.

Phoebe makes herself swallow, scoops up a careful spoon of the minestrone before blowing on it gently, raising it up to Jack's lips.

"Here," she says. "You can tell me if it tastes good."

A beat.

Maybe when Jack was sober, and out of the proverbial dog house that he'd put himself in, he could talk to Phoebe about that?

"I would like that a lot, Phoebe. Having you over more, like — all the time, really."

Jack left it at that, not wanting to push too much, or say the wrong thing while he was still drunk and overly emotional.

Phoebe pulled out the bowl of soup— it looked really good. She placed it on the counter, letting it cool, and Jack's eyes locked on hers. She could get the dinosaur shaped sandwich cutter, no problem. She even asked what color Jack wanted!

"Obviously blue," he replied, smiling gently. "But you should get a pink one, too. His and hers. Maybe yours should be a bunny."

Jesus. Phoebe almost hops.

Well and truly almost hops up and down with excitement. It's not even anything concrete— she has no idea what Jack thinks of living together, in an official capacity — but fuck, how her heart is soaring right now. He wants to see more of Phoebe. Weeks of distance, the pair of them kept away from one another, and Jack wants more of her now. All the time! All the time, all the time, all the time.

"Okay," she agrees, biting at her lip. "Yeah. I'll bring you bread and come over more."

And maybe things would go further. Maybe when things settle, when Jack is doing okay, when school is all squared away... maybe Phoebe can bring up the idea of him and her and two toothbrushes permanently leaning together in the holder.

His and hers— like his suggestion of a pink bunny cutter, complimentary towards his blue dinosaur.

"I'll get that too!"

"Maybe some days we can switch off. I'll give you bunny sandwiches as a surprise sometimes, for extra luck, or something."

Like how a rabbit's foot was lucky? Kind of? Sort of? Phoebe's groggy, and her mind is not particularly sharp.

She turns towards the bowl— taps it lightly with her hand. Cool enough to carry now, and so Phoebe scoops it up. It smells nice, fragrant, the aromatics she had deglazed in the beginning, the vine-and-sun smell of tomato.

"Should we sit on my stupidly tiny couch?"

A beat, and something passing over Phoebe a little shy, funnily enough, considering Jack's been inside her, considering she's confessed his love against her mouth.

"I can sit in your lap and feed it to you?"