by Nikita Spoke
***
Jack and Jemma walked out to their cars after the library had closed, Jemma carrying a concealed chocolate pie she’d thrown together that morning. It wasn’t very difficult to make, but it had always been a hit with those who tried it. She had put the pie tin in a separate, square Tupperware container and covered that with tin foil to thoroughly confuse Jack.
She turned to face her car, shifting the dessert so she could grab the handle. She caught a glimpse of movement in the reflection of her windshield and spun around in time to see someone disappear around the corner of the library.
"Jack. Someone else is in the parking lot," she sent. She heard him walking toward her, and she turned back to her car to set down purse and dessert before turning back to where she'd seen the person.
"Someone you recognized?" he sent, glancing at her and then the direction she was indicating.
"Pretty much only saw a leg. Dark slacks, shiny shoes, maybe a hint of a coat.” She rubbed her arm.
“Sounds very cloak and dagger. Do you think it was one of your patrons?”
“I don’t know. The person was running, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but doesn’t really fit in, either,” she sent.
“Should we check it out?” he sent.
Jemma shook her head. “Either we’re being paranoid, and investigating isn’t really going to change anything, or there’s actually been someone every time we’ve heard something, right? In which case we really should leave it to someone official to investigate.”
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing in that direction once more before sighing silently and nodding. “Do you just want to ask for another patrol again? Or do you want to stay here until the police arrive?”
“An extra patrol for now. I’ll swing by the downtown library tomorrow to see whether I can get a camera installed on that side of the building. We only have one out on the front entrance,” she sent.
“It’s a good idea.” Jack turned to face Jemma.
“Maybe should have thought of it after the first couple times I thought something was going on.” She frowned and shook her head, then looked at Jack. “Why are we standing here in the parking lot when we can Talk from the cars?”
He shrugged. “You remember where you’re going?”
“I’m pretty sure. Easy enough to ask if I forget, though.”
Jack grinned and went to his car, looking back to make sure she’d made it safely into her own.
She moved the pie to the passenger seat, then sat and locked the door, started the car, and followed Jack out of the parking lot.
***
The drive was uneventful aside from a tense moment when a car behind her had followed them for a couple turns in a row. When it had finally turned a different direction, Jemma had relaxed, and they made it to Jack’s father’s house just a few minutes later.
Jemma pulled into the driveway behind Jack. The house was small, two stories, but it looked like the ground floor was probably mostly the two-car garage, the second story set neatly on top of it. It was on a cul-de-sac, with an open lot to the left. Jemma glanced curiously at what had to be Jack’s house on the right, almost identical to the one they’d parked in front of.
She pulled out her phone and composed a text to the police.
Non-emergent: suspicious activity at West Branch library at 1800. Branch director requests an extra patrol.
She read it back over, then looked up to see Jack leaning against his car, waiting for her with a grin on his face.
“You get very absorbed, you know,” he sent when he saw her look up. “It doesn’t seem to matter whether you’re reading a text or a novel, but you stop seeing anything around you when you read.”
She gave half a shrug and pressed send on the text, quickly getting an automated response.
Non-emergent text received. PPD has recorded the incident and will respond as able.
She looked up from her phone again to see Jack, still smiling.
“Good thing it’s safe here,” he sent. “You coming?”
“Eventually,” she sent along with a wave of amusement. She put her phone away, slung her purse over her shoulder, and grabbed her pie before getting out of the car, bumping the door shut behind her.
“Ready?” he sent, his eyes still sparkling.
She nodded, and they went to the door, Jack knocking as they entered, much like Jemma did at her parents’ house. Jack paused at the doorway, his eyes glazing over slightly as he presumably checked in with his dad, and then he gestured to Jemma, and they walked up the stairs to what did appear to be the main floor. They walked through a living room and into the dining room, where a man who bore a strong resemblance to Jack sat, beaming in their direction. He stood, slowly but confidently, and walked toward Jack, who met him halfway. They hugged warmly, and then the man turned toward Jemma, reaching to bring her into a hug, too, crooked thanks to the dessert she held.
As he pulled away, she realized it would have been a good time to see whether she could Talk to him, while they were in contact, and made a note to try when she was leaving if she didn’t get a chance before then. He walked back to the table and picked up a dry erase board with writing already on it.
Hi, I’m Don. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
He winked, and Jemma grinned and nodded, sending a quick message to Jack.
“Your father’s more of a flirt than you are.”
Jack sent a wave of amusement in response, and then he smiled at Don, took the pie from her hands, and disappeared down the hallway.
“No peeking,” she sent after him.
“I won’t,” he returned, matching her tone.
Don erased the board and wrote again.
Jack doesn’t bring women home to meet me. You must be pretty special.
Jemma felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment at the compliment and the possible deceit, and she realized she’d probably made it look even more like they were dating by doing so.
“What did you tell him about me? About us?” Jemma sent Jack.
“I told him you were my favorite librarian,” he sent back, “and that we’d become friends. Is he giving you a hard time?”
“Not really. Just said something that I took as him thinking we were dating, and I wasn’t sure.”
“He likes to tease.” Jack returned with another dry erase board and handed it to Jemma. “Doesn’t mean anything by it, though.”
It’s nice to meet you, too, wrote Jemma, hoping the delay between initial comment and her response hadn’t been as long at it had felt.
Sit, please, wrote Don, taking his seat once more and gesturing toward the chair to his left. Jemma obliged, looking at Jack and expecting him to sit with them, but he was still standing.
“I have to go cook,” he sent. “You’re welcome to join me, or you can stay here with Dad. He says to tell you he promises not to bite.”
Jemma looked at Don, who was watching her with a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes, very much like the expression she saw on Jack so often.
“I’ll stay here,” she sent, and Jack nodded, then moved to the kitchen with a brief wave, leaving Jemma alone with Don.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Unknown
Jemma and Don sat in silence, Jemma waiting while Don wrote slowly on his whiteboard, occasionally pausing to rub his hand.
What do you like to do outside of work? the board read when he finally turned it to face her. How long have you and Jack been Talking?
Jemma held her marker over her board while she thought. The first question was easy. The second was a little trickier without being dishonest.
I read a lot, she wrote finally. We’re not sure exactly when we started being able to Talk. We didn’t think to try at first.
Don nodded, seeming to accept the vague answer, and started writing again, more slowly this time. Jemma sent Jack a message.
“Your dad is writing pretty slowly. It looks like his hand might be bothering him. Is the
kitchen too far for you to translate?”
“It is, thanks to the weird layout. It isn’t much out of range,” sent Jack, “but translating won’t work. I’ll be there in a minute, about to be at a stopping point.”
Jemma shifted her attention back to Don, who’d finished writing and was turning the board so she could see.
Anything in your life other than books?
He was watching her with an interested look, the question not meant to be insulting as she’d heard it used more than once. She again hesitated in her response. She had her family, yes, and that would have been her only response a few months ago. Recently, though, there had been the time she spent with Jack, the unexplained telepathic abilities, and the possibility that she was being watched at work. Combined with the changes in her job and the changes in the world in general, it had been a very full couple of months.
I see my family at least once a week, she wrote finally. My mom, my dad, and my little sister.
He smiled at the board when she showed it to him. Before he could write any more, she heard Jack coming back down the hallway.
“He says it’s good to have family,” he sent, joining them at the table.
She nodded at Don in agreement.
“It is,” she sent to Jack. Based on the pause afterward and on Don’s smile growing even larger, he’d relayed her statement. “This might be a good time for me to try Talking to your dad, right?”
“It’ll make dinner a lot easier if it works,” he sent back.
Jemma sent a wave of acknowledgment, then focused on Don, who raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“Don?” she tried, focusing on him, but there was no echo, no further response. “I don’t think…” She started sending a message to Jack, trailing off when he held up a finger.
“He asks whether he has something on his face,” sent Jack.
When Jemma turned to look back at Don, he was patting at his face comically. She laughed soundlessly and shook her head, her gaze flicking back to Jack.
“Were we both Talking at once?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he sent, “and no, there was no feedback.” He looked between her and his father before he continued. “Do you want me to keep sending him messages for you, or do you want to write for yourself? I can still pass along his answers.”
“I can write. I don’t seem to be able to Talk to him.” She uncapped her marker, pausing yet again over the board. “We should still try with contact, though, first with me touching him, then with me touching both of you.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” sent Jack.
Is Jack a good cook? she wrote after a few more moments of consideration, turning the whiteboard so both of the men could see. Don shook with silent laughter while Jack held a hand to his chest as if wounded.
“He says I’m a fine cook, but not as good as he was before his hands stopped listening.” Some of the sparkle left Jack’s eyes. Meanwhile, Don seemed unaffected.
“What’s wrong with him, exactly, if it’s okay to ask? I mean, you’ve said he’s always sick, but this seems like more than that,” she sent.
Jack shook his head. “He has a low immune system, not low enough to justify living alone in a clean area, even if he would put up with that, but he’s managed to catch some pretty bad stuff. Some side effects come from not fully recovering right, and others from the medicine used to treat his issues. He’s had cancer, twice, and beat it both times, but it took a toll. Among other things, joint pain is pretty much always there.” He turned to look at his dad and nodded. Don turned back toward Jemma, fixing her with a firm look that reminded her of her own father when he wanted to be sure a student would listen. Don put his hand on top of the one Jemma was using to hold the marker.
“He says to tell you not to worry about him. He’s lived well and enjoyed life, and he doesn’t plan on breaking that habit any time soon,” Jack sent. “Also, this is probably a good time to try Talking to him.”
“I’m glad you’re sticking around a while longer,” she tried to send. When it didn’t sound as if it went through, she repeated the message for Jack, who covered her other hand, then took his dad’s. “I’m glad,” she tried sending Don again, with no effect. A few seconds later, after Jack had a chance to relay the message, Don squeezed her hand and smiled, then let go.
“I need to finish up with dinner,” sent Jack, adjusting his weight so he could stand.
“Wait,” sent Jemma, continuing when he looked at her. “Try Talking to both of us at once.”
“I’ll be right back,” sent Jack, and she saw Don nod.
“Okay,” she sent, acknowledging him.
“Don’t let him write any more, if you can avoid it,” sent Jack, walking down the hall, and Jemma sighed.
How was she supposed to do that?
She pulled her whiteboard closer and started writing everything she could think of that he might be interested in hearing, telling him about her family, about her job, keeping questions limited to ones easily answered with a nod or a shake of the head.
So I knew the library was the place for me, you know? No other job really ever stood a chance, she was showing Don when Jack walked back in, carrying two full plates in his hands, a third balanced in the crook of one arm. He set a plate in front of each of them, taking a seat and grinning.
“Enjoy!” he sent with a wink at Jemma and then a smirk at Don, who rolled his eyes at his son.
Jemma looked down at the plate in front of her, which held chicken breast, brown rice, and broccoli.
“It smells delicious,” she sent, looking around her plate. “If you could point me in the direction of a fork, I’d be happy to confirm it tastes as good.”
Jack looked down at the table and then seemed to almost deflate. His father, meanwhile, resumed his silent laughter. When Jack looked up again, meeting Jemma’s gaze, he wore a pout that didn’t quite match the amusement that showed around his eyes.
“You mean it doesn’t look like finger food? Shucks,” he sent, standing as his father laughed harder, wiggling his fingers toward Jack. “I’ll be right back with utensils,” he sent, pout finally making way for a smile. “Maybe even a napkin or two.”
Don waggled his eyebrows at Jemma, who smiled at him. He pointed in the direction of the kitchen and then back at Jemma, then carefully shifted his fingers until he was giving her a thumbs up.
She reached for the whiteboard and scribbled, You know we’re just friends, right?
Don stuck out his bottom lip contemplatively before he nodded and gave another thumbs up. Jack came back with the rest of their place settings and looked between the two of them.
“Dad says to tell you it’s a good match either way, but he won’t tell me what that’s in response to,” sent Jack.
Don’s pleased expression told Jemma that Jack had let his father hear both message and complaint. Don winked at Jemma, then reached for a fork and dug into his food. Jack handed Jemma her utensils and a napkin and then sat back down, watching Jemma expectantly. After an encouraging, silent rumble from her stomach, Jemma started eating her dinner, sending approval to Jack through their connection. After grinning at her, he joined them, dinner passing in comfortable silence.
***
Don’s energy level had dropped noticeably by the end of the meal, and Jack helped him to bed after they finished eating. Jemma carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher, closing it as Jack returned.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he sent along with a wave of gratitude.
“It wasn’t a problem. I’m used to doing it at my parents’ house, anyway,” she sent back. She started to walk back out of the kitchen, then stopped. “Oh! Your dad didn’t get any dessert.”
“He’s already asleep,” said Jack, “but if it’s something that’ll keep as long as it stays in the fridge, he’ll enjoy it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” sent Jemma. “Yeah, it’ll keep.” She rubbed her neck, remembering how tired Don had looked.
It was no wonder Jack worried about him, especially if this was a good day for the man.
“That’s good.” Jack looked at the refrigerator, then back at Jemma. “Am I allowed to have some tonight?”
“Of course!” said Jemma, her startled look dissolving into a smile. “But only if I can have some, too.”
“I suppose,” he sent with a sigh, and Jemma laughed.
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“True, but hey,” he sent, “if it’s dessert, I’m a fan.”
He pulled it out of the refrigerator, setting it on the counter and looking at Jemma for permission before opening the Tupperware. She nodded and watched, still smiling, as he opened the container, puzzled at the smaller container inside it. He opened the inner container and saw the pie, and his face lit up.
“Mississippi Mud Pie?”
Jemma nodded. “It’s a really easy version of it, but it tastes pretty good.”
“If it tastes even half as good as it looks,” he sent, “I’m gonna need you to get me the recipe.”
“We’ll see,” sent Jemma, teasing him as he grabbed plates and served the slices without ceremony.
“Come on,” he sent, closing his eyes and licking the fork he’d used to serve his piece. “Let’s go sit and relax.”
She followed him past the dining room and into the living room, where he sat on the sofa, the only piece of furniture in the room. She sat next to him and ate her pie, savoring each bite. Jack, who had finished his slice before hers was halfway gone, grabbed the remote.
“Mind if I turn on the news?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“That’s fine,” she sent.
The station he settled on seemed very close to “normal” according to standards set before The Event. The anchors appeared to speak audibly, but there was still a stilted quality to the words, something not quite right about how they synced up with the anchors’ mouths, that told Jemma the anchors were making use of voice apps, probably reading from teleprompters that displayed what the voice was about to say.