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JACK DAWKINS FELT heavy. Fagin had asked what was wrong with him while he made the tea in the morning. The blond had been staring out the window, the spoon in his hands stirring the steaming infusion in the chipped cup on autopilot. Jack had responded with a shrug, a small and meaningless nothing. Fagin brushed it off. Jack didn't.
Hetty had asked too. Jack had walked down the steps, the bags beneath his eyes clawing at his cheeks and digging a permanent darkness into his pale skin. His hair was a mess and the blue scarf around his neck was tied above his vest instead of his usual knot-and-tuck method. Hetty told him that he looked worse than the severed head she'd just thrown out the back. Jack said he didn't sleep well. Then he walked away.
While he looked less alive than a literal dead body, he felt more present than he'd ever been in his long, slow life. The clock ticked five times slower that morning. He knew because he looked every three minutes. Waiting. Just waiting. He told himself that he didn't know what for, but he knew it was for her.
He regretted letting her go. He regretted letting her hand slip away from his arm, wave goodbye, and fall to her side as she walked around the corner. He'd stood there with a pathetic smile - a smile that gave him away. It killed him.
There was a chance that she knew. A chance that she'd seen, or been seeing, the way that his face changed as soon as she walked into a room. He would notice her laugh from down the street. He would hear her voice no matter the distance between them. He would see her everywhere, because she was all that he knew now. Ever since he'd coincidentally stood beside her, watching as someone dangled from a rope. He couldn't think about anything without his mind reminding him of the pure lifeform, the human embodiment of the quotes of the greats, that was Honora-Rue Sparrow.
Her name danced along the curve of his lips like a dare waiting to be broken. The possibility of him, of her, of them, hugged his body without ever prying away. Not when he gambled his money away. Not when he toyed with the likelihood of being criminally charged. Not when he kissed a random woman who lingered around the pub. The ferocity in which his lips moved; the desperation behind his hands. Even she knew that he was picturing someone else. Even she knew he wanted more.
