Page 41 of Jack Frost
I have to be strong. I have to think clearly, and act quickly.
I drag him to the tub, stuff in the plug, and seat him under the shower head, with the cold water running. Thank goodness the water from the faucet is pretty near freezing on this winter night. It rushes over his back while he slumps, half-insensible, against the shower wall. It's easy to scrape off the tattered remnants of his shirt; I stuff the ash-covered rags into the bathroom trash can.
I have two extra bags of ice in the freezer, left over from the last time, so I dump those in with Jack. Then I strip down to my underwear and climb into the tub.
Sitting face to face with him, I settle myself astride his lap, with my body as close to his as possible. I kiss his forehead, his temple, his eyelids, his mouth. One kiss to the blackened tip of his poor scorched ear. A long line of kisses down his neck, to the cleft of his throat. I have never kissed anyone like this before, never. I've never felt this tender pain, this sweet ache that links my heart and my wellbeing to his.
When did this happen? How did this happen?
When did I fall in love with Jack Frost?
Maybe love is a moment of realization.
Maybe love is layers, paper-thin and sweet, accumulating like delicate honey-glazed sheets of baklava, until it's luscious and cloying, aromatic and irresistible.
Or maybe love is charred skin, and white bone, and torment.
When the tub is nearly brimming, I reach around Jack and turn off the water. Gently I wash his forehead, his cheeks, his jawline. I don't dare touch his back. Eventually I work out a position where he's lying nearly full-length on his back in the tub, with his long legs bent at the knees so he'll fit; and I sit at one end, cradling his head.
I can't kiss his mouth from this angle, but I stroke his forehead and face with one hand while my other hand cups his head. He's completely unconscious now, his face smooth and tinged with azure shadows.
"You should count yourself lucky," I whisper. "I'm not usually the cuddly kind of girl. I've never been one to snuggle after sex, either. More of a 'get it done and go' person. Although maybe that had less to do with me, and more to do with the kinds of guys I chose, and the overall experience." Why am I blushing? It's not as if he can hear me right now.
"I need you to get better," I murmur. "I think you might be my best friend. Don't tell Karyl, she'll be pissed. Although I think her wife isherbest friend, so maybe she'd just be happy for me."
I trace the outline of his other ear, the undamaged one. It's beautiful, with pale blue hollows inside and a nearly translucent tip.
From time to time I adjust our position as my legs cramp under me. I don't dare leave him, but I manage to find a position where I can lean into the corner of the shower and catch a little sleep.
When I wake up, I'm uncomfortably clammy. Without the Chill I'd probably be borderline hypothermic from sitting in a bathtub of ice water most of the night; but as it is, I'm just damp and unhappy. I want to be warm, and dressed in dry clothes.
Slowly I shift Jack's head a little. He's breathing, slow and deep. When I move, his face turns inward, his parted mouth lightly grazing my breast through the bra. The sight of that proximity sends a ripple of want deep into my body.
Enough of that. Once again I'm faced with a long and challenging day of work after a night of monitoring a half-burnt ice god. This can't go on. Jack needs help—backup, followers, friends, a team—it's ridiculous that he expects to be able to do this on his own. I wonder if he's ever tried to recruit anyone. I wonder if it's even possible for him to create someone like him.
A couple of times, I've suspected that he wantsmeto join him like that—to become what he is. But he won't come out and say it, maybe because he thinks I don't like him all that much. Or maybe he doesn't like me well enough to want me around for centuries.
Maybe he's only interested in me because I can help with his power reserves, and his healing. And he's horny, obviously—who wouldn't be, living the kind of lonely life he endures?
It seems so painfully clear now. He's not in love with me. Why on earth would he ever love me? No, he wants sex, and an energy boost. I'm a useful tool and a stimulating diversion to him. Like Auxesia said—he's had dozens of others, and where are they now? He got bored and left them, and he'll do the same again.
Except that he took an almost-lethal fire-blast to the spine for me. And when we got back to the apartment—the way he cried and kissed my face—
He could have been crying from the agony of the burn. And he only risked his life to save his precious energy source. I'll bet he was kissing me to salve the pain from his own wound.
My reasoning carries the sour, familiar reek of truth. Did I really think, for even a moment, that someone as magnificent and breathtaking as Jack Frost could love me—me, an averagely pretty human woman of average intelligence and average talent, with boatloads of crummy family baggage and such a laser-focused one-track mind that I can't hold onto more than a couple friends at a time?
I am such an idiot. Andhe'san idiot. We're both idiots.
I climb out of the tub, dripping water. After tossing a towel onto the floor to sop up the puddles, I use the toilet and strip off my soggy underwear. I brush my teeth, but I barely apply any makeup, since I'll be coming back here to prepare for the party. My stomach flutters momentarily at the memory of Jack measuring me for the dress. I wonder what sort of dress it will be, or if he'll even feel like going to fetch it from wherever he placed the order. I'd better have a backup plan just in case. Maybe I can borrow Karyl's faux-fur wrap and put it over a sundress—but I know she'd kill me just for thinking it. Even I know that's a massive fashion error. I need a formal dress appropriate for December.
I cast a glance over my shoulder at Jack's limp form. He could wake up any minute; I should probably put some clothes on.
Alice keeps me busy toting boxes back and forth from our offices to the venue, helping with decorations, running out on last-minute errands. Halfway through the afternoon she disappears, but I keep working until our manager Sal tells me to go get ready. She's a nice enough woman, but I suspect my office-mate has given Sal the impression that we're sharing the workload, when in fact Alice keeps shoving most of it onto me. It's the kind of workplace dynamic that I would have expected from a regular business, but at a non-profit like ours, it seems particularly unforgivable. Shouldn't we all be pulling our weight, working together seamlessly as a team?
There I go, being an idealist again. Shaking my head at my own naiveté, I shove my way into my apartment.
The air inside doesn't have that Jack Frost chill to it, and when I step into the bathroom, he isn't there. The wet towel has been hung neatly over the shower curtain rod, along with the clothes I left on the floor. The pungent smell of smoke still hangs in the tiny space.
