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[alicelillianshaw]

'You’re the only person who’s ever seen me,'

A line forms between Alice's brows, and she blinks once, lets out a harsh little exhale like she's having trouble listening and absorbing.

There had to have been— so many people in Jack's life. Parents and cousins and relatives and friends and his wife, his daughter, and.

People at work, too. People he met from every walk of life. Alice knows that relation, and friendship, and a marriage license does not automatically mean closeness or understanding— but still.

The fact that Jack has listened to Alice's writing once, heard the words plucked from her brain in the pool, over the span of three days, and feel that?

It feels startling. And humbling. And mystifying and dizzying and too big for her to even grasp her in her hands.

It feels like the ultimate compliment of her writing and her soul.

Alice swallows and stares, enchanted and enraptured as Jack continues to talk— there's something in his eyes. Alice has no idea where it will go. All she knows is that she can't look away.

'When I agreed to do this interview, I already knew how it was going to go. Whoever showed up would start asking me about gun legislation and public healthcare and why the Equality Act has never seemed to make it out of committee. Or — I don’t know. They’d grill me about my divorce. They’d push wherever it hurt. How did my marriage only last one year? What’s my relationship like with my father, who is a well known and outspoken conservative? And even though my team laid out some ground rules, ones that ensured that the reporter couldn’t ask about my arrest last December, they would anyway. They’d ask if I had a drinking problem. Or a drug problem. And I’d probably blow up and ruin the whole fucking thing anyway.'

They'd push wherever it hurt.

Jack had expected the reporter, her, to push where it hurt, like pressing down hard on a wound. His wife leaving, after only a year. His father. The drinking, the alcohol, the arrest, the media storm and the fallout and his daughter, the loss of his daughter. Jack was expecting to hurt like that, and instead, he says, in the most disbelieving tone ... he got Alice.

It makes her stomach flip. Jack says this as if getting Alice was the best, must unforeseen gift in the world.

The way she doesn't ask the questions that will flay him open and hurt him. The way Alice can see into his skull anyway, according to Jack.

Of course that was scary.

Alice feels scared, to know she matters like that— how can she ever deserve it? At the same time all Alice wants to do is deserve it.

When Alice lets her gaze wonder, even just a little bit, she can see the tremor in Jack's hands— even though they sat laced tightly by his thighs. It makes tender concern flood through her. A burning desire, and a question, wondering maybe if she kissed those hands enough, they'd stop the shaking.

Or would that make it worse? Alice doesn't want to make it worse. There's a lot of emotion in her chest, and clearly a lot in Jack's, and as stunned as she is right now, it's such a privilege to feel it— feeling it right now in the dark theater feels like a vast privilege she doesn't deserve.

Especially listening to Jack talk about her like this.

'Not only are you the best writer in the world, but you might actually be the most powerful person in the world.'

Alice's jaw sets, molars clenched to the point they might crack, and for a long moment she is stuck in Jack's eyes. Such perfect blue eyes, the color of the ocean when it's submerging a giant shelf of shale, the color of the sky, when Alice would glance up at it from beneath the mist of the waterfall. The color of the pool, sparkling underneath the summer sky, the surface rippling, distorted only by Jack and Alice entering. Blue like the base of a flame— the hottest part. Hot like her belly when Jack looked at her like that.

Powerful? If anyone, that's Jack. Stuck in his thrall. She has no idea how to translate everything storming and swirling in her chest into writing.

"I almost want you to. Tell me to throw my life away. I will.'

Alice inhales sharply. His hand is at her cheek now, and Alice thinks he must be able to feel her pulse, how her heart is about to burst through her chest.

What to even say? What to even say to the man who announces he'll throw his life away at her bidding?

He almost wants her to ask.

"....Why would you think that's what I want you to do?" Alice smiles at him gently. Tilts forward til she's sitting on her knees, eyes fixed solely on him.

"You tell me all these beautiful things, you make me feel not crazy for everything that I've written, all the pages on my computer, writing about you like I've known you for years, validating what I see, validating how it feels like I've known you forever, and this feeling in my chest that's making me write about you without stopping, and you trust me, and you talk to me like this—"

Exhale. Alice can hear the blood whooshing around in her head, actually.

"I will never ask you to do anything like that."

Alice hand raises, and captures his wrist, and squeezes. A firm squeeze. Trying to be grounding, deliberate, but her own pulse is rabbiting.

"That's not what I want from you..."

"Why would I hear all that, and ask you to do anything except be happy?"

Alice insisted that it wasn’t true. Jack was going to have to help her understand just how incredible she was. She seemed to renege every compliment that Jack sent her way — out of humility, he knew, but it just … was so obvious that she was the most talented person in the world. Certainly the most talented writer. Couldn’t she see that?

Alice said something that almost made Jack laugh out loud. It seemed crazy … coming from him? Didn’t most people fucking hate politicians? Especially ones like Jack — with multiple houses and cars and who seemed to shirk responsibility at every turn in life? No. Alice had it all wrong. Jack was nothing compared to Alice.

Alice who could create worlds and new emotions with just a few sentences.

She reached over, grasped at his t-shirt. Jack held his breath because he could’ve dipped forward and kissed her hand so easily. Those perfect, delicate fingers that aided Alice in crafting the most beautiful sentences he’d ever heard.

Jack was still reeling, but the more time that passed, the more he seemed to be overflowing with things that he wanted to say to Alice. And his words wouldn’t be nearly as perfect as Alice’s — he understood that — but they’d be sincere.

So fucking sincere that it scared Jack.

Alice only seemed to be concerned with hoping that she got Jack right. That she’d seen him the right way.

“You’re the only person who’s ever seen me,” he blurted out. Once he started, he couldn’t stop.

“God. I might actually be insane — saying that out loud. Admitting that to someone that I just met. A reporter.”

Jack paused, shaking his head preemptively.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. But. A reporter. You’re here to … I don’t know, write some stuff about my career. Maybe make people feel a little sorry for me. Or make them really hate me. That’s why you’re here.”

Jack was ranting and raving about a whole lot of nothing, but if he wasn’t allowing himself to kiss Alice, he had to fucking find something to do with his mouth, right?

“When I agreed to do this interview, I already knew how it was going to go. Whoever showed up would start asking me about gun legislation and public healthcare and why the Equality Act has never seemed to make it out of committee. Or — I don’t know. They’d grill me about my divorce. They’d push wherever it hurt. How did my marriage only last one year? What’s my relationship like with my father, who is a well known and outspoken conservative? And even though my team laid out some ground rules, ones that ensured that the reporter couldn’t ask about my arrest last December, they would anyway. They’d ask if I had a drinking problem. Or a drug problem. And I’d probably blow up and ruin the whole fucking thing anyway.”

“And instead, I get you.”

Jack scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Because — how the fuck?

“Somehow, I get … you.”

Slowly, Jack pumped on the brakes. He slowed down a little. Caught his breath.

“I get you. And maybe you’ve written some stuff about my career, but you’ve also written … that.”

Jack scratched the back of his head, attempting to make sense of it all. No, this didn’t align somehow. If karma was a thing — no. Something was off. This couldn’t be real.

“And when you write something like that … it’s like you’re looking right into my skull somehow. Like you know everything I’ve ever thought or will think. And it’s fucking … terrifying.”

Jack exhaled. He hadn’t noticed that his hands were shaking, from how hard he’d clasped them together. He released before he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Hah. That’s what she did to him. Day three.

What would happen on day four?

“Not only are you the best writer in the world, but you might actually be the most powerful person in the world.”

Jack surged forward, a little terrified that his impulsivity had won over. No. He could stay in control here. This was too important. He pressed a hand to the side of Alice’s face. He stared. Scanned her features. The delicate arch of her eyebrows. The bluest, kindest eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t dare look at her mouth.

“When you write like that,” Jack began, voice low and quiet, “it makes me feel … insane. It makes me feel so good. Powerful. Except — you could ask me to do anything right now, and I would.”

Resign from office? Done.

Buy her a new car? Okay, what else?

Walk into traffic? That’s it? 

Jack’s hand remained firmly at the side of Alice’s face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

"I almost want you to. Tell me to throw my life away. I will."