Page 51 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Jackson slows the chair near an intersection of hallways; a flickering vending machine hums beside a water fountain. “Ben. You walked into a room to confront a man you knew was dangerous, got thrown to the floor hard enough to break your collarbone, and still tried to apologize to your guests afterward. You broke this whole thing wide open.”
“You gonna run a picture of me like this?”
Jackson grins. “Could get some sympathy clicks but I was actually thinking of one of your gym selfies. People will want to know the regimen.”
Ben snorts softly, and it’s one of the best sounds Jackson’s heard all night.
Jackson’s tone shifts, just slightly, as he keeps walking. “Idohave to cover Kent. The key parts, anyway. But the company should come out okay. Bad apple and all that. Hard to deny in this case.”
Ben is quiet long enough that Jackson wonders if the meds pulled him under. Then: “I want you to keep digging on MarineSelect. What we saw at Scrimshaw Cove… that can’t keep happening. If you can stop it, and I can help, you’ve got me.”
Jackson breathes a little easier. “Yeah?”
Ben nods. “Whatever you need.”
Jackson smiles. “Perfect. You can start by being my quote.”
Ben makes a doubtful noise.
“You know,” Jackson continues, “for explaining what we saw that night. Also confirming that I’m a world-class kisser. Just for credibility.”
“Jackson.”
“You don’t have to say who you were making out with. People might question my journalistic objectivity. But you should get the kiss into the record. And that it was really sexy. And you loved it and the mysterious stranger doing the kissing.”
Ben tilts his head slightly. “I’m literally in a wheelchair, high on codeine. I’m not making any official statements about my feelings until I’m no longer legally stoned.”
Jackson grins. “Fair. I’ll circle back.”
There’s a pause, soft, settled. The kind Jackson almost never gets after a story. They coast the last stretch of hallway in silence. The doors ahead ease open with a soft mechanical whoosh, letting in a current of cold air.
Ben shifts again, breathes out a sigh. “Next year,” he mutters, “I’m doing a cake in the break-room. No speeches. No shellfish. No scandals. Just a sheet cake. From the grocery store.”
Jackson presses his hand to the back of the chair, leans in just a little. “You’d still overthink the frosting,” he says gently.
A pause.
“I really would,” Ben admits, and it’s miserable and endearing all at once.
Jackson laughs, quiet and helpless, and rests his forehead briefly against the back of Ben’s head.
“I’ll bring candles,” he whispers. “And a fire extinguisher. Just in case.”
“Deal,” Ben murmurs sleepily.
Jackson straightens just as headlights bloom across the curb, the senior Whitaker, right on cue. Time to roll.
If Jackson lets the chair move a little slower, just to stretch these last quiet seconds, well, only the disinfectant and the buzzing lights are here to notice.
Back at his apartment, Jackson writes the bulk of the article.
Kent. The party. What can be confirmed, what needs to wait. He hammers it out in one sitting.
He rereads it once. Doesn’t change a thing.
Jackson powers off the laptop and stares at the dark screen for a moment, not looking at his reflection exactly, but something near it. The night has gone quiet around him, just the fridge humming, the radiator clanking. Too late for traffic. Too early for birds.
He doesn’t tarry over the routine. Undershirt off, teeth clean, lights off. Smokey joins him on the bed, all paws and purr, curling against his side.
