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So yeah, maybe Jack’s excuse of picking up the pill case of Ativan that he’d dropped under the table had worn thin about fifteen minutes ago, and maybe the music wasn’t actually too loud for him to hear the Anyone seen Zimmermann s being called across the room somewhere above him.
But maybe his Ativan hadn’t kicked in yet either, and maybe he needed a few more minutes to muster an ability to fake interest in this stupid, boring party that was exactly like any of the other dozens of stupid, boring parties he’d been to since he came to Rimouski.
And maybe the idea of going out there was chafing at his nerves so badly he was having trouble talking himself out of taking another Ativan, in case the first one was, like, expired. Or something.
And maybe he was a gigantic wuss. And maybe Roaner nudging him with a wink and a I hear Marissa Shah’s gunning for you tonight, you lucky shit had freaked the fuck out of him, so much that he’d hit the floor as soon as he’d seen her enter the room, clearly looking around for something.
And maybe he needed another drink. Badly.
Just as he was weighing the pros and cons of popping up for a recon mission in search of beer, the tablecloth shifted as something nudged underneath the draping hem. Jack hitched a breath and instinctively pasted on a smile before he realized that it was a cat - the stripey grey cat that had been perched on the windowsill when he’d come in, watching the goings-on with disinterest.
He smiled and reached out a hand, letting her - him? it? - sniff at him before deciding that he was worthy of its time and nuzzling into him. He scratched it behind the ears until it closed its eyes and gave a throbbing purr that he felt more than heard, something pleased in its expression as it pressed back against his hand.
Either the Ativan was kicking in, or his therapist hadn’t been completely off when she’d been going on about emotional support animals. Something to think about.
Jack rubbed it under the chin with his other hand, stroking it, and it kept creeping closer until it climbed all the way up into his lap, draping itself over him, its tail swaying lazily in the air, something territorial in the way it kneaded at his thighs.
So there was pretty much no fucking escape when he heard that familiar bright, lilting tone overhead.
“There was a fucking cat,” Parse was saying, and Jack would recognize those ratty high tops anywhere. “I know when you’re trolling me and I know I wasn’t imagining it, there was a cat and I’m gonna find it.”
Jack went tense all over, hand stilling. The cat shot him an openly admonishing look until he felt guilted into petting it again.
“Dude, Parse, your cat lady thing is adorbs and all, but now that we’ve crossed the line into hallucinations, I’m compelled to express some concern,” Maz’s voice said.
“Go suck your own dick,” Parse grumbled. “I’ma find the cat.” Both pairs of shoes wandered away, and Jack was almost relieved until suddenly, without warning, the high tops came back, and light flooded his sanctuary as someone crouched and lifted the hem of the tablecloth.
“Hey, you,” Parse said to either Jack or the cat, he couldn’t tell.
“Hey,” Jack said dumbly.
“Marissa’s asking for you,” Parse said, a question in his tone, but he didn’t push it when Jack only shrugged. Then Parse ducked down and crawled under the table, and it was all Jack could do not to flinch and scramble away.
Parse was… Parse was half as cool as he thought he was and still six times cooler than Jack would ever be, and Parse was the best linemate a guy could ever ask for but he also chirped Jack relentlessly for thinking that Disturbia was the name of the singer instead of the song. Parse smiled too much and he sat too close and he did this ridiculous thing where he chewed on his mouth-guard during practice like he wanted to get his stupid teeth knocked out, and Jack couldn’t look away if you paid him to.
Parse was kind of a mess, and he made Jack kind of a mess too.
“You stole my cat,” Parse said. “That’s totally uncool, man.”
“I didn’t steal the cat,” Jack said. “And even if I did, it was from Twister’s billet parents, not you.”
“Nah bro,” Parse said. “Twister’s billet parents gave me the cat as a prezzie for my awesome plus/minus.”
“My plus/minus is better than-” Jack started, because it was , before he realized there was a zero percent chance Twister’s billet parents had given Parse their cat and now he just looked like an idiot.
Parse was giggling, but it wasn’t his obnoxious locker room laugh, and Jack wasn’t really tense until he reached over into Jack’s lap to start petting the cat too, a long sweeping stroke that started at its ears and went all the way down its spine until his hand was right there and -
“Oh, sorry,” Parse said, drawing his hand away when Jack flinched.
And - his hand had been really close, but the cat in Jack’s lap was a pretty effective deterrent against, uh, any awkward situations, and Jack hated those Sad Parse Eyes that Millsy was always talking bullshit about whenever anyone told Parse to stop rapping in the locker room. So Jack just said, “No, it’s fine, I just wasn’t expecting it. I think she likes when you scratch behind her ears.”
Yeah, Parse’s smile was so much better than the Sad Eyes. “Thanks,” Parse said, scratching her behind the ears. “You been here long, party-boy?”
Jack’s shoulders drew up a little, but Parse didn’t seem all that invested in an answer, continuing before he could make up an excuse.
“I wasn’t even gonna come tonight, but Brick told me there was gonna be poutine, and now I gotta get him back,” Parse said. “Sick fuck. Who lies about poutine?”
Jack snorted. “You managed to come to the one place in Quebec that doesn’t have poutine, so I’m not sure this is totally on him.”
Parse grinned. “Um, ouch? Point taken, but still. Ugh, really what I want is a garbage plate, but y’all in the Great White North have not figured your shit out vis a vis the greatest invention since the smallpox vaccine, so…”
Jack shot him a questioning look.
“Garbage plates!” Parse said. “ Hot dogs, sausage, eggs, chicken tenders, cheeseburgers, ham, French fries, and macaroni salad. On a plate.”
Jack actually massaged his chest hearing that, rubbing away the phantom heartburn. “You’re making that up,” he said, eyes narrowed. “You know that doesn’t work anymore, I know Richie was lying about the deep fried butter.”
“First off, he wasn’t,” Parse said. “And secondly, I’m not! It’s an American institution!” He paused. “Okay, New York.” He winced. “Okay, just Rochester. But still! S’a real thing. It’s on Wikipedia!”
“No,” Jack said. “Noo…”
“For fuckin’ serious,” Parse said. “Hand to god, I am not bullshitting you.”
“You no longer have any right to act offended when we make fun of Americans for… everything,” Jack said.
“Fair,” Parse said, shaking with laughter. He pulled his hand up. “Oh shit, did I wake her up?”
Jack looked down, surprised to find the cat clearly asleep in his lap. “Don’t think so,” he said after a moment. “You’re good.”
“Sweet,” Parse said, leaning his weight back on his hands. “It’s surprisingly peaceful down here. The pounding bassline is almost soothing.” He smiled at Jack.
“The lullaby that puts me to sleep,” Jack agreed. He looked down. “You don’t have to stay, if… I know your beer pong throne must be under attack.”
“Let the peons have their day,” Parse said dismissively. “Unless, I mean… do you want me to leave?”
“I - I just mean,” Jack said, flustered, “if you want to, uh -”
“If you want me to leave, say the word,” Parse said, and Jack’s eyes were adjusted enough to the dim light to make out his expression, and it wasn’t the Sad Parse Eyes or the customary Parse Smirk… It was something focused and intent and Parse’s grey eyes had never looked so dark.
“No,” Jack said, throat dry. “I don’t.”
“Cool,” Parse said. “So, I read this fucking hilarious article the other day. Apparently 61% of Canadians consider the War of 1812 very important to national pride. Discuss.”
Jack scowled. “Sorry we don’t start up a new war every 35 years.”
“1812 isn’t even a real war,” Parse said. “A bunch of drunk lumberjacks wandered across the border of Vermont, you nutballs.”
“We burned down the White House!” Jack said.
“That was the British, you don’t get to claim that!” Parse said. “And it was a freaking tie anyway, you didn’t even win.”
“J’men calice,” Jack muttered, doing his level best not to pout.
“Hey, I’ve been here long enough to recognize that,” Parse said, grinning. “Don’t get too heated, Zimmerface, you’ll wake up the cat, and if she leaves I’m going with her.”
Jack tried to settle down and relax without making it too obvious what he was doing.
“Besides, the big thing for national pride was health care, and I gotta admit you’ve got us beat there, big guy,” Parse said. He punched Jack’s shoulder. “Not bad.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Anyway, what would Americans know about national pride?”
“Um, okay?” Parse said. “You are stuck under a table with me so that was not particularly wise, unless you wanted to hear the diatribe of a lifetime, but we both know you’re not that masochistic.”
Jack was, apparently.
“Nonetheless, we begin. Chapter 1,” Parse said, “sports. Let’s talk about real football, not your Canadian nonsense.”
Jack leaned back against the table leg, trying not to smile too wide as he listened to Parse embark on what promised to be an exhaustive list of everything that made America great and trying not to watch Parse’s lips too obviously.
Either his Ativan had kicked in or this night had just taken a turn for the better.
Shit, yeah, it probably was the Ativan talking, but Jack was feeling good about this - about being at this stupid party, about the cat on his lap, about being stuck under a freaking table with Parse - and he didn’t want to do anything to mess that up.