( Picture it: Sicily, 1922 — wait, no. That's not right. Picture it: August, at the tail end of the Herald's second rising. Is it a flashback? Is time linear? These are things science just can't explain yet.
Anyway, this is what it looks like if you can get over semantics such as time and chronology and the sequence of events and how late is too late to tell a story: two soggy men step off two separate boats at two separate times. Both of them on similar missions, both of them with varying amounts of success, but not with one another. Both of them exhausted, and trudging quietly up the cobbled streets that run adjacent to the sea shore.
One of them happens to have a prosthetic leg, and consequently might walk just a little more slowly than the other, making him a little too easy to catch up to, whether it be accidentally or on purpose. Jack's inclined to assume the former, the moment he properly, directly sees the look on Cassian's face.
He looks--
Haunted.
As someone with resting apathy face, who rarely projects his emotions and frequently denies even having them in the first place, it's often jarring for him when he looks into the eyes of somebody that's actually expressive sometimes. It certainly helps his occasionally spotty tendency to miss social cues or blank on people's general vibe. Maybe it's lingering, faded memories of fake lifetimes, or maybe it's character growth, or maybe Jack's brain is just more functional now than it used to be three or four books years ago. Whatever the case, he looks at Cassian and knows almost instantly that something's very wrong.
To clarify: almost instantly, unfortunately, means right after conjuring the party blower and wheezing out a weak celebratory little toot. Because he's pretty sure he remembers it being Cassian's birthday recently, and he forgot until seeing him, and birthday instinct beat out recognize emotions and express empathy instinct, and now-
Well, now it all sort of finally finishes resolving, and the party blower's streamer goes limp and sad, hanging from the plastic mouthpiece as Jack pulls it away to furrow his brow. His hair drips. His clothes sag, soaked and heavy. It's all very Sad Clown. )
— jack 🦝 i do what i want
Anyway, this is what it looks like if you can get over semantics such as time and chronology and the sequence of events and how late is too late to tell a story: two soggy men step off two separate boats at two separate times. Both of them on similar missions, both of them with varying amounts of success, but not with one another. Both of them exhausted, and trudging quietly up the cobbled streets that run adjacent to the sea shore.
One of them happens to have a prosthetic leg, and consequently might walk just a little more slowly than the other, making him a little too easy to catch up to, whether it be accidentally or on purpose. Jack's inclined to assume the former, the moment he properly, directly sees the look on Cassian's face.
He looks--
Haunted.
As someone with resting apathy face, who rarely projects his emotions and frequently denies even having them in the first place, it's often jarring for him when he looks into the eyes of somebody that's actually expressive sometimes. It certainly helps his occasionally spotty tendency to miss social cues or blank on people's general vibe. Maybe it's lingering, faded memories of fake lifetimes, or maybe it's character growth, or maybe Jack's brain is just more functional now than it used to be three or four
booksyears ago. Whatever the case, he looks at Cassian and knows almost instantly that something's very wrong.To clarify: almost instantly, unfortunately, means right after conjuring the party blower and wheezing out a weak celebratory little toot. Because he's pretty sure he remembers it being Cassian's birthday recently, and he forgot until seeing him, and birthday instinct beat out recognize emotions and express empathy instinct, and now-
Well, now it all sort of finally finishes resolving, and the party blower's streamer goes limp and sad, hanging from the plastic mouthpiece as Jack pulls it away to furrow his brow. His hair drips. His clothes sag, soaked and heavy. It's all very Sad Clown. )
Ha-( -ppy birthd- )...ey, are you okay?