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Tuesday, 6:32am:
The shadow falls over him at breakfast, right when Eugene is halfway through whatever imitation for porridge Abel’s kitchens are serving today.
“Mr Woods,” Janine says, ominously. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Uhh," Eugene says, tries to get his eyes to focus, but it's moot anyway, because Janine is already sliding onto the bench and looking around.
“Where’s Mr Holden?”
At least he knows the answer to that one.
“Still sleeping," Eugene says, poking his porridge resentfully. “He did the late night shift so I'm starting this morning.”
“Good, good."
There’s a long moment of silence, and then Janine leans across the table. “I’m going cut to the chase, Mr Woods.”
“Go for it,” he says, blearily. "Nothing like expediency in the morning."
Janine shoots him a look that says shut up so he does.
“It has recently come to my knowledge that there are quite a few people, ah, invested in Radio Abel.”
“Well, that’s great to hear – ”
“No. In you. And Mr Holden.” Janine waves her spoon around. “Together.”
“We are together,” Eugene points out helpfully, and Janine raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. Yes, I think we all know that,” she says. “What I was saying is that I have been informed that some of the residents of Abel and the surrounds have been recording some of your … moments … to listen to on those darker days.”
“What do you mean, moments?”
“Your…” Janine seems lost for words. “…banter. When you’re … being cute.”
“You think we’re cute?”
She is definitely flustered, maybe even blushing, and it's one of the strangest things Eugene has ever seen, which is really saying something.
“What I’m trying to say, Mr Woods – “
“No, wait, you think - ”
“- is that it’s been good for morale,” Janine finishes, cutting him off, and digs into her bowl more aggressively than necessary.
“Okay,” Eugene says and shakes his head a bit to clear it. It is way, way too early to be having this conversation. It’s not even 7. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why exactly are you telling me?”
“Well, Mr Holden hardly needs any encouragement,” Janine says wryly. “Whereas – “
She trails off a little awkwardly and it takes a good three seconds for Eugene's brain to put it together.
Then his stomach sinks in a way that has nothing to do with the porridge.
“But I do?” he finishes. "That's what you were going to say. I need - encouragement."
“Only sometimes,” Janine says, and Eugene thinks she was maybe aiming for kind, but that isn't something Janine is great at.
“Well," he replies, forces a smile out. "We can’t all be like Jack."
“No," Janine says. "That's true. You’re lucky to have him. To have what you have. Most people don't."
“I know,” he says quietly. "I do know."
“I hope you do."
There's a note of something - a hard edge, something a little bit splintered- in her voice. When he looks up, Janine's staring past him, and he cannot read the expression on her face at all.
Then she squares her shoulders, nods at him. Professional.
"Just think about it, Mr Woods," she says, and she's gone in a clatter of crockery.
Eugene looks down at the table top, studies the cracks in the wood and the imprint of someone's fork and tries to force his brain to work past the guilt tangling in his chest. It doesn’t take much to think of at least six times in the last two days when he’s shut Jack down; he can even picture exactly the tiny furrow in Jack's forehead from the night before when Eugene had laughed at one of his suggestions; Jack had deflected, laughed it off, but now -
Eugene winces, pushes his bowl away.
He’s good at touching Jack, showing him with his hands and mouth and body how much he means to him, and Jack is an intensely physical person so that works, for both of them.
But.
But.
Eugene knows that Jack gives verbal affection like a waterfall; it pours out of him, unstoppable, and maybe, maybe there's something in what Janine was saying. Maybe Eugene could try harder.
Not for Abel. Just for Jack.
It still takes him half an hour to get up from the table.
*
Tuesday, 2:10pm, on air:
Jack's next big idea is less than 24 hours later.
"What this zombie plague needs is more puppet shows," he says, planting his elbows on about six important schedules and forms, sending at least one to the floor.
"I will never understand how your brain works," Eugene says, holding onto his coffee mug like the life-saver it is.
"No, seriously! Think about it."
"A puppet show?"
"For the kids! Teach them, I don't know, educational concepts. Zombie protection."
Eugene snorts. "Because we all have so much spare time," he counters.
And there it is; Jack's forehead creases, just a tiny bit and Eugene's chest clenches up. Shit.
"I guess," Jack says, and he smiles, but it's too fixed to be genuine. "Resources are tight, after all."
"No wait," Eugene says, scrambling. "Maybe - maybe we could ask Jody's knitting group - there's a knitting class on Tuesday evenings, listeners, if anyone's interested - which would be two birds with one stone? They can practice techniques and you know. Puppets."
Jack's staring at him like he's grown another head. "That, Gene," he says, and then his face splits into the brightest smile Eugene has seen for days, "is a seriously great idea."
"It was your idea first," Eugene says lightly, shrugging, but Jack is grinning, really grinning across the table at him.
One down.
*
Wednesday, 11:02am, on air:
“Best sporting moment,” Eugene says, and watches Jack light up like a Christmas tree.
The story takes a good five minutes, full of Jack waving his hands around like crazy, saying things like silly mid-on and sweep shot and yorker and Eugene has absolutely no idea what any of it means, but it’s worth it to see Jack completely in his element.
It ends in glory and sixes and something about stumps and Eugene is completely lost but Jack apparently single-handedly saved the day and when Jack runs out of words, Eugene's still got his chin propped up on one hand, just staring.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jack asks, a little self-consciously.
“Just wishing I could have seen it,” Eugene replies, and Jack ducks his head.
“Aw. Well. Feel free to send us your best moments, listeners. This next song is my unofficial cricket theme song.”
“You have a theme song?”
“You don't?”
*
Thursday, 9:45pm, on air (late night show):
“Jack.”
“Yes.”
“Jaaack.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want anybody else,” Eugene croons and Jack drops his head into his hands.
“Gene.”
“When I think about you, I - ”
“Gene! Keep it PG!”
*
Sunday, 3:16pm, on air:
“So Gene, want to introduce our next topic?”
“I would, my man, I would. Our next topic, listeners, involves Abel’s very own operator Sam Yao - “
“Top fellow, that Sam Yao – “
“Without a doubt. But, Jack, the question today is: does our lovely Sam have a favourite runner?”
“An excellent question!”
“Abel listeners, there have been rumours afoot –”
“I see what you did there –”
“You’re welcome - rumours afoot that a certain dashing runner has caught Mr Yao’s eye.”
“Scurrilous rumours, you might say.“
“What have you been reading?”
“Bit of Dickens.”
“It’s doing good things for you."
"Why thank you, my good chap."
"Anyway, it may interest our listeners to know, Jack, that I have it on very good authority that there is certain runner that Sam is very fond of.”
“Oooer, do tell,” Jack says, leaning in like this is actually real gossip, like every single person in Abel doesn’t know that Sam is absolutely and totally smitten with Runner 5 and equally incapable of making any kind of move to fix the problem. Runner 5 is just as bad. It's ridiculous.
The door to their shack opens very suddenly.
“Sam!” Jack exclaims, and it’s so smooth that Eugene wants to applaud. “How good to see you! Were you listening in? Perhaps you can answer the question personally.”
“I’ll have you know that I'm equally fond of all my runners,” Sam says, glaring at them balefully from the doorway.
“Yeah?” Jack says, eyebrows raised so much that they disappear into his hair.
“All of them. Equally.”
“Not even one more than another?”
Eugene snorts.
Sam’s cheeks are red and he looks like he wants to throw something at both of them, which is probably fair. “You two are the worst,” he says finally, and not-quite-but-nearly slams the door shut when he leaves.
“There you have it, listeners,” Jack says, his voice trembling from the strain of not laughing. “From the horse’s mouth as such. Sam Yao loves all his runners equally.”
“Such a great guy.”
“Not all of us can have such impeccable emotional control.”
“Well, it’s hardly a secret that I’m your favourite.”
“I did save your life, after all.”
“I saved yours first.”
“Touché.”
*
Tuesday, 10:23am, on air:
“There you have it, listeners, I’m not just a pretty face.”
“And sometimes not even that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair, Jack. It is out of control. I’m pretty sure there is wildlife in there.”
“I’ll have you know it’s my own sustainable eco-system. Apocalypse special.”
“Why do I put up with you?”
“Because you love me,” Jack says fondly.
“I do, I do. In fact, this next song’s for you.”
*
Saturday, some time before lunch:
Janine passes him on the quad, and the smile she gives him is so unexpected it’s almost creepy.
“You’re doing well, Mr Woods,” she says, and leans in conspiratorially. “I especially liked the part where you serenaded Mr Holden with My Heart Will Go On.”
“Well, his name is Jack,” Eugene says, and he can feel the tips of his ears going red.
“It was quite touching.”
“You’re welcome?”
“Keep up the good work,” she says briskly, and strides off, just as Jack appears at his left elbow.
“What was that about,” Jack says, a little breathless from his run to their tent and back, and presses Eugene’s water bottle into his hand.
“What? Oh. She said she just appreciated the last segment.” It’s not a lie.
“Oh. That’s cool. Wait, Janine listens to us?”
“Ah, I guess?” Eugene can feel the heat creep up his face.
“Wow. Seriously? I did not expect that.”
“What do you think they’ve put in the stew this time?” Eugene says in a rush, and it’s maybe his worst segue since starting Radio Abel, but Jack’s as food oriented as they come.
"Ugh, not more of those mushroom things."
"They weren't that bad."
"They could be poisonous. You don't know."
"You'd be dead already," Eugene points out.
"There is that."
*
Saturday, 9:25pm, on air:
“Iconic movie quotes that could relate the zombies.”
“Seriously?” Eugene blinks at him.
“Yeah, like. It's not murder, it's ketchup."
“How is that ..? Okay. Fine. Um. Go ahead, make my day.”
“I see dead people.”
“Are zombs actually dead though?”
“Semantics,” Jack says, shrugs and flicks a pen lid at Eugene. “You’re up!”
Eugene flicks it back. “Get busy living, or get busy dying.”
“Let's go to the Winchester, have a pint and wait for this to all blow over.”
“Jack, you can’t quote a movie about actual zombies - ”
“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
“Fine. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”
“Oh, wow, Gene.” Jack looks impressed despite himself.
“You know, I could actually go a nice chianti.”
“Oh, ugh. I never want to hear you say that again. I’m just going to think of brains.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Eugene rolls his eyes. “That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Only sort of. Okay, okay, I’ve got a good one. It was beauty killed the beast."
“Are you talking about you or talking about me?”
“Me, clearly.”
“We’ll see what the listeners have to say about that – “
“Shush. May the force be with you.”
“Houston, we have a problem.”
“I feel the need! The need for speed!”
“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”
Jack smiles at him. “And you said mine was a stretch.”
“No,” Eugene says, holds his gaze. “It fits.”
*
Tuesday, 5:47am, definitely not on air:
“What are you staring at?” Jack says, sounding a bit self-conscious.
“You,” Eugene says unashamedly, from where he’s lying on his stomach on their bed, watching Jack go through his just-woke-up stretches. Jack’s shirtless, all sleep-mussed hair, smooth skin and muscle, and Eugene exhales slowly as Jack twists a few times, stretches up and down. “Quite the view."
Jack quirks an eyebrow at him. “Really?”
“What, is that not allowed?”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Yeah, but have I said lately how really really – ” he waves one hand around - “hot you are?”
“Yeah? I mean, no?” Jack says, sounding flustered, and reaches for a shirt.
“Just … yeah,” Eugene says, and lets his eyes drift slowly down and then up. He sees the exact second Jack’s neck goes red. Lets his voice get a bit deeper. “I’d tap that.”
“You have. Multiple times.”
“And I’ll do it again.”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
*
Monday, 10:56am, on air:
“You’re the apple to my pie,” Jack says, and the fact that they’ve been trading stupid chat up lines for three song already breaks now has not seemed to dampen Jack’s enthusiasm one iota.
“What kind of apple?”
“What? Oh. Does it matter?”
“Maybe?”
That earns him a dig in the ribs and “snob” muttered firmly under Jack’s breath.
“Okay then. You’re the … cheese to my macaroni.”
“I do like macaroni.”
“I know. You’re up.”
“You’re the Bond to my James.”
Eugene snorts. “What does that even mean,” he says, and Jack’s laughing helplessly.
“No, no, it’s funny. It’s funny. You’re the shaken to my stirred. You’re the olive to my martini.”
“Stop it.”
“Okay, okay. Not a Bond fan, I see. Next.”
“You’re the answer to my question,” Eugene says, and it’s so, so cheesy but Jack’s eyes go unbearably soft and then brilliant.
“Can’t top that one, listeners,” he says, and cues up the next track. His hand finds Eugene’s and squeezes.
*
Friday, 5:30pm, on air:
It’s been one of those days - Runner 23 didn’t make it home - and Eugene can tell Jack is trying to keep the mood light but it’s really, really tough when someone you were drinking the world’s worst coffee substitute with on Thursday morning doesn’t make it through Friday.
“So, Gene,” he says, as the last strains of Dire Straight’s Sultans of Swing fade away. “As we were saying. Things we couldn’t have survived the apocalypse without.”
“Ah yes. Right, well, to recap for anyone just joining us, so far you’ve picked you’ve picked W.G. - “
“Obviously - “
“Your iPod - “
“Obviously - “
“And that jar of peanut butter we found that one time - “
“Not so obvious, I admit, but morale was low!”
Eugene rolls his eyes.
“Judge my choices all you want,” Jack says airly. “Your turn. Let’s go, Gene. Top three.”
Eugene pauses for a fraction of a second, and then he just looks at Jack, at his stupid tousled hair and his stupid ratty t-shirt and God he loves this man.
“You,” Eugene says, and he doesn’t look away. “I couldn’t have survived without you.”
Jack looks bewildered, like he is waiting for the punch line. Except there isn’t one.
“Ah,” he says finally, apparently grasping for any kind of segue and coming up short. “Back at you,” he says, all in a rush instead, and hits play on his iPod without looking.
The next song turns out to be B-52′s Love Shack.
Which, you know. Not smooth.
Eugene’s lips twitch, his eyebrows raise, and then he’s laughing so hard he thinks he’s going to cry. Jack smacks his shoulder and but there’s this warm glowing look about him and God, Eugene is can tell getting so lucky later.
*
Thursday, 3:40pm, on air:
“Alright, Gene. Are you ready for my next big idea?”
Eugene just, just resists the urge to throw something heavy with possible spikes across at Jack. “You’ve been building this up for about two hours now, so yes, Jack, I am totally ready.”
“You sure?”
“Sure, in the I will beat it out of you soon kind of way, absolutely.”
“Alright, alright, keep your pants on,” Jack grumbles. “Drum roll?”
“Seriously?”
“Drum roll.”
Eugene obliges, using his knuckles to crescendo just enough to be annoying, and then stops when Jack fixes him with an “are you done” glare.
“What? I was building anticipation.”
“Thank you,” Jack says. “Alright listeners. This Sunday,...”
“This Sunday…”
“This Sunday is the Inaugural – Abel – Afternoon– Sing-A-Long!”
There is a moment where Eugene cannot think of anything to say.
“A - sing-a-long?” Eugene repeats finally, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Yeah! For the next four weeks, every Sunday afternoon from 2pm we will be playing songs that families and friends and people everywhere can sit down and listen to and sing together. Did you know, Gene, that singing has been proven to have positive psychological benefits?”
“I did not know that.”
“And we are going to play all the old movie and musical classics! Like Grease! The Sound of Music! Rocky Horror!”
“That is so not a family friendly classic.”
“True,” Jack says. “We’ll make that a late night special.” He winks and Eugene grins back. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, I’m sure someone out there has a classic Disney – “
“Oh, The Lion King! Or Aladdin! Aladdin was always my favourite.”
“Life of crime?"
“Flying carpet,” Jack says, like that was even something up for debate, and Eugene rolls his eyes.
“Of course."
"And a genie."
"Is Aladdin up first?"
"If someone listening has a recording, then yeah," Jack says, before launching into A Whole New World with gusto.
"Hear that listeners?" Eugene says, over the top of Jack warbling. "Please find a recording so Jack doesn't sing the entire thing unaccompanied."
"Oh ha ha."
"No, but really," Eugene says. "This is actually a really excellent idea. I think I speak for all our listeners when I say well done, Jack.”
Jack seems to hesitate for a second, and his expression a touch wary. “That's why you keep me around," he says finally. "Alright, listeners, we’ll be back with you straight after this.”
“Hey, do you think anyone has a recording of Mary Poppins?" Eugene says, once Hot Fuss' Mr Brightside is playing. "I used to love that movie."
Jack's silent, and Eugene looks up to see Jack staring at him with look that isn't altogether comforting.
"What's up?" Eugene says. "No for Mary Poppins? Dick van Dyke's accent was horrible, I'll grant you that."
Jack exhales, and then seems to make some kind of internal decision; he takes headset off and swivels in his chair. “Okay,” he says. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You. You with the encouraging comments, and the flirting.”
“You like flirting.”
“I do! It’s just. You’re being nice,” Jack says, flailing his hands around. “You’ve been nice. A lot of the time. Is – is something wrong?”
“No!” Eugene says, and has to try and bite back a laugh because Jack looks actually worried. “Are you – are you complaining?”
“No! No, of course not. It’s just – never mind.”
“Just what?” Eugene says, wheeling his chair a little closer until they are bumping knees.
“It’s – “ Jack looks at him and wow, there’s a whole lot more vulnerability there than Eugene was expecting. “Don’t laugh at me okay?”
“I make no promises,” Eugene says lightly, but he squeezes Jack’s knee.
“Ha ha. Okay. This is the most stupid thing maybe ever but – look, one time someone I was seeing started being super nice to me and it turned out that they were cheating on me with their supposedly straight best friend, and – ”
Eugene rolls his eyes. “You are a complete idiot. Seriously.”
Jack smiles, but it’s smaller than Eugene would like. “Am I?"
“Jack – “ Eugene scrubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even have a supposedly straight best friend. You are my best friend. And for the record, we’re not just seeing each other.”
“I know,” Jack mutters, but he’s still looking at him, all wide-eyed and questioning and Eugene knows that isn’t enough.
After all this time, he thinks, words are still hard.
“Look, someone told me of how lucky I was. Having you. Having this," Eugene gets out. "And it’s true. It just made me realise that - maybe I should show you more.”
It’s not quite a lie. He figures now is probably not the best time to talk about Janine’s speech about morale, or people apparently making mix-tapes of all their cutest moments, not when Jack’s looking at him with his heart on his sleeve even more than usual.
“You do show me,” Jack says, finally, his hand covering Eugene’s, lacing their fingers together. “All the time, Gene. Every time I wake up and you’re there.”
“I don’t say it much though. Well, I didn’t say it. I’m getting better.”
Jack nods twice, a bit jerky, and then glances away, blinks a few times. “How I love you,” he says quietly.
There is a minute and twenty seconds left on Mr Brightside, which is more than enough time to slide a hand around Jack’s neck, turn his head and kiss him, long and warm and thorough.
And if Jack’s just a little spacey when he goes back on air, Eugene’s sure that listeners can draw their own conclusions.
Good for morale, after all.