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For all that the fight lasts maybe forty seconds before Jack gets a hand on his radio, for all that he and Jack have done this dance a hundred times before, it's the hardest thing he's ever done. He can't hold back, after all, and he can't pretend to fall for any of his little tricks. If he does either, Jack will know, suspect, and as much as he'd love to tell him, he can't. This is a test of faith, he is Jack's test of faith, and so he has to keep playing along and make it look good. It helps, he thinks, that he won't use his magic with Fuller in the other room, and Jack knows it.
It doesn't help that, for as hard as this all is, it's also easy to forget that this isn't just a game for how often he and Jack have sparred, none of it real, and so, that in mind, when he does get the radio, he slips.
"You little shit," he breathes, and while the corners of his mouth don't twitch, he doesn't smile, nothing here worth smiling about, he still freezes. The world freezes on an inhale, and half of him hopes Jack gets it now, calls him out, because he's tired of all this, while the other half is busily swearing internally. Either way, he knows he's given something away.
It doesn't help that, for as hard as this all is, it's also easy to forget that this isn't just a game for how often he and Jack have sparred, none of it real, and so, that in mind, when he does get the radio, he slips.
"You little shit," he breathes, and while the corners of his mouth don't twitch, he doesn't smile, nothing here worth smiling about, he still freezes. The world freezes on an inhale, and half of him hopes Jack gets it now, calls him out, because he's tired of all this, while the other half is busily swearing internally. Either way, he knows he's given something away.
