"Mmm, you do have a certain something," happily pummeled and snuggled and filling his own arms.

Now, there were no minions to coordinate, no big plans in the air (that he was aware of at least, and none that Moriarty was currently capable of making), only the ones falling onto the floor that had been entrusted to Jack. They could afford the time to recover, the time to be lazy, the time to do nothing at all.

Mrs. Whatsit had left her mark on Jack. Even if he pretended that some scar, which he might never see unless heels over arse, was very much like others, it wasn't. Even if he had cut himself before, or dug out a bullet, or cause some other minor self harm, usually to forward healing, the emphasis was on minor and not a psychological scar. Could understand why some men named their dick and joked that it had a personality. His was certainly sulking and rightfully resentful.

"You were rather cocky at the time too."