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A short and abrupt snicker left him. "Fair enough." And it was Chel's lucky day after all: he poured her more Gatorade without bothering to go through the whole "what's the magic word?" routine. He supposed it was in return for the flattering notion that she wanted him to come to the rescue again. Or maybe deviating from his usual drink threw his body chemicals out of whack.

"What will you do if your loyalty is tested like that again, though?" Jack asked.

He didn't look convinced, but who knew: maybe with something (someone) important on the line, Chel would actually get her act together. "Me, a hero?" Jack scoffed. "Hardly. I had an admittedly dramatic entrance, yes, but I was only doing what was expected of me."

He shrugged. "Wasn't like it mattered for s**t back there in the end."

Jack groaned at the idea of being anyone's hero, let alone hers. "You're as open about yourself as your legs are, that's why," he observed. "That's what lands a person in s**t."

Chel's request was met with a stiff pause. He had told himself he would stop messing with people's personal lives unless it benefitted him. Helping gave the same sense of accomplishment as fixing something broken, but in the long run it just invited more trouble. Drink to forget trouble. But Chel had suffered some serious injuries, so maybe keeping tabs on the a*****e would be beneficial to his own health; that was an acceptable reason.

That, and he would be down a coffee runner until she healed. Someone had tampered with his operations. Unacceptable.

"When I ask you to do a job, you will neither sass me nor complain," Jack said after a while, gazing at her intently. "Do you understand? I will see what I can do, but I need more information about your assailant."

"What, you want to be my coffee bottom b***h or something?" he snickered. What was it with women and wanting to be in his thoughts? Crazy Peyton kept going on about whether or not she occupied his or not, and now Chel was asking for favoritism. He felt almost flattered by the attention.

Great, though. Evan had to be a muscley, military meathead. Jack wasn't a pushover in the physical department, but basketball had nothing on what he imagined the division regimen was. "Can you give me anything else?" he asked her, waving away her thanks. "Anything beyond a description?"

He snorted and shook his head. "Don't look at me, I don't handle the Deus sorting hat." And now he actually knew what the ******** that actually meant, look at him! The power of reading!

"Habits or hobbies, sure. I'd like to know who he keeps company with as well, who associates with him more, why," Jack clarified, and the way he steepled his fingers showed that he actualyl was taking this (a least a little) seriously. "Things that may trigger him or are sensitive topics, things of that nature." Soldiers always had something: there was truth in television.

"Is there a difference?" he asked with raised brows. "One way or another I will observe and document him, Craft. Knowing ahead of time what exactly I am dealing with is beneficial to us both."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said airily. Milo and Noemi he could file away, and Nora didn't ring a bell. But the fact that Evan held a close relationship to Lina made his brows raise with some surprise.

Well then. This became a little more interesting.

Jack nodded as she listed off a few points of interest, making mental notes with increasing pensiveness, hearing Owain quietly offer thoughts of his own (that he did not like the idea of violence but did like the idea of at least making Evan see the error of his ways). There were quite a few ways to go about this, but Chel had provided a good entrance. The comments about Lina in particular, though, were still a little off-putting to him, though Jack's expression didn't change.

"That'll do," he said as he got up. "In the meantime, do me a favor and keep your mouth shut until you're out. Actually, you can keep it shut after the fact, too." But they both knew that wasn't happening of course. "Remember, you still owe me food, Craft. I expect you to deliver on that."

He skimmed her list, a faint smile appearing. The amount of effort she was putting into just one "hang out" with him was pitiful and . . . maybe just a little endearing. In a sad way, of course. Desperate, there we go, that had to be the word he was looking for.

"Good girl," he said and even reached out to pat Chel's head. "Give me at least several hours' notice before the event, then. I have high expectations." Sliding his hand off, as this was apparently his way of saying goodbye, Jack turned to leave.