There were so many random photos that had been tossed into the boxes that littered one of the back rooms of the shop. What had looked like it was going to be an overly organized filing system was proving to be a disaster. Most of the boxes were in perfect order, but then Jack found it all fell apart when he reached anything around the end of the nineteenth century leading into the twentieth.

There was one crumpled up photo of Kieran and Augie from 1906 that he had set aside, out of sight. The pair made a good looking couple, and no matter how Jack looked at it, he was definitely the downgrade.

He pulled free another photograph with wavy edges and paused to admire the car that two men stood in front of. Kieran had his arms crossed over his knee, leg propped up on the front fender, and the other man grinned from his spot in front of the door. The snazzy suits and hats had Jack fantasizing about old-timey gangsters throwing people into rivers.

Judging by the date of 1912, Kieran was on the rebound.

Would Kieran miss the photo? There was no Augie in sight, so it wasn't up for grabs. Maybe something with rebound-guy still applied? He could always ask, but then he'd be reminding Kieran of a potentially shitty time in his life. His long, long life.

Jack thought better of it and grabbed his phone from beside him. This would make the tenth picture he'd taken. He set the photograph into the growing pile of questionable pointlessness. He needed to ask Kieran about investing in a photo album and writing it off as a business expense.

"Fuck. Right." He reluctantly pulled himself away from the treasure trove of historical handsomeness and hurried up the stairs and into Kieran's study.

Sitting at the large desk that looked like it belonged in some banker's office, Jack felt like he was an important big shot. A big shot looking up tax forms that he should probably have someone else fill out. He printed extra copies for his inevitable screw ups.

He looked around the study as he waited for the printer to spit out the small stack. It was nice and cozy with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a pair of armchairs sitting in the corners opposite the desk. All that was missing was a fireplace.

Jack headed back downstairs and to the front of the shop to find Kieran with his nose in a book. He cleared his throat and held up the paperwork. "I got tax stuff we need to do. I need to be legit about this. Someone will yell at me if I'm not."

Kieran stood and motioned to the counter.

"Thanks. If I zone out, lemme know, 'cuz I know I'm not gonna remember doing this," Jack mumbled as he swallowed back the urge to cry. He dropped the papers onto the counter and pulled out his wallet with a sigh. He glanced over the form again and shot a text to Sam, asking for his social security number.

A cold spot edged up his elbow to his shoulder as he finished copying his ID information and tucked it away.

"What's the H stand for?" Lindsey asked as she manifested beside him, looking as normal and solid as Jack had ever seen her. "Henry?"

"Hasenpfeffer," Jack automatically replied, his mind miles away as he moved his stare from her to the vaguely familiar number Sam had responded with.

Kieran coughed and looked over. "Your middle name is…"

Jack frowned and looked at Kieran in confusion. He tried to recall what they were talking about, but everything was escaping him. He quickly glanced around and saw the paperwork he was filling out. Why was he filling out paperwork? "Did I write it wrong?" he slowly asked, hoping for more context.

"What's your middle name?" asked Kieran, tilting his head with the barest hint of a smile.

"Um… I don't exactly remember," Jack mumbled dejectedly, feeling his face heat up over something so stupid. He hadn't meant for Kieran to find just how bad Farragut had fucked him up. Although, needing his ID for basic information was a pretty good indicator.

"Hasenpfeffer?" Kieran said, his smile wide behind his hand.

Jack blinked rapidly as memories slotted into place. "My mom named me after soup?!"

"Did she?" Kieran leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. His smile was pleasant enough.

It was slipping. Jack flipped over the tax forms and scribbled the memory down as he spoke. "She wasn't allowed to name me Jackalope or Jackrabbit. She told Dad that Hasenpfeffer was a family name. I was five when he found out." He stopped and frowned at his chicken scratches. "I was kinda disappointed it wasn't tortilla soup, instead."

He looked up and caught Kieran's incredulous sneer. There was a bit of amusement, but it still held plenty of judgment. "Shut up! I was five!"

Kieran smiled and shook his head. "I understand."

Jack gave Kieran a doubtful pout. He looked back at his scribbled note and frowned. It was his handwriting, but he didn't remember writing it. His stomach lurched at how quickly the memory had left.

Crack blood, vampire. Farragut had been a vampire that stole Jack's life from him piece by piece.

Soft pressure was on his shoulder, and he flinched away. "Sorry," he mumbled, raising his eyes to meet Kieran's sad grimace.

"I would fix it if I could," said Kieran. He reached out again, lightly placing his hand on Jack's.

Jack could only shrug in response. He was the only one who could fix himself, but it was an uphill battle, and he felt like he was constantly slipping back to the beginning. The invasive need to give up was suffocating.