Title: Haven
Rated: T for mature themes and language
Summary: In the sprawling city of San Francisco in 1870, a boy named Jack's life is a living hell, but a chance encounter in an alley with Bobby Mercer just might save his life.
Disclaimer: I do not own in part or in full any aspect of Four Brothers. The characters are the property of Paramount Pictures, its relevant partners and subsidiaries. I do own all original aspects of this fanfiction including but not limited to original characters and plot. This fanfiction has been published at no profit, purely for the enjoyment of the fans and the collective good of the franchise.
Author's Notes: Saw the movie, loved the characters and have been thinking about them ever since... which usually leads to fanfic. Feedback, including suggestions for where to go with this story, is welcomed. Enjoy!
Jack looked furtively from behind the old water barrel where he had hidden himself a half hour earlier to see if his latest "father" would find him. San Francisco in 1870 was a dirty, sprawling mess of humanity, and what was one more waif among thousands? His bruised face did not distinguish him -- he had seen other such faces pass him by as he darted through alleys in his blind rush to get away from the pain and loneliness he had endured since the Pollard family had taken him in. He snorted in derision at the errant thought. The Pollards had not so much taken him in as gained a convenient outlet for their frustrations and a slave in all but name. If Jack read the situation correctly, the Pollards had deduced a further means to make money from their ward, one which Jack had dreaded for years now, and sought to avoid at all costs.
Slavery was illegal in California, had been since the start of the gold rush in '49, yet he had been bought and sold at least three times that he knew of. Well, traded or won truth be told. He had a vague recollection of his real parents. His strongest memory of them was when their desire for opium had ultimately won out over their feelings of parental obligation, and the first transaction in which Jack was used in lieu of gold occurred. That first man had used him as a servant of sorts, and only got cruel when he drank too much, which gained in frequency over the two years Jack lived with him. His next "owner" was both cruel and perverse. He also liked to gamble, and Jack had been lost in a hand of cards. The winner was man with a wife and a family, and for a shining instant, hope stirred in Jack that things might finally be better for him.
The existence of a family just made for more fists, switches and belts available to teach the boy his duties and his manners. There were other boys like him working the ranch where he spent over three years. Jack had learned to cuss, to fight, to steal and more about ranching than he had ever wanted to know. He wasn't sure exactly how he was transferred to the Pollards, but the couple was destined for the big city of San Francisco, and so here Jack was, in a strange town, sore from a fresh beating, exhausted from remaining awake through the night, and terrified that Mr. Pollard was going to rent him out to strangers to do with as they pleased.
If he could just find someplace to rest safely for a time... if he could only cure his soul-draining exhaustion, maybe he could get strong enough to escape in earnest. He was finally old enough not to attract undue attention on his own, and in such a big city, he just might be able to get free. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to place too much hope in those crazy thoughts. Free? Safe? Those words were as big a fantasy as a loving family and a real home.
"You gonna sit there all day or what, kid?"
Jack jerked backwards, flattening himself against the rough boards of the building beside which he had crouched, failing to hide a flinch as the bruises on his back impacted with the wall. He must have dozed off when he shut his eyes, since this stranger was practically on top of him and Jack hadn't heard a thing. Stupid! He looked squarely at the boots of the man who stood in front of him, not wanting risk meeting this stranger's eyes. The voice had sounded irritated. Not yet enraged, but Jack didn't know how short this guy's path from irritated to enraged was.
"N-no sir, sorry sir," he stuttered, keeping his eyes low, but taking in the dusty pants and leather strings tying down a holster to the stranger's thigh. The hand resting on the butt of the Colt Peacemaker in that holster did not move, but Jack could see the man's fingers relax. He released the breath he had caught on seeing the gun and quickly assessed his situation. Unless the man moved back a few steps, Jack would have to push past him to leave his hiding spot. He had not strayed far enough from where the Pollards were staying, not having the strength to run far. If Mr. Pollard were looking diligently for him -- and Jack was certain he was -- this stranger was calling too much attention to his inadequate hiding spot. He had to find a way to get the man to move along.
His eyes returned to the man's gun hand again to see if he remained relaxed, looking more closely this time. The man's hands were bruised and swollen, with small healing cuts visible across the knuckle bones. Jack's breath caught again and he inadvertently raised his eyes to the stranger's.
Bobby Mercer smirked when he saw the ragged kid hiding behind the old barrel. The kid didn't seem to know it, but he was crouched over a pile of old piss. Bobby had stepped out of the saloon intending to quickly relieve himself in the very same spot, not wanting to leave Angel alone too long while he was working one of his games inside. Just a few days earlier, he had stepped away to chat up a new working girl when things had soured far too quickly. The fight was short and relatively easy, Bobby having handled Angel's mark with his bare fists, but the games dried up shortly thereafter, and he had to listen to his brother moaning for the rest of the day. Just once, he would like to get thanked first and then bitched at later.
Bobby frowned when he got a better look at the kid, who had seemed to be dozing in place at first, but was now fairly vibrating with anxiousness. The kid glanced to the end of the alley then back to Bobby's boots and up to his gun. The boy's face was bruised, and if Bobby had read that grimace correctly, the bruises didn't stop there.
The kid got markedly more anxious after a long look at his gun hand. Bobby looked down at himself and saw the same bruised hands which he nearly always did. Rarely a day went by in this fucking overcrowded shit hole that someone's face didn't beg for a firm application of his knuckles. He was more than happy to accommodate them. Soon enough, he would be back home with Ma and Jerry, both of whom frowned on his fighting skills. Ma had had much better luck reforming Jeremiah, and he joined her in trying steer him towards living a good Christian life. Angel, however, was a different story. Angel had a different set of morals. He had seen Bobby's potential and promised his older brother a cut of his winnings if he acted as Angel's muscle during his brother's hustles and cons. Speaking of which... he really needed to take a piss so he could get back to his brother.
He looked down at the kid crouched right where he meant to go and saw a pair of terrified eyes meeting his own. Shit. He knew that look -- had worn in himself for the too many years before he lived with Ma and his brothers, before constant love had changed the terror to confidence, before his bad ass reputation was made and his physical menace drove that look into others' eyes. But these eyes were far too young for the gaze shining back at him.
"Shit," Bobby said aloud. Ma's lessons about not unduly frightening children had certainly taken hold.
"Please...," the kid whispered.
Bobby's frown deepened at the soft words and he shook his head. He must be getting soft if a ragged street urchin had him reflecting on the bad old days of his youth and regretting giving the kid a fright. He sighed and moved to the other side of the barrel to finally relieve his aching bladder.
"Jesus, I'm not going to hurt you, kid," he muttered as he unbuttoned his pants. He kept one eye on the boy and saw confusion, then relief, then a renewed anxiety pass across his face. Huh. Maybe it wasn't the legend of Bobby Mercer which had terrified the kid. Something sure had him unnerved, though.
The kid glanced towards the far end of the alley, back up at Bobby, then bolted. He had nearly reached the end of the alley when a finely dressed man appeared and latched onto the boy's arm. Bobby watched as the kid was clipped under the chin by the man, dazing him, then dragged the length of the alley past Bobby. That man's punch was far too smooth not to be well-used.
The man glared threateningly at Bobby, who had buttoned his pants by now and stood observing the drama unfolding in the alley. Bobby met the man's stare with one of his own, and it was the man who looked away first. He turned his attention to the boy. The kid managed a half-lucid glance at Bobby before he was dragged around the near corner and out of sight.
Bobby strode back into the saloon to watch Angel's back, praying that someone would give him a reason to unleash the violence now flowing through him. He needed to prove he wasn't soft, and he needed to prove it soon. Because Bobby Mercer was certainly not being affected by a chance encounter with a ragged kid in a piss-filled alleyway. He gleefully joined a bar fight later that evening, Angel's "business" being long over by then, and pounded at least five men into unconsciousness.
Much later, Bobby was mildly drunk, both sore and exhausted from the fight, and he was lying in a pretty decent feather bed for a saloon: all of which should have sent him straight to sleep. But those damned eyes wouldn't leave him alone. Every time he closed his eyes he could see that fucking kid with that damned expression on his terrified face. Bobby punched his pillow and shifted onto his back, deciding to head back home the following day. This fucked up city was doing weird things to him.
He was not getting soft.
Around the same time, not far from where Bobby lay, Jack buried his face in a musty pillow, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed. The pain and the servitude he experienced with the Pollards were bad enough. He had been foolish to imagine that would be the worst he would endure. The humiliation now added to his overflowing plate of misery was almost more than he could bear.
Next time he ran, he wouldn't stop.