This House of Cards (It's a Little Unsteady)
ahhh i've had this plot bunny in my head since i watched nysm2 a few days ago and it feels incredibly good to get it down on paper. so this is my first now you see me fanfic, and obviously jack wilder is my favorite character so i thought to myself, hey, why not?
i, unfortunately, do not own now you see me or any of its characters.
warning: this story contains child abuse (!) and is rated t because of that
it's kind of sickening how much joy i get from tormenting my favorite characters.
Jack Wilder runs his finger down the edge of the card for the umpteenth time.
The corners of the first deck he ever got his hands on are scuffed and creased from years of nervous habits and the small comfort of the yellowing paper, but Jack, who is practically known for losing cards, has managed to keep a hold on all fifty-two of them.
Maybe it's because he can't bear to lose a single one.
He learned everything he knows, done every trick, practiced every manuever, mastered every skill with this very deck. Before, they were expendable and maybe not so important, but he hasn't used them for a show in years and heaven forbid he'll ever waste them on something as trivial as training because by now these cards are practically sacred.
His thumb traces the black symbol on the card, a jack of spades. It's his favorite for obvious reasons, but the edges of the rectangle are stained ever-so-slightly with crimson. If anyone asks, he'll swear it's paint, or the result of a bad paper cut, and everything's fine.
It's not.
But they don't need to know that.
The other horsemen already treat him like a child and Jack can only imagine what they'd think of him if they found out he couldn't even protect himself against his own father. Besides, that was years ago, and he's long since moved past everything that happened once upon a time.
It's fine.
Until it's not.
They're fighting again.
Daniel and Henley are at each other's throats, again, while Merritt attempts to be the voice of reason (surprisingly) but only succeeds in making things worse (which is not very surprising at all).
It's a stupid arguement, something about Daniel wanting to change the plans for the show last minute and Henley being tired of getting treated like his assistant, but the voices are getting steadily louder as things become more and more heated. And Merritt's trying to get them to calm down but he obviously doesn't realize that for every quip he throws in, the two only seem to get angrier.
Jack knows it doesn't concern him but their voices are pounding on the sides of his head so he steps out from behind the door and into the kitchen. "Hey, can we all calm down for a second?" he drawls loudly.
And he knows Daniel wouldn't even dare to touch him but when his idol whirls around and snaps, "Stay out of it, Jack!" with that livid expression on his face, there's something all-too familiar about it. Daniel lifts a hand, and Jack fliches involuntarily before he can realize that this is not his father and Daniel was just reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
Henley shoots him a questioning look but Danny saves Jack from having to respond. The older magician lets out a long, drawn out sigh and kneads his forehead.
"I'm going to get some coffee," he says after a moment of strained silence and leaves the apartment building without looking back.
There's an extended moment of hesitation in the room during which Henley's chest heaves and Merritt's eyes are wide and Jack struggles to tame a sudden torrent of memories.
"You know he's just tense, right?" Henley says, glancing at Jack with a mix of concern and curiosity. "He didn't mean to snap at you."
Jack nods slowly, feeling uneasy. He's with the Horsemen now, he repeats in his head, and they'll never hurt him, they're his family, even if maybe they don't feel the same way. He cares about them and they care about him too and maybe they have their ups and downs but they always pull through in the end.
And yet, all of a sudden he's seven years old again, back in the living room of the shabby flat he grew up in, and his mother is the one slamming the door behind her as she leaves forever and he can smell the alcohol on his father's breath.
And it's making his head spin.
Breathe.
He runs his hands through his soft, dark hair, trying not to grimace as he gives Henley and Merritt a quick nod. It's like he can't get away fast enough but he doesn't dare run because then they'll know something's up. Instead, Jack slips into his room, shutting the door softly behind him and sinking against the wall with his head in his hands as the memories pound on his skull.
The cards are strewn across the floor, their white surfaces speckled with the bright red of blood.
Jack's blood.
Later, he'll painstakingly search under the couch and in the corners until he finds every single one of those cards, but for now, that's the least of his worries.
The seven-year-old form of Jack Wilder cowers as his father rains blows on him in a drunken rage. The tears stream freely down his cheeks as he sucks in lungfuls of cigarette smoke-tainted air and rolls away as his father's booted foot comes crashing down to where his ribs were moments before.
A stream of slurred curses and insults is flung at the young Jack, who trembles with fear and feels his resolve wearing away.
Breathe.
And Jack's heart is thudding against his ribcage, desperate to rip loose and soar to the ends of the earth as he struggles to calm himself from the panic that rises in his throat. He can feel the plaster of the cheap walls his back is pressed against, hear the quiet talking of Merritt and Henley back in the kitchen, reminding him that he's still here, not there, and that he's fine.
Until he's not.
And Jack is eleven, tougher, angrier as the bottle shatters against the wall behind him and the glass comes down on him like hail. He's crying and yelling at the same time, his mouth spewing words too foul for a kid so young to know while the blood seeps down the side of his face.
His father is furious, and Jack knows he's only made things worse for himself but he's stubborn and unyielding and he doesn't step down, just clings to the cards in his hands like a lifeline and stares his tormentor straight in the face.
That is, until his father rips his belt off and covers Jack's back with scars and makes him scream his throat raw.
Breathe.
The sleight's nails dig into his own palms. He wants to scream again, because the sudden, unexplainable rush of memories is making his brain whirl and he can hardly think straight. He scrambles for a moment before his hand finally digs the deck of cards from the pocket of his leather jacket and instantly his heart just begins to slow down and he's fine.
Until he's not.
He's thirteen and fighting back with his own insults, his jaw set, his eyes wild and completely devoid of any hint of a fear. He's thirteen and has already formed a perfect shell around himself, so it doesn't hurt as much when his father hits him this time around.
He's thirteen and sick, sick of it all, and he knows, from the one channel the tiny TV in his living room broadcasts, that family is not supposed to be like this.
So he leaves. There's nothing but a half-full backpack thrown over one shoulder and the deck of cards in his pocket but he throws one last insult, one final glare at his father and he's out the door, and he never sees that place again.
But he remembers it, for every night he sleeps in the dark alleyways, for every day that he can't scrounge up enough food to keep his stomach happy because that house always had a bed, it always had something on the table.
The he touches the scars on his back and wonders bitterly how he could even consider returning, when all that he left behind was a father who never did his job right?
Breathe.
He's trying. But the panic attack is almost full-on by now, and he wants to pound his fists against the wall and yell for help but he can't and he won't. Instead he clenches his fists and focuses on trying to steady the gasps of air he's taking in with desperation.
In. out. In, out, in out in out inoutinoutinout.
Breathe.
His hands fumble as they slide the cards out of the box and his thumb slides up and down the edges, fingers trembling as he reminds himself that he's fine.
He's fine, and his slender hands are shuffling the cards in a way that makes it seem more easy and rudimentary than actually sucking in oxygen, but it's helping, and who knew the little rectangles of plastic coated paper could make things so much better?
They slip through his hands with so much ease and familiarity that his chest loosens and his head stops thrumming and he can breathe. He can breathe, and he's clutching the bloodstained cards and his vision's getting clearer. He takes in grateful gulps of air, leaning his head against the wall behind him and he's back to reality; he can hear Henley's laugh and Merritt's voice, now light and humorous, and the opening of the front door and Daniel's rushed apology.
So he screws his eyes shut and tells himself that it's okay. It's okay, because this is not his old family, this is the one that will protect him and keep him safe and won't ever, ever hurt him.
And Jack Wilder takes a deep, steady breath.
He's fine.