Title: Thin Lines Between Truth and Lies
Authors: sunday nights (Michelle) and BookCaseGirl (Abby)
Rating: PG-13; for language and sexual content
Summary: Chuck finds out the devastating truth about his father's death. When he learns that he isn't safe either, he must resort to asking the one person he can't let himself ask for help. He'll discover things about her, his friends, his enemies, and himself, that'll forever change the way he looks at life. Chuck/Blair, various other pairings. Set after 2.14.
Author's Note: This is a collaboration fic! Between yours truly (Michelle) and hers truly (Abby). We'll be alternating chapters (I've got odds, she's got evens), so the style may change from chapter to chapter. We hope you enjoy, and we really love reviews! (:
I. Truth
Lately, it had become another task on his checklist. To lug his inebriated uncle home from bars was just the same as waking up, brushing his teeth, putting on a scarf, and getting a ride to school.
He didn't mind, usually. After all, Jack was the only person he had. Misty was gone, Bart was gone, so Chuck settled with what he had left. Even if that person was a low-life alcoholic who was doing more damage to Bass Industries than good.
He shivered in the brisk weather of that late February night; the wind hissed and squealed, blowing up littered pieces of trash around on the streets.
Where had Jack told him he was going to be? Oh, yes, the bar on eighth.
A chill ran through him as the breeze blew into his coat, forcing him to wrap his scarf tighter. His ears picked up the distant sound of glass crashing, and he sighed deeply. Not only had his uncle been drinking daily, he had also gotten into the habit of getting into fights with men half his age and twice his weight. It was as if he was asking for death. But Chuck couldn't let that happen, so he picked up his pace.
He slid into the dimly lit, fully-packed bar, filled to the brim with drunken men and women, wobbling around, toppling onto chairs. He groaned inwardly, couldn't Jack at least have chosen a nicer, upper-class bar to go to? Oh right, he couldn't, he'd been kicked out of every single one.
"Dammit," Chuck swore as an overweight man crashed into him, knocking him into another man on a barstool.
"What did you say to me?" the obviously drunk-out-his-mind man asked, standing up, knocking the stool onto the ground.
"Fuck off," Chuck instructed, stalking away from him. The worst part of playing Jack's knight in shining armor was having to deal with the annoying and imbecilic drunks that either tried to pick a fight or hit on him. And the latter came from both genders.
A group of men crowded into a loose circle around a brawl that seemed to be going down in the center of the bar. The bartender whistled, looking away, pretending not to notice the chanting and war cries that were occurring.
Chuck picked out his uncle from the massive group of people; Jack, as usual, was in the very center, letting his fists fly at what could only be a professional wrestler.
"Oh, shit," Chuck cursed, rubbing his forehead. Somehow, Jack getting involved in these fights usually ended up with Chuck in the middle, trying to ward off fists and feet while attempting to pull his completely intoxicated, beat up uncle away.
"Chu-uck!" Jack called, just as the wrestler let a bone-crunching blow to his nose. His nose started dripping blood, but Jack let out a cackle, "That all you got?"
The wrestler looked furious, as if Jack's question had been the biggest insult in the world, "You better watch it, asshole," he snarled, punching his gut.
"No, you better watch it," Jack replied, pulling his foot back to release a perfect shot into his groin. But the wrestler beat him to it, grabbing his foot and throwing him onto the grimy bar floor.
"Fuck!" Jack screamed hysterically, blood spurting from his nose and a gash forming in his arm.
Chuck let out a sigh; he'd feel a little more affected by the entire scene if the same events hadn't been occurring for the past month. Ever since Bart died, night would fall, Chuck would get a phone call, letting him know where Jack was at. Chuck would go to the bar, find Jack in the midst of a fight, always the underdog, always losing, and Chuck would always have to drag him out.
"Jack, get the hell out of there," Chuck shouted through the monotonously chanting crowd, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Jack whipped his head around, staring at Chuck for a long second, before falling to the floor, screaming, "Bart! Bartholomew! Bart!"
Chuck smacked his head into his palm; every time Jack was drunk, Chuck would have to explain that Bart was killed in a car accident. As if it didn't pain him enough to face the facts himself. But Jack, hysterical, would never believe him, always shouting his brother's name, waving a fist at the sky.
Chuck weaved his way through, not bothering to apologize for shoving people to the side, "Jack, we're leaving."
Then the drunk wrestler let out a chicken squawk. It was so juvenile, so first-grade, but somehow it riled Jack enough to charge back at him.
Chuck ran in after Jack, letting curses fly as he did, "Shit, Jack! Get the fuck back here. You're going to get the shit beat out of you; just leave!"
But Jack being the hot-headed, stubborn, intoxicated man that he was, brought his fists up again, but the wrestler was too quick, pounding into his face before he could do any damage himself. He collapsed to the floor.
Chuck grabbed his arm, lugging him across the splintered hardwood floor, dragging him as far away from the crowd as he could.
"What the hell are you thinking? You can't make me come out here every fucking night!" Chuck hissed, slapping Jack's face, snapping him back into consciousness.
"Chuck?" Jack murmured sleepily, letting himself lay flat on the cold, hard surface of the New York City sidewalk.
"I've got better things to do than drag my shit-faced uncle out of a bar," Chuck spat, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. It wasn't strong enough, but it'd have to do considering the situation.
He lit up, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, "Besides, you never even win the fights. If you'd at least choose someone you could actually beat…"
"They cheat," Jack snapped, pulling his head up a slight millimeter of the pavement, "They take fucking steroids."
"Oh, yeah, Jack, they load up on steroids so they can beat some drunk asshole at a bar," Chuck laughed darkly, "I'm sure that's their goal in life."
Jack didn't see humor in the situation, "Exactly."
Jack shivered, too, as the wind chilled his scantily-clad body. His shirt was torn, his jacket missing, and his right pant leg was ripped from the knee downwards. Chuck choked out another sardonic, coughing laugh, "And you're ruining all of your clothes."
Jack rolled over, eyes hardening in the darkness of the street, "If I could win a damn fight―" He cut himself off, leaning over the edge of the sidewalk to vomit out the contents of his stomach.
Chuck let out a groan, "You're disgusting."
And Jack let out a hysterical cackle, "You sound like Bart! Bart, where are you?" he called, rolling again, back towards the entrance of the bar.
"I'm calling the limo, you keep quiet before you get both of us killed," Chuck instructed pulling his cell phone out.
"Who're you going to call?" Jack asked, smiling crazily, "Bart? Bart'll pick us up, I bet you."
Chuck felt a grim expression take over his face, setting his mouth into a straight line, "I have to explain this to you every night. Bart, is my father. Bart is dead. Bart died in a car crash."
Jack stared at Chuck as if he was speaking Chinese. Then he giggled, "No, he's not. Bart told me he was fine. Last night, he was in my house."
Chuck sighed, "You say this every day. I'm telling you, my father is dead. As in not alive, as in buried, as in a cemetery," he said, punching numbers into his phone.
"Bart always said if he died, he'd certainly go to Hell," Jack muttered, "Is he in Hell?"
"I don't know!" Chuck said exasperated. He hated his drunken uncle, if not before, especially now, "I'm sure he's exactly where he wants to be."
"That would be Bart Bass," Jack agreed, head bobbing to the rhythmic thumping of the music inside, "He gets every little damn thing he wants."
Chuck nodded his head, partly in agreement, partly just to get Jack to shut up, but he continued on.
"Where is he, if not in Hell?" Jack asked, scratching his head, stumbling to his feet, attempting to walk, but failing miserably.
"He's dead, Jack. There was a car accident," Chuck explained, feeling as if his life was permanently on repeat setting, forcing him to reiterate every single word he said.
"A car accident," Jack replied, staring intently at the neon flashing sign above Chuck's shoulder, "A car accident."
"Yes, Jack, a car accident," Chuck rolled his eyes. A four-year-old seemed to be more literate than Jack was at the moment.
"How did he get in a car accident?" Jack asked, pulling at his hair, crawling closer to Chuck's feet.
Chuck snapped his cell phone shut, "What do you mean, how did he get into a car accident? Another car hit his car. What the fuck are you saying, you moronic idiot?" Chuck growled; Jack's incessant question-and-answer session was starting to annoy the hell out of him, and it was also starting to make unwanted memories flood back to him, washing over him.
"Who hit him?" Jack wondered, wandering into the road, lying down.
"Get the hell out of the road," Chuck instructed, "And I don't know. Someone. They hit him then ran. They couldn't tell. My PI isn't much help, either."
Chuck felt odd telling someone this; he hadn't told anyone that he was trying to get proof that his father had been hit, not that the driver had swerved. He was positive that they were victims of a hit-and-run. A fatal hit-and-run.
"I know who hit him," Jack answered, standing up from the road, just in time, as a car whizzed by, making the hairs on the back of Chuck's neck stand on end.
"Who?" Chuck asked, drawing close to Jack, listening intently, hoping he wasn't lying, hoping it wasn't some kind of drunken babble, hoping for a clue, a sign, anything.
Jack didn't respond, simply falling back onto the cool, hard pavement, laughing so hard his face turned a shade of purple.
TBC
A/N: So this is a try, a try at a collab fic, we're both not sure how it'll turn out. I, personally, am pretty satisfied with this first chapter, but I'm not sure. Let me know!