Author: sangre antigua/TR4G1C [old penname].
Rating; Title; Pairing; R; Fixing What Is Broken; BobbyxJack/Slash.
Summary: Since that "fateful" day, the day Jack Mercer got his first taste of what it felt like to be shot, he had not been the same. His speak was cryptic and hard to decode, a constant riddle for everyone around him—especially for Bobby. Jack getting shot, in Bobby's eyes, was his fault more than anyone else's. JackxBobby/Slash; R rating for later chapters.
Warning/Disclaimer: Still don't own Four Brothers (I wish I owned Garrett Hedlund and Mark Wahlberg, but no…). Depressing? Maybe a little, but, yeah. Set after Victor Sweet is gone; Jack doesn't die. (:
- - - - -
"Is he home yet?"
"Nah, man; he's not."
"Shit—where the fuck can he be? He's only…what…thirteen?"
"He's twenty two, Angel."
"He looks like a little kid, Jer."
"That's really besides the point. We really need to find him before Bobby finds out."
"Fuck. I'd hate to see Bobby's expression when he finds out that Jack's not home yet and it's…4:14 in the morning."
"Same here. Same here."
"He better walk his cracker ass through that door sometime soon before Bobby…"
"Well, if we keep quiet, Bobby won't wake up—thus he won't find out."
If Jeremiah and Angel thought they were being quiet, then they were fucking stupid. Honestly, they were fucking retarded morons who needed fucking brains. If they thought that Bobby Mercer had passed out in front of the couch and wasn't snoring, then they were suddenly off their rockers. Particularly with Jack still out passed…4:14 in the morning.
Bobby had simply closed his eyes.
The light from the TV hurt them; the strain of them flickering back and forth, searching eagerly for a tall, lanky white male to walk into the room, hurt them; paranoia and its bitchiness from worrying, hurt them. Bobby couldn't stand it anymore. The constant sleeping late, the constant staying out passed two, the constant word drabble that sounded like a bad Edgar Allan-Poe poem—all of it made his head spin. He missed the Jack that came to the Mercer house when he was ten. He missed the Jack that learned how to skate slowly but surely with Bobby's help. He missed the Jack that cuddled with him during rainstorms. He missed the Jack who told him everything.
That Jack was gone, tucked away in a case file with three or four bullets stained with blood.
Since being shot…Jack had…he'd become a shell of what he used to be.
"I'm tired."
"Angel, shut up."
"But I am…"
"You know we need to wait with Bobby. Especially if Jack comes home sometime soon and Bobby sleeps through it. We need to know when he comes home, so we can make up something saying that Jack came home right after Bobby crashed."
"Lying is a bad thing, Jer," Bobby's husky voice sounded. It scared Angel and Jeremiah so much that their dark-skinned hands fidgeted subconsciously and their once simple, toying smiles had been bent into shaky frowns. The younger of the three, Angel, even had his somewhat sharp cheekbones bared against the skin covering them. "Why would you lie to your big brother?"
Jeremiah shifted in his spot as Bobby sat up. He had been laying there (still awake, as noted) for some time, listening to everything going on but having his focus mainly consumed by his thoughts. Unable to come up with an answer, Jeremiah allowed his jaw to clamp shut before he shrugged his shoulders. He then slightly hung his head.
"Go to bed, Princesses," Bobby spoke, dropping the former subject and starting up another one. He looked at Angel and then craned his head for the stairs, which were in eye sight from the couch Bobby formerly had been sprawled out on.
"But, Bobby…I don't live here anymore," Jeremiah returned, voice barely above a whisper.
"Go, either way. Crash in your old room. Camille will understand," Bobby assured, nodding his head.
Jeremiah didn't look so sure, but he kept fairly still.
"I need to talk to Jack when he gets home, anyway. Alone." The last word was emphasized by Bobby's threatening, deep, booming voice. Jeremiah and Angel looked at the elder man before them and swayed a little in fright, like sapling trees to a great, forceful wind. They looked at each other, frowned a little more and began for the stairs, leaving Bobby to himself.
- - - - -
By the time that Jack returned it was almost five in the morning. Nerves and paranoia continued to consume Bobby's thoughts (and his mind as a whole) while he waited. Watching TV did not help—it just hurt his eyes—and trying to convince himself that Jack would be home shortly did not help, either, so he sat alone. He sat alone and watched himself from the doorway being devoured by his mind.
But then the knob of the front door wriggled and shook softly for a few seconds, snapping Bobby out of his thoughts. Either that was Jack, or some dumb ass who didn't know that this was the Mercer home. If it was some dumb shit who thought they could steal from the Mercers, Bobby wasn't going to open the door—if it was Jack, Bobby wasn't going to open the door. Jack had a key, or he should've—Jack also had a curfew.
As seconds dwindled, the knob continued to quiver. Evidentially Jack had not only forgotten his curfew, but he had seemingly forgotten his key as well.
Serves him right, Bobby told himself, but his heart stung softly as the words crept over his brain. He could hear frustrated mumbles coming from the other side of the door—and knowing that he was the reason, or part of it, behind that frustration made him hurt.
Plus, thinking ill of Jack just…didn't tide well.
He loved Jack with all of his being, with all that he could.
And quite honestly, for a brother to feel that strongly for another brother, that wasn't exactly politically correct.
Finally, and with a victorious grunt, the door slowly inched open. Following the large door was a lanky, pale-skinned man—but a boy compared to Bobby. A leather jacket hung from his arms and torso, worn from constant use, a set of combat boots shielded his feet and a pair of also well-worn dark blue jeans flowed down his legs ever so softly. With all of his attire, one might think he was a bad boy or a bad ass or anything else following those guidelines—but the face…he had the face of an angel.
Baby blue eyes that grew lighter when he cried rested snuggly in their sockets. Soft, gentle pink lips tugged into the form of a smile were it was forever stuck to his face. Subtle, velvety cheeks, strong and defined, showcased themselves against flesh for the entire world to see.
Because of his beautiful features, whenever Jack tried to act big and bad, tried to up his age and appear macho, Bobby would just crush his attempt with a remark about Jack's soft, flawless skin, which any other girl would positively die for. It was just a joke, though it really ruffled Jack's feathers—but, in reality, Bobby would die for Jack. Bobby figured that Jack knew that, but he didn't really know. At least he didn't know to that degree. Bobby guessed that Jack didn't know because, well, lately, Jack had been nothing but a self destruct sequence or a ridiculously cryptic puzzle. Like one of those rubix cubes—which Bobby happened to absolutely despise.
Plus, Bobby Mercer wasn't one to display that emotion all to well. Anger? Sure. Happiness? A grin would do it. Saddness? A stern frown filled the quota. Lust? Slight hounding fit the bill. But love? No; Bobby rarely showed that type of love to anyone. Brotherly love, sure, but never the love he felt for Jack.
All in all, Jack was a very, very pretty, confusing twenty-two year old, though Bobby thought of him as much younger and more of a self-destruct sequence than anything else. Jack would be his downfall, of this Bobby was sure.
But being taken down never felt so…pleasant, so right.
It was wrong, though. It was so very wrong.
It was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Why is it that fairies always come late, or never show at all? I thought I had been a good little boy," Bobby croaked from the living room. Jack had just begun to climb the stairs, after hanging his leather coat up, but now he had been frozen to his spot, open-mouthed and wide-eyed—like a deer in headlights.
Still frozen to his spot, Jack couldn't muster the strength to speak. He turned his head a little to look to the living room that he had just passed, which he thought was empty judging by the silence hovering around it, and swallowed hard. There was a lump in his throat now, just too big to go down smoothly. Jack's chest felt on fire despite the fact that the rest of him was seemingly frozen.
"Speak Jack. Come on," Bobby huffed and rose from his spot. Leisurely he strolled to the staircase and leaned against the rail of it. "C'mon, you're so eager to do everything else in life. Fucking speak, Jack."
"I'm not a child, Bobby," Jack returned, knowing the gist of what this was about. Though his voice sounded tough, his jaw was wired almost completely shut, just like Jeremiah and Angel's had been, and showed just how nervous he really was. "I'm allowed to stay out late."
"Yeah, but it's nearly five in the morning, Jackie! That's not late, that's really, really, really fucking late," Bobby hissed. His words were like venom and when they hit Jack's chest, his airways constricted a little. "You look like hell, you reek of cigarettes and drugs and alcohol—what the fuck have you been doing, Jack?" After a few seconds of a painful silence, Bobby growled unhappily. "Fucking answer me, Jack."
"I've been doing things that adults are allowed to do," Jack barked proudly, holding his head high.
Eagerly, Bobby burst that confidence. "You look like a thirteen-year-old middle-school homecoming queen in a bad dark-colored get up." The words hit Jack hard and his cheeks constricted even more.
Little fucker's gonna strain a muscle if they get any tighter, Bobby thought bitterly.
"And, last time I checked, drugs weren't legal, Jack," Bobby added, words leaving with a voluble snort. "What's it been this time? X? Coke? Crack? Speed? Heroin? Acid? Meth? OxyContin? Valium? Codeine? Vicodin? A mix of a few—a mix of them all? C'mon, ya' little fairy, enlighten me."
Jack was somewhat surprised that Bobby could name all of those drugs off the top of his head—and at the same time somewhat suspicious about that. But there was a darker, more important situation at hand. "It's none of your fucking business, Bobby. Just leave me alone. Matter of fact, why don't you just leave? You're great at that," he countered softly, slurring his words and swaying a bit.
Bobby hissed at the words as he leant a hand to keep the other steady. He wished he could find it in him to just let the other fall onto the floor, but he just…couldn't. So he substituted that motion with a firm, hard grip on Jack's back, not to mention the harsh clapping sound that echoed when Bobby 'caught' the other. "It is my business—you are my business, Jack! With Ma' gone…" Bobby paused, sighing loudly.
Oh God, the Mom card…Jack thought, dreading the words that would follow.
"I have to be the one looking after all of you guys. I'm pulling rank, Jackie—fall the fuck in line."
With a painful silence in the air once more, Jack and Bobby bore their eyes into one another until it was too painful to take, their chests about ready to burst and their faces nearly blue, as they had been holding their breath. Finally, Jack broke the staring contest and glanced up the stairs before going up them.
"Oh, get the fuck back here, ya' little fairy. I'm not done with you," Bobby hissed, and followed after him. He made sure that the heavy shoes on his feet made a lot of racket, Bobby did. Angel and Jeremiah weren't asleep (most likely…) and if they were, they would most likely just stay in their rooms, knowing it was best for them to stay out of it. But on the slim chance that they came to investigate, Bobby deemed an audience not such a bad thing.
And with that, he continued storming up the stairs behind Jack.