"Dammit, Pop."
It's how Jacob starts most of his mornings, either cleaning up the mess that's been made of the house, scraping Isaac off the floor of whatever bar he passed out in, or, in this particular case, reviewing the company accounts.
Jacob rubs at his eyes wearily, wanting to throw something but at the same time feeling so weary that he wants to just put his head down on the table and take a nap. He glances at his watch; it's past time for the mail truck. He pushes back from the table and heads out the door. It'll probably end up being just junk mail or another letter from the bank, but right now, he'll take anything other than the accounts.
It's unseasonably warm despite it only being early May, and he can already tell that this summer is going to be hell come to earth. The metal mailbox is already hot to the touch when he opens it. He's right. Junk mail, advertising, more junk mail, a little sheaf of coupons that he'll probably find use for, and...a letter. Jacob exhales heavily, leaning against the side of the mailbox. It's not the official letter from the US Military that he's been dreading since Eliot left home. Nope, this is in Eliot's handwriting. He knows that chicken scratch anywhere.
It's an exercise in restraint to wait until he's back inside and sitting at the table to open it, the rest of the mail tossed haphazardly onto the table. There's no return address, but he can't bring himself to care. He's been praying for any sign that his brother's not vanished off the face of the planet for a long time.
His fingers are shaking a little as they tear open the envelope, and to his surprise, there's only a little slip of paper tucked inside, despite the weight of the envelope. It's written in Elvish, too, and he laughs aloud despite himself; they haven't passed notes in Elvish since they were in high school trying not to get caught by the teachers. It's only two sentences: You can't die if someone else is wearing your tags, it's against the rules. Keep these safe for me, will you?
Jacob tilts the envelope, and a pair of scratched dog tags on their simple ball-chain slithers out onto his callused palm, explaining the extra weight of the envelope. He closes his fist around them and wants to be angry. Nearly eight years of radio silence, and this is all he gets? A Post-It note and a set of dog tags? No explanation, or expectation of return? The anger slides out of him almost as soon as it comes, and he relaxes his grip, carefully untangling the chain and sliding it over his head.
The letter and its envelope go in the shoebox that Jacob keeps on the top shelf in his closet, full of the letters they've exchanged since Eliot enlisted.
He keeps the tags tucked into his shirt so they rest against his bare skin most of the time.
If Isaac ever sees them, there's no telling how he'll react with his temper. Isaac Stone has no desire to ever be reminded of his elder son and the terrible fallout that lead to Eliot running away and changing his last name to their mother's maiden name before enlisting. And because whenever people see them, there's always the one individual who feels the need to ask where he served. Whenever he explains that they're not his, they're his brother's, they then ask where Eliot served. And when Jacob can't give them an answer because he doesn't know either, they always jump to the worst conclusion, and it makes him feel sick. He wants to tell them they're wrong, Eliot's not dead, he's not, don't say that, and bites his tongue until he tastes blood to keep the words in.
He never takes them off, and a part of him is a little scared to. He doesn't know where Eliot is, he doesn't know what he's doing or if he's still in one piece. The only proof he has that his brother's still around is in these tags. It's against the rules, the note had said. It's part joke, part superstition, and part something else that Jacob can't quite find the right words to put to. But as long as he wears them, then Eliot's alright. He has to be, because it's against the rules for him to be otherwise. The moment the chain starts to look rusted, he replaces it with a new one. He doesn't want to think about what it might mean if the chain were to suddenly break, if he were to lose the tags.
Jacob takes to the habit of rubbing them between his fingers whenever he's anxious. It becomes his nervous tic, almost, like a girl he went to high school with; she had transferred from a Catholic school and would run the beads of her rosary between her fingers. He traces over the engraved letters with a fingertip like a blind man reading Braille, and he knows each number and letter by heart: Spencer, Eliot K., 524-74-9739, AB Pos, Christian. Just touching them makes him feel a little better.
When Eve Baird comes crashing into his life with a pack of ninjas and a very fine swordswoman, he wishes not for the first time that Eliot was there to see this, because really? Ninjas in Oklahoma? It's surreal, and it only gets worse when Eve lists off the details of his life like she's reading a damn grocery list. Jacob tightens his grip on the steering wheel until the leather creaks a little; Eliot's the only person who knows that much about him.
He almost says no. Almost. But he can almost hear his brother in his ear, telling him to 'quit bein' such a sissy, Jay, ain't nothin' to it,' like they're eight years old again and have just been dared to jump off the high dive in the community pool. Jacob touches his chest so he can feel the tags pressed into his skin through his shirt and feels resolve settle in him. If Eliot can be brave enough to run to the other side of the world and fight someone else's war, then he can be brave enough to do this.
He shifts gears and puts a little more on the gas. "Where we headed?" he asks.
Ain't nothin' to it.
Eve's the only person who knows what's actually on the chain Jacob wears. Nobody else can really see them, since he keeps it tucked under his shirt wherever he goes and the chain's nearly invisible too under his shirt collars or his scarves, whichever he's wearing. She sees them when they've just come out of a brutal training session in the Library, when Jacob strips off his sweat-sodden shirt to put on a clean one in the locker room just as she's passing him on the way to the showers.
For a moment, he wonders if she'll ask too. She knows he's never been in the service. But she doesn't, only gives him a soft look and walks away, heading for the showers. Jacob exhales slowly. She was a soldier, too. She gets it. If he ever wants to talk about it, she'll definitely listen, but she won't be the first to ask. He rubs his thumb over the tags and smiles a little. She and Eliot would get on like a house on fire if they ever met.
The next two years of his life are...well. They're more than he ever could've thought to wish for, even with all 190 points of his IQ. It's dangerous and wild and completely insane, but it's freedom and life and learning, too. Finally just living. Jacob's glad to have Eliot's tags then, because he might be keeping his brother safe with them, but he also needs all the extra bravery he can get from Eliot because it's not exactly easy to stand in front of a millennia-old semi-omnipresent deity and not lose his cool.
There's no bravery required, here, though. Today's his day off, and he's wandering through the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. He's never been there without it being work-related; it's nice to meander through the exhibits at his own pace. And pick out all the little inaccuracies, too, just to amuse himself. He's halfway through the Life Sciences Hall when a voice speaks from behind him, so familiar and unexpected that Jacob nearly trips on thin air. "Figured I'd find you here, nerd."
He turns around so fast he almost unbalances himself, and there's Eliot. There's Eliot. His twin looks older, rougher, more ragged around the edges than Jacob can ever remember him looking, but that little smirk hasn't changed a bit, neither has his overlong hair with the little braids just like Mama used to wear. "Eli," he says quietly, swaying a little on his feet. He's not going to pass out. He's not, because if he does, Jones will find out and never let him hear the end of it. He wants to punch Eliot in the face, wants to scream at him, shake him, demand to know why the fuck he's been gone for so long, but all that comes out of him is the childhood nickname. "Eli," he repeats.
Eliot's suddenly in front of him, hugging him tight, and oh, God, he's real. He's real and alive and here. Jacob throws both arms around him and clings tight, pressing his face against a shoulder that feels like its all muscle. "Hey, Jay-Jay," Eliot murmurs, and the use of a nickname he hasn't been called in almost twenty years is what finally makes him cry.
The brewpub's closed early for the night, and Eliot's crew is sharing a table with Jacob's team, getting to know each other over plates of spaghetti. Eve and Sophie are chatting quite amicably, and Nate's watching them in amusement, though he does speak now and again when Sophie elbows him. Hardison and Cassandra have some kind of geek mind-meld going, and Jones has been trading heist stories with Parker for the past twenty minutes now.
"You mad at me?" Eliot asks in an undertone, watching with amusement as Parker suddenly switches tactics and starts talking to Cassandra instead, and the redhead dives into the conversation with enthusiasm and much hand-waving. He doesn't exactly follow what all they're saying, but they're excited, and Hardison looks like he's met a devil in disguise, so he imagines it's good.
Jacob huffs a soft laugh. "Right now, no. Right now, I'm just happy you're here. Give me a day or two, and we can take it outside," he replies.
It's another snatch of childhood. Isaac never broke up their fights when they were kids; he was very firmly of the belief that it was healthy for siblings to pound each other every now and again, especially young boys. He'd just yell at them to take it outside. They could beat each other bloody if they wanted, just not where they might break the stuff he paid good money for, dammit. When they got older, they got better at using their words and acting somewhat like adults. But it was still cathartic to take it outside every now and again, have at it until they were both bruised and a little bloody but smiling all the same.
Eliot nods; he deserves that much, at least. He deserves a lot worse than that, honestly, and it feels good to know that he's not lost the one family member that he actually cares about, aside from their mother. Of course, Jacob doesn't know what Eliot's been up to these past fifteen years. Once he gets around to actually telling him, then maybe Eliot will lose him, but for now, he's just going to soak up this feeling.
When he looks Jacob over again, he notices the ball-chain necklace that's just visible above the neckline of Jacob's shirt. Eliot reaches out and hooks his finger under the chain, pulling on it until it comes free. They're his tags. Jacob still has his tags. He'd sent them home after he left the military for good, already starting on one of the darker paths in his life, wanting to let his brother know that he was still alive and kicking, at least for the time being. He'd slipped the little note in on an impulse, remembering the bit of superstition that other soldiers had talked about, but he hadn't really expected Jacob to keep them. Not after so long.
"You still got 'em," he mumbles.
Jacob nods, straightening the chain and rubbing one of the tags between his fingers. "'Course I did," he murmurs back, then turns his gaze to Eliot. "For so long...Eli, I thought you might be dead."
Eliot shakes his head and nudges his shoulder against Jacob's. "No way. What'd I tell you, little brother? It's against the rules."