Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Who Am I?
Jack never thought he'd be grateful to have anyone interrupt a conversation he was having with David's sister, least of all David himself. But, just then, as Sarah held the slightly turned, very mushy tomato in the palm of her hand, waiting for Jack's answer, when David decided he'd had enough of their whispered chat by the door, Jack didn't mind at all as David stopped fooling around with the cutlery and came right over to join in.
"Didja miss me, Sarah?"
"Of... of course I did," Sarah said easily, though her voice was kind of strangled. "I'm so glad to see you."
The tomato, Jack noticed, had disappeared back into Sarah's pocket. He hoped it stayed there.
If David heard how strange Sarah was acting, stiff and unnatural and nothing at all like her sweet, free self, it wasn't something he paid attention to. Instead, he grinned. His answering grin was blinding; Jack longed to smack it off his face. He didn't get the chance, though, seeing as how David neatly stepped in front of Jack, blocking him from Sarah's view.
"So, I was wonderin'," and Jack didn't need to see his face to know how smarmy it would look, "how 'bout takin' a stroll up to the rooftop with me?"
"Um… " she began, throwing a helpless glance in Jack's direction. From behind David, Jack shook his head and mimed shivering, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, trembling. Sarah caught on and quickly said, "Won't it bit too cold, D—I mean, Jack?"
"I can keep you warm."
Jack had to swallow back his groan. Did he really sound like such a letch when he thought he was being charming?
Sarah spared her addled brother a prim smile but even Jack could see that was her no-nonsense expression, the one that even he couldn't get around. "Maybe later. I'm expecting Mama home soon."
David nodded as if he understood—and considering, deep down, he knew how his mother felt about Sarah and Jack spending too much time alone together, he had to understand. But then... "What were you'se two talkin' 'bout over here, anyway?" he asked suspiciously, nodding behind him at where Jack was still standing.
Talk about tact, Jack huffed. Wisely, though, he kept his mouth shut.
"I was just asking, uh, my friend here," and Sarah winced because she had no idea what to call Jack, "if he could help me with a needle I needed threaded for my lace." She reached into the never-ending depths of her apron pocket and, to Jack's astonishment, pulled out a spool of white thread and a needle slipped through a small swath of fabric. He couldn't help but wonder how in the world she fit all that stuff in there. "But he was just telling me that he wouldn't be able to"
She looked pointedly at Jack. He nodded and held up his hands just in time for David to turn and look disdainfully at him. Ignoring that look, Jack showed David his ink-stained palms. "Can't do it. All thumbs, me."
With a fluttering of her eyelashes that Jack didn't think necessary, Sarah offered her thread and needle out to David. "Do you think you could help me, Jack?"
The real Jack tried to pretend he couldn't hear how sweet and charming Sarah was being to someone that wasn't him. Even if it was to her brother. Even if she was acting like she was speaking to him. He didn't have to like it and he sure as hell didn't.
But David did. Almost preening like a proud peacock, he took the thread and the needle and moved a little further into the kitchen where the light was better. Then, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration—I do not do that, Jack tried to insist to himself—he sat at the kitchen table and began the task of threading Sarah's sewing needle.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack glanced at Sarah.
"He threads my needles for me all the time," she explained. There was hopefulness in her voice. "That means... he's still in there, right? He's still David."
"He sure as hell can't be me," huffed Jack under his breath. "'Cause I'm me."
Sarah bit her lip, trying not to let the worry show—trying and failing. "Don't you know someone who might be able to tell what's wrong with David? Someone who could help?"
"Kloppman's pretty good with bumps and bruises. I wanted to ask him last night but—"
"Can you ask him then? Can you help my brother? For me?"
There wasn't much that Jack Kelly wouldn't do for Sarah Jacobs, especially as seeing how getting David fixed would work out better for him (and, well, David) than anyone else. Still, there was one nagging little doubt... "What about your mother?" he asked quietly, for David was almost done with his task, "Won't she wonder what happened to him if I take him with me and he ain't home for supper tonight?"
"Jack, I'll take care of Mama. You just… take care of my brother, please?"
It was a good thing Esther Jacobs was out with Les because she would've had a fit to see Jack place his hand so forwardly on her daughter's shoulder. If only she knew... "I promise, Sarah," he told her, leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "And I'll bring him back when he's all better."
"When he's David again," she agreed.
Jack wasn't sure if David heard any of their whispered conversation or if he caught sight of the kiss he laid on Sarah's cheek, but he couldn't really find it in himself to care. Sarah was his girl and David was just her brother. Then again, as David rose from the table, the threaded needle proffered out in front of him, there was a steeliness to his blue eyes that make Jack involuntarily gulp.
David was stiff and polite as he gave the needle back to Sarah. He thanked her for allowing him to visit and asked if he could see her again. Sarah, confused at the direction his visit had taken—and putting nothing past her brother who thought he was suddenly Jack Kelly—told him the truth: that she would love to see him again. That brightened David up considerably but then, as if he drank some of the expired milk you could get at Tibby's some times, he scowled and said his goodbyes. Without even looking to see where the real Jack was, David left the apartment.
Jack shrugged at Sarah and gave her another kiss before hurrying after David. He saw David turn once to check that he was following after him but the other boy said nothing.
In fact, David waited until they'd make it back outside before he whirled on Jack, pushing him right in the dusty vest. "Why you kissin' my girl?" he demanded.
Jack held his hands up in a gesture of peace; it was either that, or he would've just went ahead and decked David already. Now David was pushing him? He took a deep breath, counted to three, remembered Sarah's earnestness and the tomato still in her pocket and tried his best to control his temper.
"Hold on there, it was only a friendly peck… no harm meant. Me and Sarah, we're just pals… Jack. Like me and you."
But David wasn't buying it. Stepping up on his tiptoes so that he was eye to eye with Jack, he said with a sneer, "Yeah, that's the funny thing. You keep tellin' me we're pals, but I don't seem to remember you at all. Who are ya?"
And a name Jack hoped to never have to say again came spilling out before he could stop himself: "Francis Sullivan."
"Francis?" David's blue eyes brightened in recognition. He clapped Jack on the shoulder harder than his arms should've allowed and settled back on his heels. "Oh… you mean Frank? Ya shoulda said somethin'! Do I feel like a bummer or what? How did I ever forget you, Frank?" He held up his hand, ticking off fingers as he said, "Dead mother, crook of a father, Refuge escapee, the talk of the city. Hell, you're a real memorable guy, Frank. Sorry, Frank."
"Thanks for remindin' me," Jack muttered, his expression more of a pout now than murderous. "Now, could ya stop sayin' Frank so damn much?"
As Jack brought David back with him to the lodging house on Duane Street to ask Kloppman for help, he couldn't help wondering himself how much of a mess he'd gotten into and just how he was going to get out. If, that is, Kloppman could do anything for David's bump—and, considering how much damage that simple bump was doing, he wasn't holding out much hope.
It was easy to see what had happened. A blow to his head and suddenly he wasn't David Jacobs anymore—he was Jack Kelly. Which meant that Jack Kelly wasn't Jack Kelly anymore.
He was Francis Sullivan. Or, as David—Jack—kept insisting, Frank.
There wasn't an icicle big enough in all of New York to make him forget all of this!
What was worse were the little things. The way he would spit and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and even run his hand through his thick curls until they were more like a brown pouf surrounding his head than hair. The way he sauntered as he walked, taking up more of the sidewalk than by any rights was his. The way he leered at any girl they passed, a wink here, a small smile there, but he never said a word to them because, well, Sarah was waiting for him back at her apartment. His fingers were twitchy, his palms itchy, and David always looked poised to run.
God help a Delancey brother if he decided to make an appearance!
The whole thing was really making Jack feel ill at ease. Is that really how David saw him? Because he didn't really act like that, did he?
Did he?
One thing for sure, he had to still be David Jacobs in there somewhere. David Jacobs, the Walking Mouth. Because, pretending to be Jack or not, he just didn't shut up!
It wasn't a far walk from the Jacobses' apartment to Duane Street and Jack eventually found himself ignoring David. If he nodded every couple of sentences and threw out a noncommittal sound every block or so, David didn't seem to mind that he was carrying the conversation. He seemed to have an opinion on everything—and Jack had to tell himself that that was David's characteristic and not his—and Jack was counting down the blocks until he could see Kloppman and hope the old supervisor could do something to fix David. And that's when he heard:
"Hey, Frank? Ya got a light?"
Maybe he was trying too hard to ignore the name—or maybe even David's voice—but Jack immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh box of matches he managed to swipe off the side table next to Racetrack's bunk. It was only then, when he had one single match out that he remembered who was asking.
"You don't sm—where the hell didja get a cigarette from?"
"I always keep a couple hand-rolls in my pocket." The right hand pocket too, Jack noted; the same pocket Jack kept his smokes and matches tucked inside. "I must've forgot my matches though, Frankie. Here," David said, sticking out his chin so that the cigarette was right under Jack's nose, "help a fella out."
Frank... Frankie... now, Jack Kelly knew there was something wrong with his pal and he knew that, if David was in his right mind, he never would've resorted to using Jack's hated birth name over and over and over again... but he also knew that it hadn't even been one whole day yet and he was quickly losing his patience. So, yeah, maybe he was being just a little spiteful—
"Sure thing, Jack." Bowing his head so David couldn't see his mischievous smirk, Jack struck the match and held it out in order to light David's cigarette. "There you go."
The two boys had paused, Jack holding the match, David with the cigarette between his lips in a way that made it seem like he actually knew what he was doing. Jack watched as the tip caught light, then he waited on bated breath as David took that first puff and—
"What's the matter?" he asked as innocently as he was able.
"Nothin', Frank," David said in between coughs. "Just a little somethin' in my throat."
And, for the first time since he arrived at the distribution center to find David Jacobs in a bandana and a rope belt, Jack Kelly let out a real laugh.
End Note: Well, there you go. I thought I should get out another chapter of this story before I post the first chapter of my new dramatic fic. I didn't think I would do another heavy one after Five - hence this parody-type thing - but, well, at least I'll always have something funny to work on when that one gets too much!
-- stress, 03.20.11