A/N: Okay, so I will try to pump out a chapter per day, or more. I have this entire thing finished already now on paper at least.

Please REVIEW so I know if it is just so horrid I should stop updating this instant. ;)

Chapter Four: Lesson

"Anyone can do a little more, learn a little more, and grow a little more each day. Soon, with consistent effort, those 'little bits' add up to major accomplishments. Is there something you want to change? Today is the day to start changing it." – Ralph Marston

Bobby suddenly felt nauseous. He was vaguely pissed about that. He figured after getting run over by a car and having a bullet lodged in his face, he could be at least be spared discomfort in the afterlife, or pre-afterlife, or wherever he was.

The scenery surrounding him was melting into the white abyss, a new atmosphere birthing from seemingly nowhere. Outside became inside. The grass underneath his feet became a hardwood floor. Bobby blinked and watched the familiar home around him. The scents he would never forget flooded his senses. The warmth of not only being in a house, but being inside this home, enwrapped his chilled bones. He was still taking it all in when Jack wandered in from the kitchen, as if it were any old day at the Mercer house.

Bobby didn't know if he was more overjoyed to see his brother again, pissed at how casually Jack was handling all of this, or grief stricken in realizing the real Jack would never aimlessly wander through this house again.

"What now?" Bobby huffed, "Okay, we're at Ma's house. That could be damn near a million different memories."

As he spoke, a soft ballad broke out of the stillness. It was muffled, hesitant, and sounded more like noise than music. Bobby glanced back over to the kitchen but Jack was suddenly gone. Leaning towards pissed, Bobby ascended the stairs and crept down the familiar hall, following the sound. When he finally found himself outside of Jack's room, he wasn't surprised. What did surprise him was when a ten year younger version of himself appeared on his side. The mid-twenties Bobby paid no notice to the adult Bobby as they both listened through the door. The younger Bobby shook his head and went to burst inside when suddenly the unfriendly noise stopped and was replaced by a string of curses. The younger Bobby paused and opened the door with less force than originally intended.

An eleven year old Jack sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed, mumbling bitterly and shoving his guitar underneath his bed.

"You know, it's not porn, you don't have to hide it," young Bobby announced his presence.

"Bobby?" Jack obviously tried to hide the excitement in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't a brother stop by to say 'hi' and tell his little brother to cut the racket?"

Jack's joyful expression clouded but he quickly composed himself.

"Suspended again?"

Bobby grunted and slumped down next to his youngest brother.

"Some fucker got all up in my face after a game about a cheap shot or some shit. He had it comin'. He's in the hospital and here I am. So, you wanna tell me why you're shoving that thing underneath your bed like it's diseased?"

"No," Jack mumbled, crossing his arms and reminding Bobby how much of a kid his kid brother still was.

"So, if you hate the damn thing so much, you won't mind if I pawn it for beer money, would ya?"

Jack unsuccessfully attempted to mask the horror stricken look that crossed his face.

"Whatever," he was barely audible now.

"Okay, Cracker Jack, what's the problem? Strings hurting these delicate little girl fingers of yours?"

Bobby received no response from the young boy.

"Did Angel or Jerry make fun of you for it or something?" Bobby questioned, but really had no room to ask considering he offered the brunt of the musician jokes. "Kids at school? Come on, Jackie. Help me out here. What the fuck is wrong?"

"I can't do it," Jack whispered through clenched teeth. "I suck."

Bobby pushed a plethora of jests down his throat and sighed.

"So, you just gonna give up? I thought you loved all that music shit?"

"Angel's really good at football. Jerry's really good at building things. And you got hockey. Evelyn is good at sewing and cooking and everything. I'm no good at nothing."

Bobby nodded and sighed. Of course this wasn't just about the guitar. With Jack, it always went deeper.

"Jack, you hate football and could give a shit less about construction. You're actually a pretty good skater, but you got no muscle on those scrawny ass bones to back it up. I think I might have to disown you as a brother and man if you started sewing or knitting or any of that shit. Those aren't your things. This is. As gay or annoying I think it is, this is what you do and what makes you happy."

"But I'm no good!"

"You're eleven fucking years old and you got that thing two months ago for Christmas. Damn, Jack, it takes practice. Just like hockey, although I've just always kicked ass at that. Mercers don't quit, Jack. Ever. You hear me?"

Jack mumbled some sort of incoherent reply.

"Huh? You listen to me, right now. Mercers do not quit. You don't quit, okay?"

"Okay," Jack nodded.

"So," Bobby began, reaching under the bed to grab the guitar and shove it in Jack's arms, "quit your damn cryin', toughin' up, and get your ass back to practicing."

The slimmer Bobby and the shorted Jack faded away and Bobby merely sighed. He was about to inspect the other bedrooms for hidden recollections when his brother was at his side.

"Shit, Jack," Bobby shook his head, "you wanna kill me twice by giving me a damn heart attack? What the hell is going on with this Scrooge shit? I thought this was supposed to be my after-life-dying-vision quest-nightmare-walk down memory lane-shit." Bobby sighed. "Why are they all about –"

"Me? Well, like you said, this is your 'after-life-dying-vision quest-nightmare-walk down memory lane-shit'."

Bobby cocked an eyebrow at his brother's quotation.

"Simple, Bobby," Jack whispered, the jesting put aside. "I'm your root pain."

"What?"

"I think you know what I mean, but if you really don't, you'll see soon."

"I really hate cryptic Jack," Bobby shook his head with a grunt. "This is like when we tried to get you to talk when you first came to Ma."

"So you do remember some shit with me?" Jack teased.

"Shut up, Cracker Jack."

"Never thought I'd miss all those dumbass nicknames," Jack bowed his head.

"Maybe it's the person behind the giving of the kickass nicknames you miss."

"Doubt it," Jack laughed sarcastically

"Now that hurts," Bobby frowned playfully. "Alright, where next?"

"Hey, it's your after-life-dying-vision –"

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. Oh, wait. Here we go. I'm getting' that drugged up, trippy-ass feeling again. Grab the fucking popcorn, Jackie."

The two watched as the scenery altered and they were suddenly downstairs in their mother's dining room. A slighter taller form of Jack that had just been playing guitar was now sitting across from the younger Bobby.

Bobby took in the scene, his eyes wandering over this past version of himself and his little brother. It seemed so typical that it could be just about any memory, but Bobby knew better. With sad eyes, Bobby watched and waited for what he knew was to come.