AN: I'm not really sure where I'm going with this yet, but I think it just might turn out to be a little bit of a Bobby romance. And here I thought I was a Jack girl...

We set Jack up on the couch for the night so he wouldn't have to deal with the stairs. He hadn't let on at first, but he was bad off. His coughing fits scared me more than anything. He'd get going and before we knew it he'd hardly be able to breathe. The bullet had clipped his right lung, according to Jerry. It would take years for the organ to heal, and it would probably never be quite the same.

His shot up knee didn't bother him much so long as he kept it still, but the muscle damage around his wounded shoulder was extensive, any movement of his right arm or twisting of his upper body stopped the kid in his tracks and probably felt the same as getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. Even I admit that Jack can take punches like a man. When he was twelve years old he got beat within an inch of his life and when we visited him in the hospital he bit his lip to blood before he'd let the pain drive him to tears.

Off the hospital's morphine for the first time since he got shot, Jack cried most of the night. I ain't kidding, either. The more he tried to hold it in, the worse it got. At around two in the morning I smacked him across the face and ordered him to let it the fuck out before he killed himself. The spasms in his breathing mixed with the coughing fits punished his lungs to the point where he started to spit up blood into a bucket.

He had codeine, but that first night it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.

I think part of it was the trip he'd taken that day. During the weeks he'd spent in bed he'd essentially lost all the muscle mass in his body, so a long day of excitement left him too exhausted and stressed to cope with anything. Between midnight and about three in the morning he just broke down. By the time he calmed and the medicine finally started to help, I was lying on the floor next to the couch with a pillow and blanket, just starting to doze off.

Jack had been silent for a solid fifteen minutes; when he spoke softly in the darkness I almost jumped out of my skin. "Hey, Bobby, can I ask you something personal?"

My eyes flicked open and I realized that I'd started drooling on my pillow. I wiped at my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. "How personal?" I asked, sounding groggy even to my own ears.

"I wanna know if anyone ever tried to make you take it up the ass while you were in prison."

I shivered at the thought of that, and the soft calmness he used when speaking of the subject. I pulled my blanket tighter around myself, suddenly feeling squicked out.

"No. I never did a stint long enough to have to deal with much of that shit. When I was in I never let myself get caught alone. If I ever did, I punched first, ran second, and asked questions later. Why, you have fantasies about that kind of thing?" I asked, not actually caring to know. I hoped he'd just fall silent again and let me pretend to fall asleep.

"I was raped when I was six. All I remember is that it hurt so bad I never thought I'd feel that level of pain ever again. Then, I got shot in the chest and the knee..."

I lifted my head and turned to look over my shoulder at him. With the aid of the streetlights filtering in through the window curtains I could see him laying there, his back propped up at one end of the couch. Tear streaks still glistened on his cheeks, but they were drying quickly. It had been some time since I'd seen him looking so vulnerable and small. It reminded me of when Ma had adopted him, at age eight. He'd looked like a depressed stick figure back then too.

"Did Ma know that?" I asked, bewildered that I'd never known. Sure, mom told us Jack had seen some bad stuff, had some bad stuff happen to him too. Since he'd been so young and never knew his real parents, I figured he'd just gotten beat up a lot in the group home or something like that.

He nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I never said it out loud until just now, but I think she knew."

"Oh," I said, letting a pause settle in the conversation. "Is that why you wouldn't come near me the first six months you were here? You were afraid I'd pull that sort of shit?"

"I think so. I was eight, you were eighteen; you looked huge to me. Big brothers were bad news in foster homes, you know that. Mostly they'd just beat me up for no reason. I could handle that. The guy who hurt me, he was supposed to be my foster brother. He was so strung out on acid or something I don't know if he could tell the difference between me and his girlfriend, but that didn't matter. His girlfriend did some sick shit to me too. I wanted to kill them both, even when I was six."

"I'll bet," I said. I'd never tell Jack, but if I ever met the people who hurt him—made him a post-traumatic stress victim—I'd pour gasoline on the bastard and light them on fire. No hesitation. "So—what made you change your mind about me?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Sure, all my brothers respected me in their own way. They respected my temper, my leadership, and sometimes even my bullshit, but Jack had fucking worshiped me at times during his childhood. Can't say I didn't appreciate the fact, but I'd always wondered why. I teased him mercilessly, and as far as I knew I didn't exactly possess a lot of the qualities associated with good role models.

"By the time I was nine or so I figured out that you'd kill for me. That made me feel safe. Little kids who get beat up a lot like feeling safe. When I got shot, all I could think was that if you were there with me, I'd be all right. I wouldn't get hurt anymore. I knew you wouldn't let me die," he said calmly, like he really believed it.

"Yeah, right," I said, but the words didn't mean anything. I didn't know what to say to him. I'd gotten him back from the dead, but somehow it felt like I didn't deserve it. I hid behind a brick wall while the kid nearly bled to death...

"You didn't let me down, Bobby. You got there without doing something stupid and getting yourself killed. For you, that's saying something," he prodded, smirking weakly.

I rolled my eyes, even though he probably couldn't see it. "This from a fairy who was crying his eyes out on my shoulder twenty minutes ago. Hold on while I go get your teddy bear, princess," I said, laying back down on the floor and turning onto my side, away from him.

He chuckled lightly, and I could hear him repositioning to get comfortable under his own blanket. "Good-night, Bobby," he said.

"Good-night, Elisabeth," I mimicked.

I wondered if he'd get the reference from Ma's old favorite TV show.

A pillow impacted my backside.

He got it.