TITLE: Flashes

CHAPTER/TITLE: Four/Homecoming

RATING: T (language and mature content)

SUMMARY: Pre-Movie. "I ain't Ma. I ain't gonna hold your little hand. I'm gonna kick you in the - until what I want to hear comes out your mouth. It's called tough love… Deal with it or see what happens…" Jack's hiding something, from everyone. Time for a little intervention, Bobby Mercer style.

A/N: I really have nothing interesting or witty to say….except thanks to all those who have been following, reviewing and enjoying! Hey, thanks even if you haven't enjoyed it!

DISCLAIMER: I don't even own the internet I am uploading this on, or the computer I am using to do so. The hands that were used to type this were created by God, my mother and father. My ideas are probably even subconsciously from something else….

Please read and REVIEW! Reviews un-furrow Bobby's constantly scrunched forehead.

Chapter Four: Homecoming

Jack didn't talk about the previous night and Bobby didn't ask. The eldest Mercer wasn't even too sure that his brother remembered any of it. The youngest Mercer had spent the night nearly ripping apart the couch as he tossed, turned, kicked, punched and pulled. Bobby spent the night making sure Jack didn't seriously hurt the couch, or himself. Granted it could have been the access of alcohol, but Bobby was now pretty certain that the nightmares were back and in full force. Still, Jack didn't scream. Jack never screamed and Bobby thought that was the scariest part.

Jack had awoken to the appalling aroma of frying eggs, courtesy of Bobby. The older brother merely shook his head as he listened to Jack heave into the trashcan.

If drunken Jack was no fun, hung over Jack was even worse. Moody turned into broody which quickly accelerated to animalistic anger. After several more tricks and jests from Bobby, the boy carried himself up to his bedroom and locked the door.

As if on cue, the rest of the house stirred. Evelyn greeted her son warmly and with a hug that Bobby would have allowed no other person to give him for so long. She fussed over him for a shorter time than usual and then left, warning her eldest to not disappear before she returned. His mother was off to a brief meeting and then back to spend the entire day in the kitchen as she made Christmas dinner for just about the entire neighborhood, and then some, not to mention having four boys who ate like a small army. Angel was up in the dining room with a cup of coffee in hand when Jerry slipped in the back door. Angel was barely awake when he saw Bobby and had given him grunt and a grin. Jerry, on the other hand, was somehow wide awake already and slapped his older brother across the shoulder before pulling him into a quick embrace.

"What's up, man?" Jeremiah's smile and volume was too much for Angel.

"Would you keep it down in there?" He groaned. "Some of us aren't into this crack 'a dawn, catchin' the worm shit."

"Ah, quit your complaining, little brother," Bobby brought his own morning beverage, a beer, into the dining room. "Whatever La Vida Loca did to keep you up last night and how you feel this morning is nothin' compared to me or Jack."

"Where is he?" Jerry glanced around for the missing fourth piece.

"Upstairs," Bobby nodded to the ceiling, "sleepin' off what I'm guessing is one bitch of a hangover."

"Jackie-poo could never hold his liquor," Angel snorted.

"And when was the last time you saw him drinking?" Bobby questioned accusingly. "'Cause I got a fucking front row seat last night. Ain't pretty. And believe me, the amount of shit Cracker Jack pounded back would knock you both on your asses – and then some."

"He get pretty messed up?" Jerry's tone was nowhere near joking.

"No," Bobby shook his head, "and I think that's what scares the shit out of me. He got a little lopsided toward the end and said some weird ass shit before passing out, but the Jack I fucking remember couldn't hold down one beer."

"The last time you saw him drink was when he was twelve and you snuck it to him," Jerry reminded him. "He's sixteen now."

"Are sixteen-year-olds supposed to be drinking like dumbass frat boys?"

"We did," Angel shrugged.

"Yeah, we did," Bobby nodded in agitation, "and we were stupid. And we weren't Jack. He can throw back a few, I'm not sayin' that he can't. I'm the last person to say that, but Jack's not like us. He's got problems."

"And we don't," Angel scoffed.

"Jack's got dependency problems, you moron."

"You steal that word from Mom?" Jerry cocked an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Bobby spoke quickly, "but that just makes it true."

"It's alcohol," Angel rolled his head back, "it's not like it's –"

"What?" Bobby slapped the table, the banging almost as loud as his voice. "Drugs? Oh, he's not shooting up anymore so it's no big deal? Is that it?"

"I didn't say that, Bobby." Angel's tone rose to rival his brothers.

"It doesn't matter if it's fucking crack or heroin or whiskey or fucking candy bars! Jack uses – and then he abuses. It's bad enough we don't bash his dumbass skull in for smoking those damn cigarettes. Jack is dangerous. Or have you forgotten when you and me, Angel, had to drag his tripped out ass home from some crack house? Or, this one's great, the time Ma found him in the fucking bathtub, O. and not breathing? Sure, it's just alcohol. It's normal. Not for Jack. How long until he gets fucking alcohol poisoning, or we're watching our baby brother get his fucking stomach pumped - again, or hauled away in some damn ambulance? I didn't come back here for that."

"What are we supposed to do?" Jerry sighed, sliding dejectedly into a seat.

"We figure out what the hell is causing all of this shit. Jack's drinking habits are a fucking serious issue, but they're not the problem. We crack down on him for that, and he'll just find something else. We need to figure out what the fuck is going on."

"Bobby," Jerry sighed, pushing his winter hat off his head and picturing the girl on their doorstep, "I think there's something you should know."