Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
Visionary
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Jack Kelly can't sleep at night anymore.
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In his experience, Jack finds that there's only one solid cure to the pounding in his head. It's not even a difficult one, either. He can find it at the bottom of any bottle; a good, strong whiskey is just his preference.
The liquor usually costs more than half his earnings, leaving him with barely enough money for lodging fare. But, seeing as how Jack just doesn't sleep anymore, it's useless to return to Duane Street every night. Oh, he makes his appearances, reassures the fellas that remain that he hasn't died yet—or been carted off to Bellevue—but, on the whole, he doesn't quite mind drinking his profits away.
When it comes down to it, between the spirits in a bottle or the spirits in his head, it's no choice.
Jack Kelly knows which spirits he prefers.
There are plenty of haunts he likes to call home when the need arises and he desires a further reprieve than what a stolen, stale smoke can offer. His head pounding in rhythm to his frantic pace, Jack heads to one at random. It's close, it's cheap and it stocks some potent whiskey—hell, it's better than home.
It's after his second glass that his headache disappears entirely. He revels in the empty-headed feeling, seeing clear despite the smoky haze of the dark and dank bar. When he reaches for his third, Jack doesn't guzzle it down; he's no longer as visibly desperate to kill the pain and fight against the memories.
Instead, he handles it gently, his lips caressing the worn, nicked glass, his tongue lapping at the richness of the drink. It burns the tip but he embraces the fire, relishing it.
But the fire can't keep away the cold, nor can the whiskey-induced clarity impede the recognition of that sound.
From a place behind him, directly past his tipping, wobbly barstool, Jack hears a sigh, followed by an impatient tsk-ing.
He doesn't turn around.
"Jack… Jack," another sigh, another tsk, "… Francis."
He works to hide the flinch, but there's no stopping the tremble. The names are familiar, of course, but the voice even more so. It finds him down the side streets, through the park, around Medda's old joint… and now here. In the seediest bar, in the darkest corner, it's found him.
Again.
His shaking hands reach out immediately for his glass, the amber liquid slopping along the sticky, stained bar top. It's a struggle to bring the drink to his lips but he's parched, and he's anxious and—he'll be damned if he'll admit it—and he's scared out of his damn mind.
Jack ain't too sure he's even got a damn mind left.
He just barely makes his mark, the liquor that missed dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He's frowning, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He's as cold as ever; the burn from the whiskey can't even touch him now.
Another sigh, even more impatient. Tap, tap, tap… the rhythm is off, the footsteps light on the floor. "Jack… the drink won't get rid of me, Jack."
"The hell it won't!"
The words are a snarl, bitter and defensive. He's trying to hold on, trying not to fall, but he has the sinking sensation that he will fail. Throwing his head back, he downs the rest of the contents of his glass, smacking his lips loudly as he slams the fragile glass down on the counter. It's a miracle it doesn't break.
He's breathing heavy, his wary eyes wide and alert in something akin to pure panic. He cocks his head to the side, ignoring the skulking bartender who's trying his damndest to avert Jack's gaze, ignoring the other patrons as they drown their own sorrows in two-bit liquor.
A second passes but the chill remains. And then…tap, tap tap…
"I'm still here, Jack." There's that voice again, smarmy as ever.
And to think that he used to actually listen to that voice…
Slowly, while trying to keep his balance as the bum barstool teeters to the left before tottering to the right, Jack spins on his seat. He's been through this before—it's not as bad as the nightmares but only because he's awake enough (if not sober enough) to know that he's hallucinating—and he knows the cold won't go until he turns.
Slowly, Jack turns around and, with a scowl and a snort, he comes face to face with the past.
The past… it looks like hell. Jack has to fight hard to refrain from vomiting up three glasses of piss warm whiskey.
There's soot on the boy's face, staining the formerly white flesh dark. Blue eyes, part wise but undeniably naïve, are sunken into gaunt cheeks; slivers of clean skin peek out from under the black ash, the lines of dried tears traveling from cheek to chin.
His hair is still curly, if matted by sweat, and… and despite everything, David Jacobs can still manage to twist his haughty features in such a way that Jack feels guilty for just breathing.
"Jack, tell me… what are you doing here?" David's almost pouting now, but there's remorse in his voice. He doesn't understand how anyone, Jack Kelly least of all, could willingly spend their time—and their earnings—in such a hovel.
"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" he whispers, rubbing his palms absently along the lengths of his faded, torn trousers. "But you ain't here, Dave, are ya? You ain't 'cause you're dead." His voice raises, his hand rises. He points at his former friend, no more in control of his shakes than he his of his voice. "You're dead, Dave, I saw you die!"
As if to make his point, he looks down.
Flames—vivid red and bright orange—lick at David's feet, while thick, black smoke encompasses most of his lower body. A ring of ash circles the boy, but he's unperturbed by any of it. He feels no heat, nor does Jack. Instead, an unbelievable chill surrounds David, filling Jack's corner of the bar.
Wide eyes, full of regret and things only the visionary can see, dance upwards, staring outward—looking anywhere, everywhere but at the specter before him.
David doesn't say anything; the only sound that can be heard is the fierce popping and crackling of the phantom flames that claimed his life and follow him in death. He doesn't leave, either, though he knows his appearance is unwelcome. His old friend looks petrified to see him—petrified or just plain guilty.
Jack hears the popping and the crackling and, all too vividly, he remembers that night. Or, perhaps, he's remembering the nightmares that came before, or the nightmares that followed. Still, he wants nothing more than to forget and, in an attempt to, he childishly lifts his hands and covers his ears.
The ghoulish sounds seep into his brain regardless.
"Jack, listen to me," David begins, entirely aware that Jack can still hear every word he says, "I need you. We need you."
That does it. Every man's got his breaking point and, while Jack is damaged beyond repair, this new strain has enticed him to shatter. He falls to pieces, scattered amongst the filth and debris on the tavern floor. Too weak to reassemble the shards, he lowers his hands and lowers his head.
"Go away, Dave!" His voice cracks in the middle of his command; he's a far cry from the charming boy who once rallied the working kids of New York.
Jack Kelly, the great Cowboy, is nothing but another casualty. In all ways but the ones that really count, he's just as dead as all the others. How ever could hehelp them? He needs all the damn help he can get.
"Jack…"
"I said go away," he mumbles, purposely turning his back on the ghost. His stool wobbles again—unsteady hands shoot out to grip the counter before him—but, as soon as he's facing forward again, he feels the warmth, sudden and containing. In the absence of that unnatural cold, even this dump is toasty.
David's gone, and Jack hopes he never comes back.
He rubs his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and he rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. He feels like he's gasping, choking for air, but he doesn't make a sound—save for the rapping of his knuckles against the bar top.
All the while, the sleazy bartender at the end of the counter doesn't say a word. He's been through this all before, but what does it matter when the kid always overpays? If Jack wants to rant and rave at the empty air, why should he stop him?
Without making any contact with those crazy, haunted eyes, the bartender steps forward and tops off Jack's whiskey glass.
And Jack wonders how many more glasses until he finally drowns.