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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"Jack…"
His teeth clench.
"Jacky Boy…"
His hands fold into fists so tight that ragged nails tear into callused palms.
The footsteps are light but he hears them, as much as he tries to ignore it. The sounds of happiness and busyness of a world around him (a world apart from him) do nothing to drown out the lighthearted tapping of an insistent pursuer. It's all he hears, the simple tap tap tap. Their unfamiliarity marks them as familiar; the gentle cat-footed steps belong to someone who never walked so lightly in life.
He longs to raise his hands and cover his ears but he knows it'll do no use. Like with David, his old ally and former friend will talk and talk and keep on talking regardless of how desperately Jack doesn't want to hear. The taunting voice and sneering smirk is evident in the call of his chosen identity.
His security.
His alibi.
His one tie to whatever will keep him from following in the footsteps of his namesake. Francis Sullivan, Sr. is locked away in Sing Sing; the unwilling Jr. is locked away in his visions and his despair. He sheds that forsaken name in a way he can't shake his past. Francis Sullivan, Jr. is as dead as all the others; the shell of Jack Kelly stands hunched in his place.
Jack Kelly is Jack Kelly because he doesn't want to be anyone else.
"Jack… Jack be nimble—"
He stops, the simple power of the foolish rhyme causing his feet to stick to the dirt as if they were drawn by glue.
No.
"—Jack be quick—"
The footsteps stop.
Not again.
"—Jack jump over the candlestick—"
An involuntary shiver erupts down the course of his lanky body, goose pimples popping up over every inch of scarred flesh. His skin crawls in response to the mocking tone. There was a time when he listened to that voice. Now he would do anything to never hear it utter another word.
Bitter words, harsh words, can cut like a knife. This singsong taunt is worse; he feels the hilt of a blade deep inside. He braces himself for the eventual twist of the handle.
"—if Jack had jumped a little higher—"
His eyes closed. Trying his damndest to think of anything and everything but what that the voice will, no doubt, imply, Jack is entirely unable to tune out the end of the morbid tune.
And he waits.
"—he wouldn't have caught his ol' pal, the Walking Mouth, on fire…"
It's like a sucker punch straight to the square of his chest. His breath hitches, and his body tenses in response to the final line. Every time Brooklyn's uneasy rest causes him to rise and take to his trail, the accusations fly and the unwarranted (or so he tells himself) guilt returns.
Still, he doesn't turn around. He digs his heels into the dirt, his jaw clamped so tight that his whole body shakes. The breath is cool on his neck but an internal inferno heats him up from inside out. Jack is suddenly hot, his skin flushed, red and blotchy. Haunted by his past and a ghost what refuses to die, the unwilling living blanches from his approach, flinches from the chilled insinuation in the jeering voice.
His own voice is weak—unconvincing. Quick words tumble out, mumbled together in a jumbled mess. "Ididn'tdoit!" There's heat in his words; smoke and steam and hot figuratively emit, slipping out from beneath clenched teeth.
The answering laugh is contrite—disbelieving. Harsh, almost like a bark, he laughs and the sound hurts Jack's ears. "What was that, Jacky Boy? I didn't hear ya."
"I didn't do it."
"Eh?"
He's walking on a tightrope, like a circus performer, without a net to catch him. He's tottering, his balance failing, and the world below waits for him to fall. He snaps. "I. Didn't. Do. It—"
Like a fancy dancer, a ballerina, he spins around. He hadn't meant to do it but there's no turning back now. Never before called a coward—if he can't say the same for being branded a liar and a thief—he finds it in himself to whirl on his opponent, hellfire in his dead eyes. Jack suffers from remorse, from guilt, but even then he won't hide from the shadows that follow him.
At least, not when the shadows are so insistent as—
"—Spot."
And there he is, Spot Conlon.
Brooklyn, himself.
Jack has never forgotten that smirk.
He keeps his hands tucked smartly beneath those faded red suspenders of his. Leaning back, tilting his head up to get a better look at his old friend, Spot's lips curl back revealing once-white teeth. There's spatters of blood staining them now, his gums swollen and red. Rust-colored wet wells at the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin.
He doesn't wipe it away.
He's shorter now, Jack thinks—or, perhaps, he can't remember the exact details of Conlon. His hair is still fair, his eyes that strange, piercing shade. There's dust coating his side, a tarnished can stuck between weathered belt loops. The soles of his boots are worn down, the reason behind his uncharacteristically light footsteps obvious now; his soul is stretched, and he's just as thin.
If Jack tries real hard, he can look right through Spot.
The thought frightens him more than he can say. It's one thing to face the phantom of his past; its another to see him vanishing before his very eyes.
Then again, the visionary does see everything…
"Whatever ya say, Jack. But I don't see why ya gotta keep foolin' yourself."
Animal instincts flood through him and, baring his teeth at the specter, he growls. Exhaustion fades in the face of adrenaline; when confronted with a bald-faced lie, Jack can not hang onto his indifference. It's hard enough to keep his hold on his sanity.
"You know damn well that the fire was an accident, Spot! I'd never hurt none of them on purpose."
"Like I said: whatever ya say." He made a sound, an almost snort, and the warm, sticky blood at the corner of his mouth bubbles and splashes in his obvious amusement. Jack hurriedly, unconsciously, takes a step back to avoid the gruesome spray. "Remember, Cowboy… denial ain't just a river in Egypt."
Jack's suddenly tired again, this newest delusion more draining than he'd ever guess. He'd expected more of a fight from Spot—without one, he's weakened again. He sighs, defeated. "And what do you know about Egypt, Spot?"
"Enough."
There's that knowing smirk again.
"And what are ya doin' here, Spot?"
He didn't really expect a straight answer. A liar knows a liar—and both of them were experts at their craft. In a manner similar to his own, Jack is aware of Spot's ability to take the truth and twist it and turn it and spin it inside out until there's nothing left but a lie so expertly raveled that no one—no one, that is, but a fellow artist—could spy it for what it once was.
But Spot's through with playing games. He's already lost everything he has to lose; there's nothing to gain now by straying from the truth. And, besides, he can be honest when he's got to be, tough when there's a battle to fight… and a smartass when a fella deserves it.
This time, there's nothing for it but for Spot to tell Jack the truth.
He nods. "I got a message for ya. From Race."
Immediately, Jack's on guard. Just the sound of that name is enough to set his hair on edge, enough to trigger the pounding.
Race—
Though it does nothing but aggravate the growing discomfort that another headache with no doubt bring, Jack shakes his head roughly. "Yeah? What is it?" His voice barely trembles, his control intact. A message from Race is not something he's eager to hear.
"Time's up, Cowboy. You've thrown the dice one too many times and snake eyes finally come up."
Jack swallowed. He knew the answer but traitorous lips form the question anyway:
"And what's that mean?"
"You're next."
His grin is wicked, that knowing look seemingly cruel. Absolute enjoyment fills his once-handsome, now-distorted features. The face Spot sports is a façade; a long ago memory, a reminder, and a bad, bad dream. In his devilish amusement, thin cracks appear throughout the mask but he doesn't notice.
Jack does.
Frozen in his own (empty) world, he listens to Spot's pronouncement with a blank expression on his weathered face. Betraying no emotion, showing no sign that he acknowledges Brooklyn's gleeful act as an angel of death, he blinks once. Slowly, reveling in the respite allowed by a few minutes of lingering in total darkness, he lets his eyes close.
The words ring in his ears. They're final, the weight of them handing over him like the obvious sentence they are. He'd known that he would die before long, but the comfort and relief of knowing it would be sooner than he'd expected is missing. Only this morning he'd wished for the end but now—
—he realizes that there's still a lot to be done.
Seen.
Suddenly Jack Kelly doesn't want to die.
He shivers and, when his eyes open again, Spot is still standing there. Still smirking up at him.
His hands are no longer tucked smartly beneath his faded suspender straps. One hand hanging loosely at his side, the other outstretched towards Jack, the new position reveals a gash that near cuts the boy in half. Dark blood stains the torn shirt; small drips of the never-drying crimson fall to the dirt, ruby red puddles forming at his feet.
There's blood on his hands as he lays a reassuring arm on Jack's shoulder. "Don't worry," Spot says, his tone telling the other that he'd be foolish to believe him now, "dyin' ain't half as bad as the papes make it out to be."
Numb and unaffected, Jack shakes Spot's arm off and takes a step back.
It's only when he sees the bloody handprint on his shoulder that he loses it.