Jack's been in a police station before, though this is his first time dealing with Feds. It's not nearly as worrying as it likely should be, considering they (allegedly) just stole $3.2 million, but this had practically been a bullet of its own on the basic schedule left for them by their mysterious fifth (or however many people they were working for, though Merritt had pointed out there was only the one handwriting style).
It doesn't take Jack long to get bored waiting on the FBI to get to him. The last few days have been hectic, nailing down the last things they need to carry their momentum all the way to New York - and to whatever comes after that. He knows none of them got much sleep last night, and he's not about to pass up the chance to catch up on that sleep now, while he's got time.
And so, he gets comfortable, scooting his chair back as far as the handcuffs will allow, kicking his feet up onto the table, and dozes off. He's pretty sure there's not a lot of danger that he'll sleep through whatever questions the FBI will have for him.
As it turns out, it's a short nap. After getting little off of McKinney and Atlas, save for almost called out (too close, Merritt, too soon) and handcuffed to a table (much better, all a part of the plan), it's time for Dylan to move onto Jack and Henley. It doesn't take him much doing to convince Alma that he might have better luck alone, pushing condescention into his voice until she just raises her eyebrows and gestures him towards Jack's room with a flat "By all means" and with a grunt, he heads in, making a beeline for the table at the center of the room.
He takes the long way around it, nudging his chair with his foot as he goes, and then settles himself into the seat opposite him and his file on him onto the table. Belatedly, coolly, he starts, "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. This ain't kindergarten."
Jack doesn't startle but does blink up at the agent across the table as he takes his feet down and scoots forward a little - though he stills stays far enough back from the table that he can sprawl, calling on all his years as a teenage almost-delinquent. "I'm not the one saying shit like 'eggs and bakey'," he shoots back with a smirk.
"Pretty sure Kill Bill doesn't count as kindergarten. Taking a nap while in FBI custody, on the other hand ... " He flashes him a tight, humorless smile, accompanied by a shrug, and, as it fades, flips the file open, glancing down at it. He rakes his tongue over his teeth, then returns his attentions to him slowly. "So. You wanna be a good little boy and tell me what the hell's going on here?"
"Pretty sure I heard that on Teen Titans first, so." Jack mirrors the smile and shrug almost exactly - and then blinks at him when he opens the file. "Uh... isn't it kind of your job to figure that out?"
Dylan sighs, taking care not to overexaggerate the sound, and with a textbook drone, recites, "You and your guys took Credit Republican for about three million and are claiming magic." He wiggles his fingers at Jack on the last, shifting a little as he puts his hand back to the table, drops back into his normal tone. "I don't buy it. Now, yeah, I am gonna figure it out, but I figured I'd give you, Atlas, McKinney and Reeves a chance to dig yourself outta the hole you're making here before I bury you in it."
A beat, and then he prompts, "So ... ?"
"Did you miss the part about the teleportation helmet and the portal thing?" Jack asks, tilting his head a little. "I mean, I don't really know exactly how it all works, because, y'know, magic, but I'm pretty sure those had a lot to do with it."
"You get that I realizes that that's -- " He hesitates intentionally, cutting himself off before he can say bullshit, as if he has no idea what will happen if he says it now, away from Etienne, despite the fact that he knows all too well. Nothing will happen, but it's all a part of the show. " -- that's crap, right? I figured that was kind of implied when I said claiming, but maybe I wasn't clear enough."
Jack can't help but smirk, realizing exactly what he carefully didn't say, and rolls his shoulders. "Hey, man, you don't believe it, whatever. Doesn't really change the fact that I was, y'know, actually there, and that's sure what it looked like to me. And the other guys. And our entire audience."
He doesn't seem to like the look on Jack's face very much, jaw tightening and relaxing in the pause that follows, feigned temper flaring. Let Jack think he's pushing his buttons. That's all part of the plan -- all part of the test this is, as much as it is him just wanting to meet them, face to face. If honey doesn't sway him, he wants to see how he deals with threats, if he caves then. He hopes not, is pretty sure not, but he needs to know for certain if he made the right choices here. He needs to know he's put his faith in the right place before this goes on any longer, before they get to New Orleans, to New York, to the end.
That in mind, he lets himself seem to lose the war against his frustration and bares his teeth in response. "Now, look here, you little shit ... "
Jack's been threatened by bigger dogs than Agent Rhodes who wouldn't have been afraid to use a knife or gun or bat or their own fists against him. On the street, with no one around, Jack might be more concerned about diffusing things. In here, with the table between them and the cameras on them, a law-bound G-man's temper means nothing to him. The smirk doesn't move, even as he raises his chin a little as he interrupts, "What? If this was gonna go anywhere, we wouldn't all be napping in holding."
He pauses a beat, then. "And I gotta tell you, man, you guys have got some shit equipment around here. These things don't even stay locked right." He moves one hand where they've been resting on the table through the conversation - and much like Daniel's, the circle of metal around his wrist falls open. "I kept having to put them back on before the nap sounded like a good idea."
Dylan's eyes dart down to his wrists, to the open handcuffs, then back to Jack, his lips twitching. He manages to play it off as shock, and then a renewed look of disgust, instead of the smile he's actually fighting. After a moment, he rolls his eyes to keep them from being too telling, either, and shakes his head. "Alright, you know what?" He pushes back from the table. "We're done here. You can keep your little secrets. Just don't come crying to me for mercy or -- whatever when I get ready to nail your asses to the wall."
Jack misses the hidden smile entirely even while he's still watching Rhodes. He shrugs a little to the rant, smirk fading a little as he asks, "Does that mean I can go back to my nap, now?"
"You can do whatever you want," he says, waving his file at him as he scoops it up, stands up. The looks that proceeds what he says next seems to suggest that this is not how it works, out in the real world, and that he shouldn't get used to it. Prison won't be so luxurious. "I mean, you're gonna anyway, right?"
If Jack gets the implications, he ignores those, too, in favor of pretending to consider that for a moment before he nods, "Kinda."
He pauses, again, and then asks, "Can I get a pillow?"
"Go screw yourself, Wilder," he spits in response. That said, he turns to push the intercom, to signal his release. It takes all his willpower not to look satisifed as the door closes behind him. Even without seeing Henley yet, he's sure now that he got the right group of kids for the job.
And behind him, Jack lets his own satisfaction show as he slips his hands free of the handcuffs, kicks his feet back up onto the table, crosses his arms across his chest, and, as threatened, resumes his nap.
The news that the theatre has booked Emil Maxton is met with excitement from most of the staff and confusion from the rest. When someone clarifies that the man is a magician, Jack nearly sprains something rolling his eyes. He's far too old for rabbits in hats and, while he appreciates a lovely assistant as much as the next hormone-riddled sixteen-year-old, he couldn't care less whether or not they were being sawed in half.
Maxton seems nice enough when he gets there, his wardrobe remarkably devoid of bow ties or top hats. He does have a cane, but he actually seems to need it - even when he leaves it standing on its own with no visible support while he talks to the theatre's manager. He also has only one assistant, and she's only slightly younger than Maxton himself and sticks to suits of her own instead of anything covered in sequins.
Jack's just rotated onto usher duty when Maxton's shows start. The set is simpler than Jack was expecting, though the "mysterious" music is enough to make him roll his eyes again. He feels his face heat when he realizes Maxton's seen him, and he beats a retreat to the lobby for more programs before he sees the performer's own amusement.
Then, one night, someone in the audience actually needs assistance, and Jack has a reason to be in the house during the show. He doesn't mean to pay attention to the act itself, but he also can't help it - and then he can't make himself look away.
Jack's been doing his share of pickpocketing to supplement his income and state allowance for a while, now. Everything he knows, he's figured out and taught himself, and he's good at it - but Maxton is clearly better. While he apparently performs a basic card trick, he calmly removes the tie, watch, wallet, and belt of his hapless victim - all to much laughter and applause.
During the next show, Jack sneaks into the house and slips into a seat in the back row - and nearly gets fired when his boss finds out he watched almost the entire show, but the write-up is worth it - as is getting in trouble that night for staying up too late watching videos on YouTube.
He's early to the theatre the next day, wanting to use the time to catch up on some homework, and he nearly drops his book when a handful of cards appears in his face. "Pick a card," a familiar voice suggests, and Jack blinks up at Maxton as he kneels in the seat in front of Jack.
"What?" Jack returns, intelligently, and Maxton smiles.
"Pick a card," he repeats. "Unless you'd like me to pick for you."
"Sure?"
Maxton chuckles and makes a show of picking one out of the deck, and, though Jack rolls his eyes when it turns out to be one of the jacks, he's smiling, too - and then blinks when the man gestures and is holding one of the tickets instead of a playing card. "I know you'd like to actually see the show, and this might reduce the chances that you'll anger your boss again."
"Man, I can't," Jack complains. "That'll get me in trouble if I take something from the talent."
"I'll have a word with your boss. If you're interested. Because I know you were quite the opposite before I arrived."
Jack feels his face heat, and he ducks his head. "Uh, yeah. It's kinda cool after all."
"Then I'll have a word with your boss," Maxton repeats and tucks the ticket back into the deck, which he holds out to Jack. "At the least, these are for you."
Jack hesitates again and then takes it. "Thanks."
Maxton just nods to him and pushes himself up, reaching for the cane balancing at the end of the row as he makes his way up to the stage.
"Hey," Jack calls as he flips through the deck. "What'd you do with the ticket?"
Maxton stops, half-turning. "Check your pocket," he suggests, and Jack frowns, sitting up a little so he can reach into his pockets - and then stops when he comes up with it.
"Holy shit," he mutters, and Maxton's chuckle reaches him as the man steps into the wings.
"It's Zack," he says, for what has to be the hundredth time. The kid's only been at the group home for three days and, for some reason, he seems to have adopted Zack. It might have had something to do with the fact that Zack had bothered to make sure there was something left when the kid was too busy crying to come get food, but that was something any of them would have done. It means nothing.
Not that the kid seems to know that, and he's hanging over the back of Zack's chair, now. "Thack?" he tries, and Zack rolls his eyes.
"What do you want, kid?" he mutters, trying to keep his attention on the worksheet he has no interest in doing, and the kid shrugs.
"I dunno."
Zack huffs out a breath, reaching up to rake his hair back out of his face. This is why he keeps to himself. For a while, the kid seems happy to just watch Zack struggle with his homework. When the presence behind him shifts, Zack dares to assume the kid's found someone else to bother - but then there's a mop of blond hair in front of him, and Zack reels back, rolling his eyes again. "What the hell do you want?" he tries this time, and the kid turns wide brown eyes to Zack's face.
"Mama said that's a bad word."
"It look like your mom's here?" Zack shoots back before he can think about the fact that the kid in front of him did just lose his mom - and that he's barely eight, and his stomach drops when tears begin welling in the kid's eyes. "Sorry, kid. Today just sucks."
The kid just nods and wanders off and Zack resists the urge to apply his palm to his forehead, just looking back at his sheet. He's trying to catch up with another new set of curriculum, and he doesn't have time to worry about some other kid's problems when he's got plenty of his own.
--
As many times as he tells himself that, Zack is always eventually reminded that it's all a lie. This time, it lasts all of a day. The next night, Zack wakes up drenched in sweat, his blankets tangled around him, one hand pressed to his mouth to stop himself being heard. He knows they all have nightmares; he doesn't need any of them asking if he's okay.
It takes him a few minutes to calm down enough that he starts feeling sleepy again, and he kicks his blankets off and rolls onto his side - and comes face to face with a worn stuffed bear. He knows exactly who it belongs to, and he feels even more like an ass for snapping at the kid the day before - but it also makes him smile, and the rest of the night is dreamless.
--
It's the kid's turn the next night, and Zack wakes up to hear soft crying from across the room. For a moment, he considers going back to sleep, but then he remembers the bear and sighs, slipping out of his bunk and padding his way silently across the room. The kid is curled up tightly with his blanket covering all of him but his forehead and hair, and Jack carefully eases it down. The kid only curls up tighter, and Jack runs a hand over his back. "Hey, it's okay."
"I want my mom," the kid sobs in return, and Zack huffs out a sigh.
"Yeah, me, too," he admits, and the kid goes still, turning his head to look up at him.
"You lost your mom?"
"Yeah," Zack whispers back. "She got sick and didn't get better."
"Mine, too." He settles again, and Zack's starting to think he might have fallen back asleep when the kid speaks again. "Jack?"
For a moment, Zack almost corrects him, but it doesn't seem worth it at this point. "Yeah?"
"Will you stay with me?"
His immediate reaction is to refuse, but instead, he nods. "Yeah, sure. Shove over."
--
The next week, after Zack's back in the group home, he wakes up to the kid crawling into his bed in the middle of the night. He doesn't have the energy to refuse him, so he just holds up the blanket and lets the kid in, draping an arm over him when he curls into Zack's side.
The week after that, one of the kid's uncles comes to pick him up, and Zack will never admit that he misses him. He'll also never admit that the next time he introduces himself to someone, when his worker says, "And this is Zack", he automatically says, "Jack, actually."
The presentation of the memory is slow and smooth enough that Jack doesn't flinch; in fact, he goes still, focusing so he can get all of what Dylan's showing him. It is better than what he saw in the crystal, but the emotion is the same, and he reaches up carefully so as not to shake Dylan's hand off his shoulder and thumbs at his eyes. "Thanks," he manages, his voice thick.
Dylan grunts in response, not quite trusting his throat not to betray him if he tries for anything more right off the bat. It takes him a moment to compose himself, despite the fact that there are no tears on his end, the hurt old enough by now that it's a sore scar, not a freshly bleeding wound, and when he manages, he breathes out, takes his hand away from Jack's shoulder finally, slowly.
Never mind the fact that all he can manage, still, is a murmured, "Yeah."
Jack doesn't let him get far when he takes his hand away, immediately taking a step forward to hug him tightly. It's the least hesitance he's shown in starting physical contact between them, but he's pretty sure they could both use it at this point.
Dylan, as per usual, doesn't try and escape the hug. Instead, he pulls Jack close, all but clinging, though he would never, ever admit as much. He just -- it's been a rough last few days and he needs this. He needs the physical contact.
"Sorry," Dylan mutters in spite of himself and never mind the fact that Jack doesn't seem to be squirming to get away. Or the fact that he really has no intention of letting him go, if only for the next few minutes.
Jack thumps his fist gently against Dylan's shoulder by way of reprimand, since shaking his head or waving that off effectively would require moving, and he's really not in a hurry. "I'm not going anywhere."
Dylan nudges him back, albeit not enough to force him to move, to let him. It's more the principle of the thing, really. He can be sorry if he wants to, thank you very much.
"How so?" Never mind the fact that he picked them -- him, Daniel, Henley and Merritt. Never mind the fact that he did, in fact, start all this. He's trying for teasing, even if it falls a little flat.
Jack snorts, softly. "That doesn't count as a point for you, by the way. I was kinda busy not getting my ass kicked by that other guy at the time." Which he's sure Dylan will remember.
"That totally counts as a point for me," Dylan insists. "You were far enough away from the guy that he wasn't actually a threat by that point." Never mind the fact that Jack may or may not have been doing something magical to cover himself without realizing it, too.
Jack did and didn't realize it. He's known for a while he had a knack for slipping through crowds and getting away from people who would come after him, considering his life has literally depended on it a few times, but he would never have thought about it being actual magic. "Yeah, whatever," he returns and nudges Dylan again, this time to check in.
"You're just sour I'm right," he shoots back. A nudge in return follows, a breath out, some of his mirth fading, and then slowly, he forces himself to let Jack go, to step back.
"Ah, shaddup," Jack drawls in return, though the smile and laughter is audible in his tone - and then he steps back, too, concern replacing his own amusement. "You alright?"
Dylan snorts -- then lets out another heavy exhale as Jack pulls away. Despite that, though, and in response to the question, he nods. "I will be, yeah." A beat. "You?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
For Kali
Date: 2015-05-14 02:48 am (UTC)It doesn't take Jack long to get bored waiting on the FBI to get to him. The last few days have been hectic, nailing down the last things they need to carry their momentum all the way to New York - and to whatever comes after that. He knows none of them got much sleep last night, and he's not about to pass up the chance to catch up on that sleep now, while he's got time.
And so, he gets comfortable, scooting his chair back as far as the handcuffs will allow, kicking his feet up onto the table, and dozes off. He's pretty sure there's not a lot of danger that he'll sleep through whatever questions the FBI will have for him.
As it turns out, it's a short nap. After getting little off of McKinney and Atlas, save for almost called out (too close, Merritt, too soon) and handcuffed to a table (much better, all a part of the plan), it's time for Dylan to move onto Jack and Henley. It doesn't take him much doing to convince Alma that he might have better luck alone, pushing condescention into his voice until she just raises her eyebrows and gestures him towards Jack's room with a flat "By all means" and with a grunt, he heads in, making a beeline for the table at the center of the room.
He takes the long way around it, nudging his chair with his foot as he goes, and then settles himself into the seat opposite him and his file on him onto the table. Belatedly, coolly, he starts, "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. This ain't kindergarten."
Jack doesn't startle but does blink up at the agent across the table as he takes his feet down and scoots forward a little - though he stills stays far enough back from the table that he can sprawl, calling on all his years as a teenage almost-delinquent. "I'm not the one saying shit like 'eggs and bakey'," he shoots back with a smirk.
"Pretty sure Kill Bill doesn't count as kindergarten. Taking a nap while in FBI custody, on the other hand ... " He flashes him a tight, humorless smile, accompanied by a shrug, and, as it fades, flips the file open, glancing down at it. He rakes his tongue over his teeth, then returns his attentions to him slowly. "So. You wanna be a good little boy and tell me what the hell's going on here?"
"Pretty sure I heard that on Teen Titans first, so." Jack mirrors the smile and shrug almost exactly - and then blinks at him when he opens the file. "Uh... isn't it kind of your job to figure that out?"
Dylan sighs, taking care not to overexaggerate the sound, and with a textbook drone, recites, "You and your guys took Credit Republican for about three million and are claiming magic." He wiggles his fingers at Jack on the last, shifting a little as he puts his hand back to the table, drops back into his normal tone. "I don't buy it. Now, yeah, I am gonna figure it out, but I figured I'd give you, Atlas, McKinney and Reeves a chance to dig yourself outta the hole you're making here before I bury you in it."
A beat, and then he prompts, "So ... ?"
"Did you miss the part about the teleportation helmet and the portal thing?" Jack asks, tilting his head a little. "I mean, I don't really know exactly how it all works, because, y'know, magic, but I'm pretty sure those had a lot to do with it."
"You get that I realizes that that's -- " He hesitates intentionally, cutting himself off before he can say bullshit, as if he has no idea what will happen if he says it now, away from Etienne, despite the fact that he knows all too well. Nothing will happen, but it's all a part of the show. " -- that's crap, right? I figured that was kind of implied when I said claiming, but maybe I wasn't clear enough."
Jack can't help but smirk, realizing exactly what he carefully didn't say, and rolls his shoulders. "Hey, man, you don't believe it, whatever. Doesn't really change the fact that I was, y'know, actually there, and that's sure what it looked like to me. And the other guys. And our entire audience."
He doesn't seem to like the look on Jack's face very much, jaw tightening and relaxing in the pause that follows, feigned temper flaring. Let Jack think he's pushing his buttons. That's all part of the plan -- all part of the test this is, as much as it is him just wanting to meet them, face to face. If honey doesn't sway him, he wants to see how he deals with threats, if he caves then. He hopes not, is pretty sure not, but he needs to know for certain if he made the right choices here. He needs to know he's put his faith in the right place before this goes on any longer, before they get to New Orleans, to New York, to the end.
That in mind, he lets himself seem to lose the war against his frustration and bares his teeth in response. "Now, look here, you little shit ... "
Jack's been threatened by bigger dogs than Agent Rhodes who wouldn't have been afraid to use a knife or gun or bat or their own fists against him. On the street, with no one around, Jack might be more concerned about diffusing things. In here, with the table between them and the cameras on them, a law-bound G-man's temper means nothing to him. The smirk doesn't move, even as he raises his chin a little as he interrupts, "What? If this was gonna go anywhere, we wouldn't all be napping in holding."
He pauses a beat, then. "And I gotta tell you, man, you guys have got some shit equipment around here. These things don't even stay locked right." He moves one hand where they've been resting on the table through the conversation - and much like Daniel's, the circle of metal around his wrist falls open. "I kept having to put them back on before the nap sounded like a good idea."
Dylan's eyes dart down to his wrists, to the open handcuffs, then back to Jack, his lips twitching. He manages to play it off as shock, and then a renewed look of disgust, instead of the smile he's actually fighting. After a moment, he rolls his eyes to keep them from being too telling, either, and shakes his head. "Alright, you know what?" He pushes back from the table. "We're done here. You can keep your little secrets. Just don't come crying to me for mercy or -- whatever when I get ready to nail your asses to the wall."
Jack misses the hidden smile entirely even while he's still watching Rhodes. He shrugs a little to the rant, smirk fading a little as he asks, "Does that mean I can go back to my nap, now?"
"You can do whatever you want," he says, waving his file at him as he scoops it up, stands up. The looks that proceeds what he says next seems to suggest that this is not how it works, out in the real world, and that he shouldn't get used to it. Prison won't be so luxurious. "I mean, you're gonna anyway, right?"
If Jack gets the implications, he ignores those, too, in favor of pretending to consider that for a moment before he nods, "Kinda."
He pauses, again, and then asks, "Can I get a pillow?"
"Go screw yourself, Wilder," he spits in response. That said, he turns to push the intercom, to signal his release. It takes all his willpower not to look satisifed as the door closes behind him. Even without seeing Henley yet, he's sure now that he got the right group of kids for the job.
And behind him, Jack lets his own satisfaction show as he slips his hands free of the handcuffs, kicks his feet back up onto the table, crosses his arms across his chest, and, as threatened, resumes his nap.
For Dorian
Date: 2015-05-14 07:34 am (UTC)Maxton seems nice enough when he gets there, his wardrobe remarkably devoid of bow ties or top hats. He does have a cane, but he actually seems to need it - even when he leaves it standing on its own with no visible support while he talks to the theatre's manager. He also has only one assistant, and she's only slightly younger than Maxton himself and sticks to suits of her own instead of anything covered in sequins.
Jack's just rotated onto usher duty when Maxton's shows start. The set is simpler than Jack was expecting, though the "mysterious" music is enough to make him roll his eyes again. He feels his face heat when he realizes Maxton's seen him, and he beats a retreat to the lobby for more programs before he sees the performer's own amusement.
Then, one night, someone in the audience actually needs assistance, and Jack has a reason to be in the house during the show. He doesn't mean to pay attention to the act itself, but he also can't help it - and then he can't make himself look away.
Jack's been doing his share of pickpocketing to supplement his income and state allowance for a while, now. Everything he knows, he's figured out and taught himself, and he's good at it - but Maxton is clearly better. While he apparently performs a basic card trick, he calmly removes the tie, watch, wallet, and belt of his hapless victim - all to much laughter and applause.
During the next show, Jack sneaks into the house and slips into a seat in the back row - and nearly gets fired when his boss finds out he watched almost the entire show, but the write-up is worth it - as is getting in trouble that night for staying up too late watching videos on YouTube.
He's early to the theatre the next day, wanting to use the time to catch up on some homework, and he nearly drops his book when a handful of cards appears in his face. "Pick a card," a familiar voice suggests, and Jack blinks up at Maxton as he kneels in the seat in front of Jack.
"What?" Jack returns, intelligently, and Maxton smiles.
"Pick a card," he repeats. "Unless you'd like me to pick for you."
"Sure?"
Maxton chuckles and makes a show of picking one out of the deck, and, though Jack rolls his eyes when it turns out to be one of the jacks, he's smiling, too - and then blinks when the man gestures and is holding one of the tickets instead of a playing card. "I know you'd like to actually see the show, and this might reduce the chances that you'll anger your boss again."
"Man, I can't," Jack complains. "That'll get me in trouble if I take something from the talent."
"I'll have a word with your boss. If you're interested. Because I know you were quite the opposite before I arrived."
Jack feels his face heat, and he ducks his head. "Uh, yeah. It's kinda cool after all."
"Then I'll have a word with your boss," Maxton repeats and tucks the ticket back into the deck, which he holds out to Jack. "At the least, these are for you."
Jack hesitates again and then takes it. "Thanks."
Maxton just nods to him and pushes himself up, reaching for the cane balancing at the end of the row as he makes his way up to the stage.
"Hey," Jack calls as he flips through the deck. "What'd you do with the ticket?"
Maxton stops, half-turning. "Check your pocket," he suggests, and Jack frowns, sitting up a little so he can reach into his pockets - and then stops when he comes up with it.
"Holy shit," he mutters, and Maxton's chuckle reaches him as the man steps into the wings.
For Dylan
Date: 2015-05-14 04:42 pm (UTC)"It's Zack," he says, for what has to be the hundredth time. The kid's only been at the group home for three days and, for some reason, he seems to have adopted Zack. It might have had something to do with the fact that Zack had bothered to make sure there was something left when the kid was too busy crying to come get food, but that was something any of them would have done. It means nothing.
Not that the kid seems to know that, and he's hanging over the back of Zack's chair, now. "Thack?" he tries, and Zack rolls his eyes.
"What do you want, kid?" he mutters, trying to keep his attention on the worksheet he has no interest in doing, and the kid shrugs.
"I dunno."
Zack huffs out a breath, reaching up to rake his hair back out of his face. This is why he keeps to himself. For a while, the kid seems happy to just watch Zack struggle with his homework. When the presence behind him shifts, Zack dares to assume the kid's found someone else to bother - but then there's a mop of blond hair in front of him, and Zack reels back, rolling his eyes again. "What the hell do you want?" he tries this time, and the kid turns wide brown eyes to Zack's face.
"Mama said that's a bad word."
"It look like your mom's here?" Zack shoots back before he can think about the fact that the kid in front of him did just lose his mom - and that he's barely eight, and his stomach drops when tears begin welling in the kid's eyes. "Sorry, kid. Today just sucks."
The kid just nods and wanders off and Zack resists the urge to apply his palm to his forehead, just looking back at his sheet. He's trying to catch up with another new set of curriculum, and he doesn't have time to worry about some other kid's problems when he's got plenty of his own.
--
As many times as he tells himself that, Zack is always eventually reminded that it's all a lie. This time, it lasts all of a day. The next night, Zack wakes up drenched in sweat, his blankets tangled around him, one hand pressed to his mouth to stop himself being heard. He knows they all have nightmares; he doesn't need any of them asking if he's okay.
It takes him a few minutes to calm down enough that he starts feeling sleepy again, and he kicks his blankets off and rolls onto his side - and comes face to face with a worn stuffed bear. He knows exactly who it belongs to, and he feels even more like an ass for snapping at the kid the day before - but it also makes him smile, and the rest of the night is dreamless.
--
It's the kid's turn the next night, and Zack wakes up to hear soft crying from across the room. For a moment, he considers going back to sleep, but then he remembers the bear and sighs, slipping out of his bunk and padding his way silently across the room. The kid is curled up tightly with his blanket covering all of him but his forehead and hair, and Jack carefully eases it down. The kid only curls up tighter, and Jack runs a hand over his back. "Hey, it's okay."
"I want my mom," the kid sobs in return, and Zack huffs out a sigh.
"Yeah, me, too," he admits, and the kid goes still, turning his head to look up at him.
"You lost your mom?"
"Yeah," Zack whispers back. "She got sick and didn't get better."
"Mine, too." He settles again, and Zack's starting to think he might have fallen back asleep when the kid speaks again. "Jack?"
For a moment, Zack almost corrects him, but it doesn't seem worth it at this point. "Yeah?"
"Will you stay with me?"
His immediate reaction is to refuse, but instead, he nods. "Yeah, sure. Shove over."
--
The next week, after Zack's back in the group home, he wakes up to the kid crawling into his bed in the middle of the night. He doesn't have the energy to refuse him, so he just holds up the blanket and lets the kid in, draping an arm over him when he curls into Zack's side.
The week after that, one of the kid's uncles comes to pick him up, and Zack will never admit that he misses him. He'll also never admit that the next time he introduces himself to someone, when his worker says, "And this is Zack", he automatically says, "Jack, actually."
Dylan, continued
Date: 2015-07-07 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-07 06:09 am (UTC)Never mind the fact that all he can manage, still, is a murmured, "Yeah."
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Date: 2015-07-09 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-09 05:10 am (UTC)"Still holding you to that."
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