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leading-manhattan · 6 months ago

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Jack's been settling nicely into his new life with his latest foster family. He's really, truly happy for the first time in what feels like forever. It's really no surprise that something pops up and throws a wrench into the new life he's started building for himself. With his father potentially about to be released from prison he feels unsafe and plans to take matters into his own hands.

That is, at least, until Spot catches him in the act.

Modern AU.

Jack is the fun one. He's a man built on charm, humor, and confidence. It's a persona that Jack's meticulously built over the years after nearly a decade of bouncing restlessly around in the system. His past is painted in a vast array of blues, purples, and red and he can't let anyone know that the mistreatment and disregard he's faced has affected him as much as it has. No one wants damaged goods. The second people hear that he's a foster kid they immediately assume that he's troubled and as much as that irks him he can't do anything about it. He can, however, show them a kid who's strong and unafraid.

Jack has been so careful to maintain the image he's crafted. He's been at this home for months now and it's been perfect. His foster mom was the sweetest lady Jack's ever met but she was also big and bold and carried with her a warmth that he'd never known before. She owned a theater just a few streets down where she played films and opened the space up for brilliant theatre productions that Jack had sat in awe of the first time he saw everything come together to tell such an intricate story. He had a foster brother, a rough and tumble guy that Jack was pretty sure hated him, but Spot left him alone for the most part so it was already more than he ever got from his past foster siblings. Hell, he went to school and he made friends. He even reunited with a few boys from a group home he'd been in when he was younger. Things were good.

Then his social worker showed up and Jack felt his mask crack.

Jack is terrified. It's been years since his father was arrested and Jack had been so sure that he'd never have to deal with the bastard again. Then his social worker stopped by this morning to tell him it was very possible his father would be released early for good behavior and shattered any sense of security he had. On the off chance he was granted release he apparently wanted custody back. Jack doesn't know what to do. The courts have never worked in his favor before and he knew that he'd be denied emancipation if he tried to apply; he was a troubled kid with a record, he needed guidance. He was powerless, at the mercy of people who claimed to care but never helped him when he needed them. He hasn't been this scared since he found his mother's corpse back when he was six, beaten to death by his father's hands and left to rot in the master bedroom.

He's been texting Crutchie and Racetrack all morning, nose buried in his screen even as he settled down at the table for breakfast. He wasn't exactly enamored by the idea of running away, he liked it here with Medda, but it was an option he was seriously considering. Crutchie and Racetrack acted as the little angel and devil on his shoulders respectively. Crutch was adamant that it was a bad idea, that he should just talk to Medda about it

She'd try to fight for him if push came to shove he said. Jack appreciated the sentiment but he didn't think Medda would go through the hassle of court just for a kid she's only known for a few months. Race was plotting how to hide Jack in his basement.

A hand slams onto the table in front of him and Jack nearly jumps out of his skin, head snapping up to stare wide-eyed at Spot. Spot glowers down at him and Jack instinctively sneers back, clutching his phone tightly to hide how his hands start to tremble. "No phones at the table." Spot sniffs, leaning back with a satisfied smirk that makes Jack's blood boil.

"It's alright, Sean." Medda assures from across the room. They can see her over the island counter separating the kitchen from the dining room, her back turned to them as she goes about making breakfast at the stove. She knows, of course, what's going on with Jack. He couldn't have hid it from her even if he wanted to. His social worker spilled her guts without even asking Jack's opinion. Spot frowns, eyeing Jack in search of whatever's giving him special treatment. Jack glares back, pointedly ignoring how his phone vibrates against his palm. Spot looks away first with a scoff and a roll of his eyes and Jack tries not to let the relief show on his face. Spot's left him alone for the most part but that didn't mean Jack wasn't painfully aware of how fucking buff the guy was. Jack had half a foot on him and he still knew that Spot could beat his ass if he wanted to. He wasn't in the right mindset to think about that right now.

Spot doesn't even try to hide his disdain as Medda brings in two plates piled high with pancakes, sausage, and eggs and Jack resists the urge to squirm under the fire in his stare. Jack didn't even do anything, he wasn't breaking any rules he didn't have permission to, but Spot was acting like he'd killed someone and wouldn't confess.

"What?" Jack snaps when Spot won't stop staring. Neither of them even moves to touch their food and Medda looks between them with open confusion and muted amusement.

"Nothin'," Spot shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't stop staring. If anything his eyes harden and his scowl deepens and Jack's stomach twists with an old dread that's been dormant for the past four months. He knows that look, he's achingly familiar with that look, and he hates the primal fear that bursts to life in his chest in response to it. His heart beats like a hummingbird's wings, caged beneath his ribs, and he snarls to cover the swell of terror.

"Jack," Medda scolds softly yet firmly and Jack averts his gaze swiftly. They both know that Jack practically has a foot out the door at this point but he didn't want to give her any reason to get rid of him before she had to. "Sean." She says in the same tone and Jack blinks in surprise. Usually he's the only one being told off. Even if he got baited into a fight, sometimes even if he wasn't part of the fight at all. That's just how it's always been. Sean huffs but uncrosses his arms and starts eating. Jack finds that he doesn't have much of an appetite and returns to his phone, relaying the oddities that just occurred to Crutchie and Racetrack. She likes you. Crutchie texts back easily.

Get fucked, Conlon. Race says. --

Jack's anxiety only builds throughout the week. It gets so bad that he can't sleep without waking up from violent nightmares, thrashing awake and digging his teeth into his palm in a desperate attempt to keep frantic cries quiet. He's exhausted and even before he started losing sleep he was far too distracted to focus in class. It was already starting to reflect in his grades with all the missing daily assignments and homework sheets. Jack was terrified that Medda would find out before he could get his act together and fix it.

His usual charm has been replaced by a hollow stare and a haunting lethargy that leaves his friends worried and caring. Jack would feel worse about that if they didn't go out of their way to try and make him feel better. Racetrack, it turns out, was serious about the whole basement thing. He shows Jack pictures at lunch of the blanket fort he made filled with pillows and snacks and it fills Jack with flashes of affection that briefly smother the chill of fear. No matter how much he appreciates the care from his boys it doesn't do much to alleviate the constant anxiety that thrums through him like a poison.

When Jack crawls home that evening he feels like he's been carved open and scooped out, empty and cold and rotting, and he makes a beeline for his room despite Medda trying to get his attention. He needs out. He needs to get away. He needs to feel safe and he can't do that here. The security that Medda offered him has chipped away. If he stayed here and his father got out then he'd know exactly where Jack was and the mere idea of being hunted down like a piece of property makes Jack's stomach roll and twist. He has to leave. He bolts into his room like there's a monster right on his heel and slams the door behind him, his backpack sliding off his shoulders and hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Racetrack. He has to go to Racetrack's, Race would hide him away. He whips out his phone and sends a quick text to Racer and the groupchat they have with Crutchie telling them both to delete any text messages even so much as joking about Jack running or staying at Racetrack's place before throwing his phone carelessly onto his bed. He can feel the panic bubbling up and boiling over in his chest, spilling out over his limbs. He tries to keep his breathing even as he drops to his knees and starts digging through his closet for the suitcase he used to move in back in July.

His hands are shaking and his body feels frail, weak and small in a way that's familiar and vile. He forces himself to drag the ratty little suitcase out of the closet and starts shoving the essentials in. He'd dump his school supplies and fill his backpack with what he could too. It's not like he could go back to school. That'd be the first place people would look and he wouldn't risk getting caught. He despises how much he has to give up just to feel like he wasn't in danger. It's not fair but he's learned long ago that life would be cruel to whoever it wanted. He shoves all the clothes he owns into the suitcase haphazardly and turns to grab his backpack only to freeze halfway off the floor. His door is open and Spot is standing by his bed with his phone held in his hand. Spot's flippantly scrolling through something with sharp eyes and a frown firmly in place. Jack realizes distantly that he left his phone unlocked on the message he'd just sent the groupchat begging them to help him cover his tracks. Jack's breath stutters and for a second he can't fucking breathe.

Spot shoots him a curious look but his expression doesn't shift, "Plannin' on bookin' it, are you?" He drawls, gaze falling back to Jack's phone.

"Fuck you," Jack growls. The cacophony of emotions swirling around in the void swallowing him whole all collide and Jack tries pathetically to keep the sudden rush of tears at bay. Spot Conlon was not the kind of boy you showed weakness in front of and Jack was pitifully aware that he was already vulnerable enough in this state.

"Good one, Kelly," Spot huffs a soft laugh, still not taking his eyes off the private messages he had no right to be reading. Jack doesn't know what to do. He's unsteady as it is, caught in the throes of panic and desperation, and he wouldn't be able to take Spot even if he was at his best. Spot suddenly stops scrolling and his eyes narrow at whatever he finds on the screen. His expression twists in open disgust, fury bright and undeniable on his face, and Jack's stomach drops. Spot's glare snaps up to Jack and he's helpless to stop the choked noise that rips from his throat when all that anger is suddenly directed at him.

Spot tosses the phone back onto the mattress and immediately starts stalking towards Jack. Jack scrambles away in the hope of maintaining the distance between them. Surprisingly Spot stops, raising his hands in surrender before he slowly crouches down. What? Jack thinks, baffled and slightly hysterical, as Spot's face softens into something that could almost be sympathetic. "Your dad hurt you?" He asks out of nowhere.

Jack flinches, scooting back until his back hits the wall. His chest is heaving with rapid gasps for air and no matter how much he inhales it feels like he's suffocating. Spot waits patiently, not quite worried but certainly not as hostile as he usually is. Jack doesn't understand. "What're you doin'?" Jack wheezes through the tightness in his chest, "You hate me."

"I don't hate you, moron," Impossibly Spot's face somehow softens more. His mouth is still set in a hard frown but his eyes are almost warm as he gazes back at Jack. Could've fooled me, Jack wants to say but his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth. Spot lowers himself further, sitting down fully and crossing his legs neatly beneath him. Jack's eyes flick briefly to the open door. "My ma beat the shit outta me." Spot says apropos of nothing. Jack stills in the sheer shock that washes over him. "Don't remember my old man but whatever happened fucked Ma up good and she took it all out of me. 'S how I ended up in the system. Medda pulled me out a few years back. It took me a long time to realize she wasn't gonna be like everyone else. She cares, ya know?"

Jack knows what Spot's doing. It isn't the first time someone shared something personal with him in an attempt to get him to open up in return. It's not the genius move that Spot must think it is. Still, focusing on Spot's story helped calm Jack down and he finds himself hesitantly answering Spot's initial question. He nods and swallows thickly, "Yeah." He croaks. Spot immediately nods back. A flash of something sad and understanding dances across his features but it's gone just as quickly as it came. Maybe, Jack acknowledges, he isn't the only one that puts up a front.

"What's he in for?" Spot asks it like they're talking about nothing more than their hobbies. A fun little get-to-know-you game and not the horrors of his father's incarceration.

"Manslaughter," Jack answers, expression darkening, "It wasn't an accident."

"So, he wants custody, huh?" Spot sucks his teeth, "That blows."

Jack barks a startled laugh and lifts a shaky hand to wipe away the tears pooling in his eyes. "Yeah, well, I ain't got a say in it." He mutters bitterly. The sun is starting to set now and Jack watches the orange bars painted by the blinds shift lazily across the wall.

"Maybe you should give us a chance, kid," Spot says. Jack scoffs, Spot is only a year older than him. Then the words actually register. "Running away won't keep you safe long. They'll find you."

"Why?" Jack sniffs, anger rushing in, "Medda ain't gonna fight for me. She doesn't even know me." As much as Jack wants to stay he doesn't think it'd do him any good. He'd stay, his social worker would show up, and Medda would let him go with a quiet goodbye and nothing more.

"Of course she'd fight for you," Spot snorts, rolling his eyes, "She loves you."

"Why?" Jack presses, disbelieving.

Spot shrugs, "Beats me. You'd have to ask her."

"Why are you tryin' to convince me to stay? The hell do you get outta this?" Jack can't just take all of this at face value. Spot's barely talked to him outside of some snarky comments here and there and now all of a sudden he's trying to convince Jack to stick around. The ugly thought that maybe Spot wants Jack to get sent back to his father crosses his mind but he quickly bats it away. Spot was a bit mean but he's never been cruel.

"Did it ever cross your mind that I don't hate you? Maybe I actually like you, you idiot. You're happy here. I've seen it. If Medda ain't gonna fight for you, which she would, I will." Spot explains easily. Jack wishes he'd stop saying all of this so casually. He keeps dropping bombs on Jack's reality without even batting an eye.

"I don't get it," Jack confesses softly, voice floating through the air of the quickly dimming room. The warmth from the setting sun contrasts with the coolness of the spilling shadows and Jack thinks that they're at an impasse.

"We're brothers, Kelly, not by blood but in blood. We fought tooth and nail to get where we are today and I'll be damned if I watch that all be for nothin'." Spot spits it with such fire and conviction that it makes Jack cringe back, pressing his shoulders into the wall like he could blend into it if he tried hard enough. Spot quiets but the determination doesn't ebb, "I'll back you up, Jack, and if we can't win the case I'll help you pack these damn bags myself, alright?"

Jack ponders this, watching as the bars of light from the blinds start crawling across Spot's shoulders. Spot waits patiently and Jack releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He swallows and nods slowly, "Okay." He breathes.

Spot grins, "I got you, kid." He assures. Jack thinks he might believe him.