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-o-
John B knows by the sound of JJ’s feet on the porch that it’s bad.
He knows it’s JJ, of course. Early on a Saturday morning in January? Pope is helping out at the store all weekend; Kiara’s on the mainland visiting family. Big John has left for another trip, and JJ’s the only one who’s left.
And he knows the sound of JJ anywhere. Heavy boots on warped wood; the bounce to his step when he’s high. The unusually light touch when he’s sneaking in after Big John’s asleep. Familiar and easy and – not that.
The way JJ’s footfalls are just heavier than normal, a staggered pace – like he’s dragging himself forward, step after step. There’s an uneven cadence, a slight stutter stop, and John B can tell he’s slower than normal. Guarded.
He doesn’t know how bad, though.
He waits for JJ to come through the door, bracing himself for anything.
But there’s nothing. No sound of the knob; no weary knock.
In fact, the footfalls stop altogether.
John B gets up now, from where he’s lounging on his bed. He cocks his head, listening. In the cool of winter, he’s got the windows closed, and he can’t hear anything but stillness from the porch outside. He gets up on his knees, ready to peek out his window when there’s a thud.
Loud and hard.
John B’s heart skips a beat. “Shit,” he mutters, tripping his way out of bed. “JJ?”
His feet catch on his sheets, and he crashes into a wall with enough force to rattle the pictures. He kicks over an empty beer can, skidding out into the hallway to the front door.
He knows that bad just became worse.
“JJ?” he says, breathless with panic as he throws the door open. For a fleeting moment, he hopes maybe it’s okay. Maybe JJ tripped. Maybe it’s not JJ at all. Maybe it’s a freakin’ gator who came up on John B’s porch to die, which isn’t a thing, but could be a thing.
He wants it to be a thing.
“JJ?”
He stops short as he opens the door, everything going still as he takes it in.
JJ has fallen just shy of the threshold, passed out face first on the ground. One arm is tucked under his body; the other is flailed out over his head, and he’s not moving.
At all.
There’s a horrifying split second before John B pushes the door open and crashes to his knees next to JJ. He shakes – frantic – and screams, “JJ!”
To his relief, JJ stirs – body shifting slightly as his eyelids flutter. John B rolls him over to his back and JJ groans, trying and failing to curl up on himself.
“JJ,” he says again, his heart pounding in his chest and resounding between his ears. “Are you okay?”
That question is dumb as shit, even for John B. JJ’s passed out on his porch – of course he’s not okay.
More than that, now that he has JJ on his back, John B can see hints of the problem. His face is puffy and swollen on one side, his left eye swollen shut and his lip split wide. Blood is crusted from what is clearly a busted nose, and blood coats the other side of his face from a wound up in JJ’s hairline.
That’s not all. There’s a ring of bruises around JJ’s neck, and one wrist is badly swollen. JJ’s beat up t-shirt is stained and torn, and John B knows that it’s hiding more.
He’ll deal with that. He will.
But first things first.
“Come on, JJ,” he says, taking him by the arm and pulling him up.
JJ groans, slumping back.
John B fumbles, trying to get him up. “Come on.”
JJ whimpers a little as John B draws him forward, catching JJ’s dead weight against his chest, head cradled in the crook of his neck. His skin feels clammy – too cold and sweaty all the same – and he shudders against John B touch as he pulls him up.
“I got you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arm around JJ’s back and catching him under the armpit. “I got you, bub.”
It’s not a sure thing, hoisting JJ up. JJ is heavy – all limbs, face pressed against his shirt as he exhales shakily. He fumbles, trying to get his feet beneath him. JJ slips, and he scrambles to hoist him up. JJ slips, and John B hisses a curse.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words falling over each other. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
JJ doesn’t answer him; it’s not clear JJ even hears him. The silence only makes him move faster, shifting JJ once more so he has JJ’s back to his chest. There’s no way JJ will get his feet beneath him; he’s not walking through the threshold. So John B will drag him across.
“Okay,” he heaves, jaw tight as he clutches JJ with one hand and grapples backward with the other. “Okay, you’re okay.”
That’s questionable, but JJ’s not in a position to argue with him. His hand finds purchase, and he gets the door open, manipulating it open as he pulls JJ clear. He catches the open door on his back, taking an unsteady step back. JJ’s head falls forward, arms falling limp at his sides, as John B drags him across the threshold.
The progress spikes his adrenaline, and he feels the frantic skip-beat of his heart as he continues pulling JJ into the living room. There’s shit on the floor and he kicks it clear. The screen door comes back, catching JJ’s boots as it closes, and John B huffs angrily as he yanks JJ the rest of the way inside.
“See,” he says. “We’re there. Just to the couch.”
The couch is right there – almost close enough to touch – but shit it feels so far right now. His breath comes out heavy, eyes burning.
“JJ,” he says – he begs. “You’re okay, JJ.”
And this time, JJ stirs. He lifts his head, letting it flop back. John B has to turn his head away as JJ mumbles something incoherent – eyelids fluttering. “John B?”
“Yeah,” John B pants, turning them a little to angle JJ toward the couch. “You’re okay.”
JJ’s head rolls again, and he struggles to get his feet beneath him. He lurches a little, the force almost pulling him free from John B’s arm. “What–?” he says as John B struggles to keep him steady. “I’m okay–”
That’s almost laughable, but no one is in a mood to laugh.
“Just–” John B grits out, trying to keep JJ steady. “Take it easy–”
JJ responds by twisting, staggering to get his feet steady once more. John B shifts again, easing his shoulder beneath JJ’s and taking hold of his arm as it drapes around his neck.
“Okay,” he pants. “We’re just gonna–”
“John B?” JJ slurs. He lifts his head, trying to bring his eyes to focus – but the blue irises are blown wide. “I – I’m okay–”
He hates that that’s JJ’s fallback. Saying he’s okay when he’s clearly not.
But that’s JJ.
This is JJ.
He drags JJ the rest of the way, hefting JJ around to the couch and turning him. He holds him as he eases him back, catching him as best he can to control his descent. It works – mostly. JJ goes down hard, but safe.
When he goes down, JJ sprawls – arms wide and legs limp in front of him. His head falls back against the cushion as John B reaches up and taps his cheek.
“JJ?” he says, trying to bring JJ’s attention back to him. “Hey, JJ.”
JJ lifts his head a little, eyes blinking blearily as he looks at John B – and past him. “John B?”
“Yeah,” John B says, moving his hands to brace JJ by the shoulders. “What happened?”
JJ struggles for a moment, like maybe he hasn’t quite heard him. But his chest heaves – face creasing – as his gaze turns away and his eyelids flutter for a moment. “It’s okay,” he slurs. “It was my fault.”
It’s not an impossible conclusion. JJ’s been his best friend since the third grade; he knows the dumb shit JJ can get himself into. Crashing his bike; falling out of trees; surfing accidents. He picks fights he can’t win and runs his mouth until the only way to shut him up is to punch him out.
But it’s 8 AM on a Saturday morning. This isn’t from a bike or a tree. This isn’t surfing. This isn’t a Kook.
“JJ,” he says, shaking his head. “How the hell was this your fault?”
JJ hums a little, letting his eyes close as he tries to get more comfortable with a grimace. “I knew he was in a bad mood,” he says, exhaling through his nose. “I got in the way.”
John B feels incredulous, but JJ’s total acceptance of it is hard for him to fight against. They’re best friends; they know the truth.
And they know their boundaries.
They don’t talk about Big John’s obsession with gold.
And they sure as hell don’t talk about what Luke Maybank does when he’s high and drunk.
There are no secrets between them, but some truths are the kind you just don’t talk about. It’s easier that way.
Unless it’s not.
“JJ–” he starts, voice breaking slightly.
JJ opens his eyes, brows pulled together as he looks at him. “I’m fine,” he croaks. “Bree–”
John B shakes his head, blinking hard when he realizes that his eyes are burning. “You’re not okay–”
JJ flushes a little, the scarlet beneath his bruises. “I’m fine,” he says again, more vehement now as he dredges up an energy he can’t afford to expend. In frustration, he pushes himself up, shoving John B’s hands away. “I don’t need you–”
John B watches helplessly for a moment while JJ sits up. He holds his bad arm protectively to his chest, wheezing as he gets his equilibrium. He’s breathing heavily as he tries to push himself up, trying and failing to make it to his feet.
“JJ, stop–” John B says, reaching to stop him.
“I don’t need anyone,” JJ seethes, fighting against John B with new vigor. “I don’t–”
He gets to his feet shakily, John B trailing after him.
“I can’t–” he says, as he falters now. He sways, eyes going vacant as the color drains from his face again.
That it, all JJ has. His body goes limp, eyes rolling back entirely. It’s all he can do to catch him, supporting JJ’s dead weight with all he has. It nearly take them both down anyway, and John B grunts. “Dude!”
JJ’s gone, though. Eyes closed, face pale. His body slips, and John B lets gravity hel0,as he eases him back down to the couch. JJ doesn’t fight this time, and John B hastily arranges his arms and legs again,until his best friend is prone and still before him.
Unconscious and pale — but breathing and alive.
It’s better than nothing, and John B isn’t stupid. It’s the best he’s going to get.
The best JJ is going to get.
Now that JJ’s inside – now that JJ’s secure – he can’t put off the injuries any longer. His fingers are shaking as he reaches up, lightly fingering the bruises on the left side of his face. Gently, he turns JJ’s head to the side, fingering through the blood-crusted strands as best he can. He winces sympathetically, but JJ doesn’t stir, not even as he finds the deep cut running beneath his hair – crusted over with dried blood.
It’s new – but not that new. It’s been long enough for the bleeding to stop – but not that long. It’s bled enough to look worrisome, but John B doesn’t know how bad it really is.
He moves, then, tenderly feeling JJ’s nose as it shifts too much. The blood from the broken mess is a lot, but John B concludes that it probably looks worse than it is. The split in his lip is incidental – it’s been split in the same place a dozen times – and John B takes a breath to steel himself as he takes it all in.
It’s bad. But it’s not bad.
Individually, JJ’s had worse. But collectively–
He bites the inside of his lip and looks at the rest. His throat is mottled with bruises, but when John B splays a hand on JJ’s chest, he can feel a steady rise and fall. His heart is steady, if a little fast, and the bruising looks uncomfortably like a hand, wringing out a dirty cloth, but–
But nothing.
JJ’s alive.
JJ’s okay.
He knows that’s a low bar, but it’s the only bar he has right now.
“Okay,” he says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “See, we’ve got this.”
He tries to smile, the flash of confidence weak and faltering as he musters it. It would work if JJ would smile back, crack a joke – something, anything.
But JJ doesn’t flinch. He’s still out – cold.
And John B swallows it back hard, looking down at the rest of JJ’s body. His swollen wrist has been flung wide, with JJ’s palm upturned on the cushion. He doesn’t know if it’s broken; he hopes not. JJ will be pissed if a broken wrist gets him in the system.
As it is, he needs to rule out bigger concerns.
“Okay,” he says again, inhaling sharply and letting it out. “Let’s see–”
And he lifts up JJ’s shift.
Just that fast, his stomach drops. Dread fills him, rising like nausea up his throat. He wants to be sick, but he can’t let that happen. Not when JJ is–
Not with JJ–
He has to close his eyes for a second. JJ.
He opens his eyes again and faces the inevitable. The bruising on JJ’s face and neck is bad.
The bruising here is worse.
JJ looks like he’s been used as a punching bag. Black and blue is settling in across his abdomen, dark blocks in the shapes of fist. And his chest–
One flank completely discolored. And one bruise, right in the center, in the shape of a boot.
“Shit,” John B breathes. He hesitates, hands fluttering over his best friend’s battered body. For a second, he takes it in – just how bad this is.
JJ’s not just roughed up.
JJ’s been beaten. Badly.
Someone bashed his head until it bled, slammed their foot into his chest with enough force to crack his ribs, smashed his wrist, and put hands on JJ’s neck until he–
He doesn’t think it. He can’t.
JJ’s okay. JJ’s alive. JJ’s here.
He lets that ground him.
Low bars are still bars. It’s something.
John B knows how this works. It’s enough.
For the love of all that’s good, it has to be enough.
The question isn’t really what happened.
The question is what the hell is he supposed to do now.
JJ dragged himself to John B’s doorstep, bleeding and bruised. He didn’t go to a hospital. He didn’t call the cops. He came here. To John B.
He trusts John B, and he knows that. He doesn’t take it lightly. JJ is good at hiding himself; that’s what he does. He deflects; he throws up walls. The bullshit he talks is designed to distract you from the truth. JJ will throw the first punch so no one sees that he’s already been beat into the ground. JJ will fight – until he can’t.
And that’s why he’s here.
It’s a safe place.
John B is his safe place.
“Okay,” he says, and he lets the idea settle. He lets it take hold. “Okay.”
If JJ trusts him.
“Okay.”
He knows JJ is bruised; he knows JJ is blooded. Broken ribs, sprained wrist – all that shit.
But he’s breathing steady. His heartbeat is normal.
He’s not really okay. But he’s okay enough.
Sure, John B can’t rule out a head injury. But JJ had been coherent earlier. He’d looked at John B, talked to him, and knew where he was.
In short, JJ probably needs a hospital.
But he doesn’t need a hospital.
They can do this.
For JJ, John B has to do this.
“Okay,” he says, one more time. And he looks at JJ’s face, mustering up a smile. “Let me take care of you.”
-o-
John B is a kid, but he’s done this before. Maybe not this bad, maybe not this much. But taking care of JJ feels easy, somehow. Natural.
Like, they know how to get it done, the two of them. They don’t need parents. They don’t need Kooks. They just need each other.
So John B cleans the cuts. He washes away the blood, easing out the crusted strands of JJ’s hair. He clears away the blood flakes on his face, switching out washcloth after washcloths as they become saturated with blood. He has generic antiseptic for the worst of it. He wants to bandage the cut on his head, but there’s no good way to do it with JJ’s head.
It’s not bleeding, at least. If he can keep it dry and clean, John B tells himself it’s probably okay.
There’s nothing to be done for the bruising, especially if JJ’s not conscious enough to hold an icepack. He checks his throat again, and the bruises are darkening, but there’s no sign of distress. When that’s done, he sighs and steels himself for the next bit.
“It’s not personal,” he quips weakly as he lifts JJ up to pull off his shirt. “So don’t make it a thing.”
JJ’s too out of it to reply, body pliant as John B wrestles the fabric clear. He palpates the bruises gently, not really sure what he’s looking for. His belly is soft, but his ribs shift unnaturally. The bruising alone will hurt like hell.
“We’ll just stabilize it,” he says, as much to himself as JJ. “It might help, right?”
JJ doesn’t answer, splayed unconscious on the couch. John B’s resolve wavers, but he retrieves the rest of his first aid materials from the bathroom. The ace bandage is used, but clean. It'll get the job done.
He reaches down, placing his hand under JJ armpit to lift him forward, pulling him toward himself. JJ sighs heavily, body collapsing into him, and John B braces him with a hand in his hair. “I got you,” he murmurs, holding him for a second. “I got you.”
JJ still doesn’t respond, and John B locks his jaw, maneuvering JJ’s body back a little as he reaches for the bandage. It’s not easy – in fact, it’s awkward as hell without JJ conscious enough to help – but he manages to start wrapping the bandage, cinching it firmly around the middle of JJ’s ribs – just enough to provide stability. And reprieve, he hopes.
Cupping the back of JJ’s neck, he eases JJ back. He settles him against the cushions, resting his hand on JJ’s cheek for a long moment, finding comfort in his warmth. He shifts his fingers, catching them along JJ’s pulse point just to be sure, and finds comfort in the steady beat of his heart.
It’s hard to know what’s right sometimes. They’re Pogues; they fall through the cracks. Should they trust the cops? Should they go to the hospital?
It’s impossible to say.
The only thing that’s sure – the only thing that’s true – is them.
JJ and John B.
John B and JJ.
How it starts. How it ends.
Mostly, just how it is.
-o-
JJ’s out cold, but John B’s wide awake. It’s still morning, and the adrenaline fades to a pressing twitch, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He can’t sleep; he won’t sleep.
He tries to stay busy. Cleaning the house, doing some dishes. He goes over some of his dad’s latest notes on some obscure treasure, just because. He can’t focus; he can’t put the details together. No matter what he does, his eyes go back to JJ.
JJ, for his part, sleeps like the dead – sprawled and heavy. His breathing stays steady – John B watches the rise and fall of his chest sometimes, just to be sure – and he doesn’t so much as twitch. The morning slips to afternoon as the sun warms the Chateau. Just when John B feels his own body start to drift, JJ comes to with a violent shudder.
It’s loud and it’s sudden. JJ jackknifes upward, eyes wide as his face goes white.
“JJ?” he asks, sitting up with new attention. He’s on his feet. “JJ!”
JJ doesn’t exactly hear him. That’s when he sees his friend’s body convulse, and he’s seen JJ drunk too many times not to recognize the signs.
“Shit–” he starts to say, on his feet and moving.
Just as JJ shudders again, pitching forward as he gags. John B barely has time to grab the trashcan, thrusting it in front of JJ as vomit splatters down. JJ flails, and John B steadies him with an arm across his back.
“You’re okay,” he soothes, even as JJ retches again. “JJ, you’re okay.”
JJ brings up more vomit, thick and heavy in the trash can. The smell is acrid, deep and putrid, but the way JJ’s body goes tense and shakes is more concerning, as his stomach continues to turn itself inside out.
“Just get it out,” he coaches, even though it doesn’t make a difference. JJ’s body convulses again with a pained whine before he throws up again. “I got you.”
With another gag, nothing comes up, and JJ dry heaves painfully one more time before he collapses backward. His body is shivering – drenched with sweat and ice cold – and it’s all John B can do to catch him against his chest. He hastily puts the trash can down before turning JJ and laying him back against the couch.
JJ’s eyes are half-liddened, brow damp with sweat with his too-long bangs plastered against it. His lips are pale as he breathes through his open mouth. The bruises look start against his pale visage; his eye is mostly swollen shut.
“You okay?” he asks.
JJ flicks his gaze to John B, nodding weakly .
“Here,” John B says, reaching to the coffee table where he’s placed a glass of water. “This will help.”
JJ doesn’t fight him. He lifts a hand, too weak and shaky to hold the glass, so John B guides it to his lips. Together, they tip it back, and JJ takes a tentative drink, some of it splashing down his chin before he manages to get some down.
A little, not a lot. Probably not enough, really. But they’ll make do.
They always do.
JJ sags back again, exhaling heavily as John B pulls the glass away. He puts it down before turning back to JJ with a frown. “How are you doing?”
JJ slumps against the cushion, blinking rapidly as his head lolls a little. “I can’t – I shouldn’t–” he says, voice breathless as he heaves for air. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Hey, I know,” John B says, shifting closer to his best friend. He taps his cheek, turning his gaze back toward him. The blue irises are muddled now. Exhaustion; pain; head injuries. John B isn’t sure of any of it.
The only thing he’s sure of right now is how much he hates Luke Maybank.
Because JJ hasn’t said it. JJ will never say it.
But the truth can be unspoken. That doesn’t mean it’s unknown.
“JJ,” he says, willing him to come back for a moment. “You didn’t do anything.”
JJ draws his brows together with a whimper. “It’s my fault,” he mumbles, shuddering again as he tries to curl in on himself. “I’m worthless–”
“Hey,” he says, sharper now. “No–”
“Piece of shit,” JJ says anyway. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “It’s my fault.”
Of all the bruises and cuts. Of all the broken bones and contusions.
This one is the hardest. This one is the worst.
This one is unforgivable.
It’s one thing to take your fist to your kid, John B knows.
It’s another to talk him into the ground.
When it comes to Luke, the old man doesn’t even need to throw a punch. He knows how to put JJ down with words alone. Sometimes, John B worries that Luke won’t kill JJ. No, Luke will just convince JJ to do it himself.
It doesn’t matter if it’s on purpose. It doesn’t matter if Luke is drunk or high.
It just matters that JJ is here now.
“JJ,” he says, moving again and taking both his hands to cup JJ’s face. “No. Hey, JJ.”
He waits until JJ’s eyes focus, trembling as he looks back at John B. It’s unnerving how young he looks. Too young.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
JJ seems to break a little. “But I always screw it up–”
“So do I,” John B says. “So does everyone. That doesn’t mean you deserve it.”
JJ bruised and broken in front of him.
“JJ, that doesn’t mean you deserve this,” he says, shaking his head.
JJ takes a breath, face quivering as John B strokes his hair back and smiles.
“It’s okay now,” he says, breathing it like a promise. “Everything’s okay now.”
JJ still is just on the other side of coherency, but he knows John B. He trusts John B. His body starts to relax again, eyelids fluttering shut.
“That’s it,” John B says, rotating JJ’s body to lay him back down flat. JJ settles, exhaling with a sigh, as he slips back to slip. “Everything’s okay.”
-o-
This time, the exhaustion is too much for both of them. It’s only late afternoon, but John B falls asleep on the chair as he watches JJ rest. He loses all sense of things, slipping beyond consciousness and dreams until something pulls him back.
A rustling. He stirs lightly first, shifting in his spot. He’s a heavy sleeper; he has to be. His dad comes and goes at all hours of the night, and he’s spent more time than any kid should on the hunt for treasure, passed out on boats or in the backseat of the Twinkie.
But Big John’s not here. He’s been gone for a week and counting, and John B is starting to worry.
Then, there’s a clatter.
He wakes up, startled back to awareness. “What?” he says, blinking himself awake. “JJ?”
JJ is sitting up on the couch, reaching weakly for the coffee table to get himself up. He’s knocked over the glass of water – and a plate of toast John B made for no reason hours ago.
“Sorry,” JJ says, trying to push himself up – and failing. “I just – need to get up–”
John B doesn’t wait. He gets up, crossing over to him quickly. “Dude,” he says, holding JJ by the arm to steady him. “Just – let me help you.”
JJ makes a sound of mewled protest, but he’s too weak to fight John B as he gets him to his feet. “You needed to sleep.”
John B slips his arm around JJ’s waist, keeping himself sure as JJ wavers. “And you think the sound of you falling flat on your face wouldn’t wake me up?”
JJ mutters crossly, but he’s too weak to deny it. It takes all he has to get his feet beneath him, breathing heavily now that he’s finally upright. “I got it.”
“You don’t,” John B says firmly as he adjusts his grip.
JJ glares at him from beneath the dirty fringe of his bangs. “Whatever.”
It’s a stubborn submission, but he doesn’t fight as John B helps him forward, step by tentative step. It’s a tenuous shuffle to the bathroom, and JJ is winded by the time they get there, but he’s steadier now.
“I’m good,” JJ says, pulling away a little.
John B is reluctant to let go.
JJ looks at him more clearly now. “I got it, B. Unless you want to hold it–”
“Yeah, no,” John B says, releasing JJ cautiously. “I’ll be right here.”
JJ disappears into the bathroom, the door shutting lightly behind him. John B waits, closer than maybe he should, listening just on the outside of the door. JJ’s movements on the other side are slow and measured. There’s a long, halting silence, enough for John B to hold his breath and worry, before the toilet finally flushes.
He’s waiting, hesitating right beyond the threshold, as JJ washes his hands and the door opens again. Their eyes lock, a flicker of surprise on JJ’s expression. It’s painful, really. The way JJ is still surprised to see him.
He covers it quickly, though, with a weak smirk. “You’ve got classic maternal instincts,” he quips.
John B huffs, but there’s nothing behind it as he wraps his arm around JJ’s waist without asking. JJ leans into it as they start back to the couch. “And you’re such a baby.”
The walk is short, but JJ looks spent. He keeps himself together on the walk back, but now that he’s on the cushion – he seems to deflate.
He waits a moment, giving JJ a chance to recover. “How are you doing?” he finally asks.
JJ gives him a short, incredulous look. It settles, though. He winces and shifts back. “I’m okay.”
It’s a ridiculous answer; it’s not even close to true.
Except in all the way it is. Okay is relative, especially for a Pogues. Especially for JJ.
All the same, John B gives him a look.
JJ flushes, lifting a shoulder weakly. “More or less.”
It’s been a long day. Too long. Wearily, John B shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “JJ–”
He starts, but JJ is quick to stop him. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t dump all this on you.”
He drops his hand, scoffing. “That’s not what I’m upset about.”
JJ works his jaw, drawing in on himself a little. “You should be,” he says, eyes diverted down as she shakes his head. “If I could just keep it together.”
John B doesn’t know much about what good parents look like. In recent years, he’s come to terms with his own father – the way gold has become everything. Not the thing that grounds them anymore, but the thing that takes them apart. Every time his dad walks out, John B worries he’ll never come back.
He won’t say that, just like JJ won’t talk about the way drugs and alcohol and time turned Luke mean. There had been times, of course, when Luke had taken them out fishing – better equipped and more knowledgeable than Big John had ever been about the subject. The way the three of them had laughed across the water, splitting the day’s haul three ways, even split.
Sometimes, he wonders if good parents are like Mike and Anna Carrera, doting and overprotective. He wonders if it’s Heyward, with his brusque concern and plaintive morals. Maybe it’s not a formula. Maybe there’s no right way.
Maybe there’s just a wrong way.
And some really wrong ways.
“JJ, you shouldn’t have to keep anything together,” he says softly. “That’s not what family is about.”
Because, between them, it’s easy. Between them, everything is right.
That’s not blood. That’s something better.
JJ looks down, still chewing the inside of his lip as he nods. “But it was my fault.”
John B’s not the one beaten and bruised, but his chest hurts all the same. “It wasn’t your fault.”
JJ swallows now with a slow nod. “It always feels like my fault.”
This time, John B sighs. He’s tired. He’s frustrated.
But he’s not mad.
How can he be mad?
“Well,” John B says, sitting back as he shrugs. “It’s not.”
JJ looks up at him, blinking for a second. “That’s it?”
John B makes a face. “That’s it.”
JJ takes that, nods for a second and laughs to himself. “Well, that’s it, then.”
“Good,” John B says. “Because I don’t care if you show up, beaten and bloody. I don’t care if you pass out on my front porch. I just care that you show up.”
JJ is quiet now. Earnest. “I’ll always show up for you, B.”
John B shrugs, plaintive and easy. “Then, we’re all good.”
JJ tilts his head. “Mostly all good,” he says. He seems to sink down a little. “I still feel like shit.”
“Well, yeah,” John B says. “You look like shit, too.”
“I think I need to sleep some more,” JJ says.
And John B is already nodding. “I think you need to sleep some more.”
JJ’s lips twitch up with a smile, but he’s already sinking back down. “Just a little longer,” he says, eyes falling to half mast.
John B gets up, lifting JJ’s feet to turn him on the couch. JJ blinks at him with a flicker of protest, but it fades as quickly as it comes as he settles back into the cushions and hums a little.
“Yeah, bub,” John B says, snagging a blanket to drape over him. “Just a little longer.
-o-
JJ sleeps, fitful at first before falling deeper into his rest. His body goes lax, mouth dropping open just a little as his breathing deepens and settles.
John B knows by the sound of JJ’s breathing that it’s okay.
He knows, of course, because it’s JJ.
Slow but steady. Pained but true.
For as bad as it is, it’s okay.
John B puts his feet up and settles himself back, blinking wearily against the exhaustion of the last 24 hours.
It’s going to be okay.