Disclaimer: Deacon Frost is the property of Marvel Comics and New Line Cinema. No money is made from this work of fiction, only the enjoyment of writing. Jack belongs to me, though, and if you use him without my permission I'll stake you with extreme prejudice.

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            Things were bad from the beginning, and after Deacon left they just got worse.

            It was a brutally cold day in New York; snow fell softly from the sky, covering the filthy, loud streets in a blanket of pure whiteness. Jack trudged miserably through the muck, dodging the spray of half-melted slush kicked up by automobiles carrying wealthy passengers somewhere important. His cheeks burned red from the cold, and his ears stung with the wind. Stepping up his pace, he began hurrying for home. Today was his fifteenth birthday, and Deacon had promised to bring him a present.

            Jack worshipped his elder brother, as younger brothers are wont to do. Deacon had taught him all the useful things he needed to know – like how to play poker, hold his booze, and talk to girls without making a fool out of himself. He had to worship from afar, however. His brother hadn't been home in months, not since he stormed out after a fight with their father. After Deacon had called Da "a fat drunk Mick bastard", their father had told him never to come back. Jack missed him terribly, and spent weeks tracking him down before finding Deacon living in an abandoned warehouse beside the docks.

            Jack had played hooky that day to visit him, and had been horrified to find his brother's new home a grimy, rat infested heap with caved-in ceilings. "Please, make peace with Da and come home," he'd begged. "We miss you so much and we need you."

            "I won't give the old fool the satisfaction," Deacon had told him, sneering at the thought. "Besides, no one needs me there."

            "I need you."

            Deacon had hugged him then, and Jack had clung tightly to him. "Oh, boy, what'd you say to coming and living with me? I won't be staying in this dump forever, I promise you that. I know these fellows; they're going to help me move up in the world. You could come with me."

            "But who'll look after Ma?" Jack had asked. Deacon had laughed wildly at that.

            "Ma lives for Jesus and cheap booze," he said. "The Lord'll take care of her, and if he won't, then a wine bottle will. I'll tell you what – I'll come by and see you on your birthday, bring you a surprise, howse that? I'll have all my business straightened out by then, and it'll give you time to think about coming with me. You don't want to live on Skid Row forever, do you?"

            "No," admitted Jack. "You promise you'll come? And bring a present?"

            "Cross my heart and hope to die," Deacon had promised. "We'll go see a Nickelodeon or something. My treat."

            Jack entered his family's squat little apartment and pulled off his coat. Brushing the snow from his clothes, he wandered into the kitchen, wondering when Deacon would arrive. It was growing dark as dusk fell; Da would be home soon. He found Ma passed out facedown on the table, an empty bottle of liquor beside her and the Bible open before her. Tossing a blanket over her shoulders, he sat down and poured himself a glass of water.

            He had barely taken a sip when he heard a loud rapping at the door. Peering through the peephole, he almost yelped with excitement when he saw Deacon looking back at him. Wrenching the door open, Jack embraced his brother with boyish glee.

            "I'm home," Deacon gasped and then collapsed to the floor, dragging Jack with him. He'd been in a fight, that much was clear – his clothes were torn, and blood pulsed from his neck and covered his shirt and chest with sticky red film.

            "Jesus," whispered Jack, pulling his brother to his feet. "We need a doctor!"

            "No doctor," Deacon managed to mumble. "Need to lie down. So tired, so tired."

            With great difficulty, Jack dragged him into the bedroom they'd once shared and let him lay on the bed. Ma didn't even awaken from her slumber. Deacon trembled and pulled the blankets around him, wrapping himself into a bloodstained cocoon. Jack sat beside him and examined his wound.

            "Who did this?" he asked, digging for some rags under his bed. Deacon just whined low and shivered as though he were freezing to death. His eyes were glassy and he barely even seemed to know his brother was there.

            "Never trust… your friends…" he said, his voice a stilted rasp. "I did… but I never thought… they'd do this… never trust…"

            Please don't die, Jack begged him mentally as he tried to dress Deacon's wound, I couldn't bear it if you died. We'll work out this whole mess with Da and you can come home and we'll get whoever did this to you, I swear we will, just don't die please…