Title: The Words Do Not Come, Part I

Author: Sheera

Date written: May 5, 2006

Pairing: Jack/Ennis

Rating: PG (for now)

Plot summary: An AU piece.

Word count: 666 – yes, I am the Devil.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.

Author's Note: This piece attempts to answer a question that I have always wondered about the Jack/Ennis dynamic. I very consciously stepped away from Proulx's style in this one, because I realized that to write the kind of AU I wanted, I would have to. Hence the use of the present tense. Sorry if it's awkward; I'm still getting used to it.

Feedback: Please, please, please. You really have no idea how happy it makes it.

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Jack is jarred from his sleep by what sounds like a storm rattling their home. His eyes jerk open, and he finds himself sitting up in bed without the slightest clue of what's going on.

"Mmmhmm nnnmmm…" mumbles Lureen sleepily, motioning in the general direction of the front door before rolling over and resuming her soft snoring. The pounding returns, louder and more desperate than before.

"Guess that leaves me," he says, resigned, pulling his boots on. They somehow match his pajamas—Lureen has coordinated him down to the shoes. He rummages in the closet for his shotgun, which they keep out of reach from Bobby until he's old enough to know caution, and walks down the stairs with heavy feet. If it's a buglar he's going to shoot him first, ask questions later. He's too sleepy to deal with this right now.

"Hol' your horses! I'm comin'." The banging only increases in tempo and insistency.

Jack cautiously unlocks the door, and steps back, the gun already forgotten in his curiosity about who would be here at this hour. "I'm goin' a open it real nice and slow now, no funny business."

As soon as the lock snicks open, a man is through the door, screaming incoherent rage and in a blur of motion there's a fist flying into Jack's face, hitting him so swiftly and squarely that he drops the gun and stumbles back a few steps. He feels blood seep from his nose, and raises his hand just in time to block the follow-up assault. He tries to gain some leverage to fight this man back, or at least fight him off, but the attack is too furious, and he trips on the shotgun, falling to the floor; there is a distinct crack as his head makes contact with the slick hardwood. His vision clouds with dancing white spots as the blood roars in his head. He blearily sees the man towers over him, a dark shadow of violence, realizing that he's cocking his elbow back to deliver a crushing blow that will probably splinter Jack's nose into million pieces.

"Get your hands off my husband this goddamned second, you scum-sucking sonofabitch!" Lureen is on the steps, holding a shotgun steady in her grip, one eye squinted as she aims at the stranger. Jack takes the opportunity to scramble up, the adrenaline making his body hum with nervousness, afraid for Lureen and himself—she has very little practice with guns. He almost hopes it isn't loaded. The spots slowly clear from his vision and he sees an unfortunately familiar face.

Ennis.

"Well, fuck me," he says. "Put the gun down, Lureen. Now." She shoots him a skeptical glance, but when she sees that Ennis is making no further move to bash in her husband's face, she relents. Jack notices the familiar stench of whiskey even from two feet away, and Ennis looks as though he's been crying blood. He approaches Ennis slowly, unable to keep the questions at bay, "Ennis, are you all right? Is that your blood? How did you get here? Why didn't you call me? Why aren't you at ho—"

Ennis backs away, holding up his arms like a shield, crumpling from the inside, as if his bones melted under the heat of the inquiry, and falls to the ground.

Between the two of them they manage to get Ennis cleaned up, undressed, and into the guest bed. Jack talks non-stop to Ennis, trying to revive him or just to tell him what they're doing. Lureen returns to bed, saying not a word to Jack, but the questions and demands burn in her eyes. He watches Ennis, taking account of the injuries and the shallowness of his breath. Various scenarios play out in his mind, but he cannot imagine the hell Ennis has been through to get here. He passes out in the easy chair around four in the morning, straining to keep his eyes on his strangely peaceful lover.