TITLE: Home

RATING: T (language and mature content)

SUMMARY: "Nah, Jackie. I been in a lot 'a houses 'fore I came here. This ain't no house, kid. It's a home. Can be yours too." Bobby tries to convince Jack to stay. Pre-Movie.

A/N: So, like everything else, this sort of premise has been done before. Oh well. Isn't everything a copy, echo, reflection, parody, etc of something else? Yeah, I'm going to go with that.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Four Brothers or any of its amazing characters.

Bobby awoke with a start.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Bobby was just about the lightest sleeper inside that household. When a gunshot popped somewhere in the distance, his eyes would flash open. If a car alarm went off, Bobby was up and alert until it was silenced, or he took to the streets and silenced it himself. He would stir every time one of his brothers used the bathroom. When his mother rose with the crack of dawn, so did he. He had grown accustom to it. Whenever certain noises disturbed his rest, he wouldn't even have to glance at the clock to know the time. He could set his watch to the sounds of the old house and the residents inside it.

What was unusual this time, though, was what had caused him to be roused.

A floorboard below creaked ever so slightly. And then another. The sound suddenly stopped until Bobby heard the rattle of their ancient refrigerator. Whoever had awoken him, had become wise to the floorboards' moaning and had somehow managed to creep to the kitchen without another groan. Bobby was impressed, if not also alarmed. His mother's house hadn't aged well and almost the entire floor noisily protested any amount of movement. Whoever this was, Bobby knew that he or she was well-practiced.

He also knew that this late night wanderer was not anyone in his family.

Evelyn solely awoke in the night if one of her sons needed her. Jerry was on some new health kick to impress his current girlfriend and barely ate regular meals, let alone midnight snacks. Angel caused far too much racket, even when he purposefully attempted stealth to be this light-footed guest. Not to mention that Angel was soundly snoring through the wall.

Bobby silently reached under his bed and retrieved the gun that Evelyn pretended not to know was there. She chose her battles carefully and wisely. She also trusted her sons immensely. Not to mention the lecture Bobby had deviously delivered about home invasions in Detroit. This time, it was turning out that Bobby's backhanded words were actually going to be validated.

He slipped out of his sheets and padded purposefully out of his room and down the hallway. He wasn't as skilled as this stranger, but he knew his mother's house backwards and forwards. He crept down the stairs with cat-like coordination, ease and silence. He made it down the hall and reached the kitchen, weapon poised. One hand lifted and ready to fire, Bobby used his other to quickly flip the switch.

The culprit leapt literally into the air and Bobby had to stifle a grim laugh. That was, until he truly took a good look at the captured criminal.

A small boy, underweight and underdressed, now stared, eyes threatening to pop from his skull, at the gun. He didn't even offer Bobby a meager glance. All his focus was aimed at the weapon. In that same moment, the piece of the previous night's chicken fell freely from the frozen boy's grasp. The refrigerator door hung open lazily, nudging the child again and again in his side as it tried to fall closed. The boy didn't appear to notice the subtle assault.

Bobby dropped his arm, effectively lowering the weapon, but not holstering it. He knew not to let down any amount of his guard yet. In Detroit, even kids were dangerous. Bobby knew this better than most. He had been one of those miniature monsters.

He watched, waiting for the child to relax, run, retaliate, anything. Instead, the boy simply stood there, stock still and shaking. Bobby possessed no inclination as to how to handle such a situation, and in his confusion, he took a small step forward.

The statue abruptly returned to life. The child moved so fast, Bobby could have missed it by barely blinking. The boy had backed himself against a row of drawers while simultaneously crashing to the floor. In less than a second, he was on the ground, curled into a ball so compact and tiny that Bobby was sure he could have tucked him under his arm like a football. Bobby silently observed how the boy's face was now hidden in his knees, his neck covered by quaking hands.

The speed. The protected posture. This was a perfected practice. Bobby mused miserably that the kid probably even did it involuntarily. He reminded Bobby of a terrified mouse that froze when the lights came on and then scurried off to its protected home in a hole or under the furniture. The boy wasn't inside a hole or cowering underneath the couch, but he very well could have been if either had been available.

"I ain't gonna hurt you, kid," Bobby's gruff voice canceled out his placating words. "You hungry?"

The mouse didn't move.

"You know, this is my mom's house. Believe me, kid, you come to this front door and she'd give you a five-fuckin'-course meal. But she don't take too kind to people stealin' from her. Neither do I."

A thought suddenly occurred to Bobby with those words and he quickly went to the black purse that rested atop the counter. The wallet inside was untouched. The entire bag had seemingly gone completely unnoticed. Bobby sighed as his suspicions were confirmed. This kid was no burglar. He was simply starving.

"Pretty lousy thief," Bobby scoffed when he noticed the kid peering up at the purse through cascading bangs.

A small sound of protest came from the boy's muffled mouth as his head snapped back down.

"Oh, come on, kid. You got caught – with last night's food – and when there was a much better score two feet away."

"I –"

Bobby waited for the kid to continue. He wanted to push the boy to defend himself, to look at him, anything. If it had been just about anyone else, Bobby would have sent them limping on their way. This kid, though, was different. He wasn't some criminal. He wasn't a miniature thug-in-training. He wasn't even some punk just getting his jollies. The one word that continued to scream in Bobby's head to describe this stranger, was fragile.

He imagined that merely looking at the boy the wrong way could fracture his frame. Another forward step, and the kid would crack. A harsh word, and he'd bust to pieces.

Bobby fleetingly wondered if he should retrieve Evelyn. She would surely be far more apt to handle the obviously troubled child. Yet, for some reason, Bobby was apprehensive to leave the kid alone for even a second. Something told Bobby that the boy would no longer be there when he returned. Bobby might have had quite a few rough spots, but they somehow surprisingly softened around children. He supposed It was because of his upbringing, but mostly courteous of Evelyn. He witnessed life on the streets and then later on saw first-hand the cases that his new mother dealt with. He met many of the broken children behind those files. It was evident that this boy was like them. Like him.

"You're gonna have to learn some skill if you wanna survive. I almost popped your ass just now. You run and then what do you got to show for your work? Huh? A piece of chicken? Always go for the most valuable targets first."

"I know how to steal," the boy said with sudden flare of defiance, and yet regret, at either the fact, or that he had spoken; maybe both. "I – I wasn't gonna steal it." His voice mirrored his mouse-like exterior. "The money – I wasn't – not now – I wouldn't. I – I was – just so hungry. I wasn't gonna take a lot. No one – they don't notice when you don't take a lot."

Bobby cocked an eyebrow. He wondered how many houses had fallen victim to this child without detection.

"What's your name, kid?"

The boy sank his head back into his chest and legs.

"Hey, kid, you're in my mother's house. She's got rules here. You gotta have manners to be here. You wanna try again? I'm Bobby. Bobby Mercer. Your turn."

Again, Bobby was met with silence.

"Come on, now."

"Not – I'm not – supposed to tell – I mean – my name –"

"I bet you're also not supposed to break into people's houses and steal their food," Bobby challenged and the child rose his head, still only staring at his legs though.

"Yeah, I am," the boy argued and then just as quickly withdrew, "I mean – not anymore – not here – this house – tonight. Sometimes. Not supposed to tell names."

"You can tell me." Bobby let the sincerity smother his words unlike never before.

"You'll tell," the boy accused meekly as he bore his gaze into Bobby's socks.

"I ain't tellin' anyone shit," Bobby shrugged, "but if you ain't gonna tell me your name, I got to call you somethin'. How 'bout – Lucy? Maybe Mary. Nancy? Sound good?"

The boy shook his head and then stopped suddenly, as if realizing what he was doing.

"You don't like it? Then tell me your name."

"Danny – just Danny."

"Danny," Bobby repeated, "now, was that so hard?"

"Don't call me that," the boy surprised both parties again with another surge of bravery.

"It's your name, ain't it?" Bobby smirked, but then frowned at the child's dark expression.

"Not my real name. Somebody – they just gave it to me. Had no real parents to give me no real name. I hate it." Memories played against the corners of the kid's eyes.

"Well, what name do you like?"

"J – Jack."

"Jack, huh? And why's that?" Bobby leaned against the counter casually.

"Not supposed to tell you that either." Danny, or Jack, whispered.

"Did you pick it out yourself?" Bobby was now genuinely curious and hoped the enthusiasm would spark an answer. "I like it."

"My dad – not my dad – but he gave it to me. Said it was a special name. Secret name. Like a spy – like – like a code name. He was my favorite dad."

"Why was he your favorite?" Bobby pressed once more, encouraged and enthralled by the kid's odd answers.

"Taught me stuff. Nobody ever – they don't like me. Don't pay attention to me. Or they just – they – sometimes they –" Jack swallowed and for a split second, Bobby was sure the kid was going to cry. "He never did that. Never that. Taught me stealin' stuff. I was real good. I got to keep some 'a the stuff too. Nobody ever let me keep anything. Not nobody else. He – he's gone now. Said I was 'Jack' 'cause I was real good jackin' stuff. People think it's stupid."

"I don't think it's stupid, Jack," Bobby affirmed and noticed when the ghost of a smile pulled at corner of the boy's swollen lips. "Now, if you get up off that floor, I'll get you some food."

Jack glanced again at Bobby's socks, still not daring to risk eye contact. His gaze then traveled to the fridge. He was observably wary, but also audibly starving as his stomach gave a yearning groan. The hunger won the internal battle and Jack clumsily climbed to his feet. He watched as Bobby opened the refrigerator and fished around inside.

"Sit down, will ya," Bobby grunted with his head still inside the machine. "You're makin' me nervous."

Jack obeyed immediately, to which Bobby also noticed and frowned. Another practiced behavior. Bobby somberly wondered if this kid ever thought for himself, apart from the innocent house hunts for food.

"Eat up," Bobby ordered as he dropped the plate on the table, mentally recording the flinch he received from Jack. "Go on. It ain't gonna bite back or nothin'. Let me know if you want more. You look skinny enough to eat a bear and ask for seconds."

Bobby paused at the second flicker of a grin that played across the boy's discolored face. It was promptly extinguished and Jack began to scoop silent mouthfuls.

"So, where you live, Jack?"

The boy fumbled with his fork.

"Come on. I know all the kids 'round here. I know our whole damn neighborhood. You ain't from here."

"Am now," Jack mumbled dejectedly and Bobby knew he hadn't been meant to hear.

"Just move here?" Bobby prodded. "Or just get moved here?"

There was a knowing edge in Bobby's inquiry that prompted Jack to glance up at him involuntarily. He just as quickly snapped his head back down, but not before Bobby saw it. He hadn't noticed it all before. He had been too preoccupied with the boy's wild eyes. Then when Jack was curled around himself, Bobby was merely granted glimpses. Now, the image burned in his brain.

Jack's lips were twice the size they should have been. Just below them, a square scuff decorated his chin. Above those lips, though, was what Bobby instantly recognized as the aftermath of a broken nose. Black crescents took shape underneath those captivating irises. One eyebrow was split right down the middle by a dried line of blood. Just above that, there existed a bump on his forehead that extended up past his hairline and shined in several different stages of colors, and healing.

Bobby gripped the edge of the table as he sat down opposite of the battered boy.

"Jack," Bobby started slowly, sidestepping the thousands of questions and emotions now roaring in his brain and heart. "Why weren't you allowed to have dinner tonight?"

He had wanted to demand who had done this, where Jack lived, what had happened, how many times, and so much more. Instead, he thought broaching the topic from a different angle would lessen the impact. Apparently, he was wrong.

Jack's fork clanged against his plate. He didn't look up this time. He was overwhelmingly confused as to how Bobby knew all of these things about him. He was terrified of the consequences for telling him the truth now after he knew so much else. And he was horrified at the particular memory that assaulted him.

"I was bad," Jack swallowed.

"What happened, Jack?" Bobby leaned forward cautiously.

Jack was ever so slowly withdrawing back into himself, physically and mentally. Bobby saw it and chose to play a dirty offensive tactic.

"Tell me," Bobby's voice was quiet and controlled, yet firm, knowing the boy wouldn't be capable of disobeyed a direct order.

"I – I came back without money," Jack whispered. "The man – he – he was – he hurt me. I got scared. I ran before he paid. No food. No food all day. I was really bad."

"Hey," Bobby drew out words and pushed down the bile, "if someone is hurtin' you, you can run, okay? If you're ever bein' hurt, you get the hell outta there. It is okay. It's not bad, Jack. You – you know, you can tell someone too."

"I – I told my da – Mr. Dean. He hurts me too."

"Mr. Dean? He you're dad?" Bobby knew the answer before Jack shook his head. "Foster dad?"

Jack nodded nervously.

"Well, you know, you can run away from him too. Not like really run away, like on the streets, though. That's what I did. Ain't no fun. But you can get away from him. You don't have to stay there."

"I don't – where do I –"

"Here," Bobby spoke without hesitation. "You can stay here."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight, forever, don't matter to me. And I know it won't matter to Ma."

"But – this is your house."

"Nah, Jackie. I been in a lot 'a houses 'fore I came here. This ain't no house, kid. It's a home. Can be yours too. Just don't tell nobody I ever talked like that, 'kay? We already got three of us boys runnin' 'round and ruinin' the place. Ma would like a quiet kid for once."

"Three?" Jack's excitement vanished.

"Yep. Me, oldest, smartest, best lookin', most talented, you name it. Oh, Jerry 'n Angel too."

"Brothers," Jack sighed sadly.

"Nah. We somethin' a lot closer than that. Sure, we're brothers. But that don't really describe it right. Somethin' better. We were all adopted. We're all foster kids."

"Like me," Jack made a weird face and Bobby realized that he was smiling.

"Yeah, like you. We all might look big 'n be scary to a puny kid like you, but don't worry. Ma straightened us out a long time ago. Least, best she could."

Jack had that odd grin, but he still seemed scared. Bobby couldn't blame him. The smile faltered and then dropped entirely.

"Look, Jack, I ain't gonna make you do anything. You can either go back there or you can stay here and take a chance. Ain't nothin' permanent, yet, if you don't want it to be. Stay here as long as you want. I don't give a shit 'bout what anyone else says or does, I won't let 'em take you back there if you don't wanna go. If you don't like it here, you're free to leave. Sound fair?"

Jack bowed his head. He hardly knew the word. Fair wasn't something to describe any part of his life. He couldn't imagine anything every being fair. But to go back to that house, to those people, he couldn't fathom a worse place. He had to believe that things would be at least better here. Even if there were strict punishments, or beatings, or – brothers, he needed to risk it. He was desperate to escape. Desperate for change, for a family, for hope.

Jack returned to his meal and that was enough of an answer for Bobby. After Jack had finished his third course, the two spent the rest of the night teaching each other tricks. Jack spoke of his second foster father, and what were, to the child, roaring adventures. The man that Jack affectionately referred to as Ace – Bobby gave himself credit for not cracking up at the name – had instructed his surrogate son in a vast number of thievery tactics. The duo picked pockets, scammed strangers, cleared out store shelves, and polished off purses, vehicles and homes. Jack seemed to idolize the criminal and described him as his best foster placement. Bobby shuddered at that thought. A crook had been his most stable guardian. He didn't have the heart then to tell Jack how the older man had been using him. He would grow older and figure it out eventually. The boy had enough scars for now.

Bobby, in turn, offered his own variations of the lessons Jack had been taught. He also explained the mechanics of hot wiring a car, something Ace had kept Jack in the dark about for obvious reasons. The evening and morning quickly lapsed by, and neither boy had grown tired.

Mr. Dean, otherwise referred to as Mr. X by his "clients" – to which Bobby held no qualms in laughing uncontrollably at – and his wife were not at home the following morning when police arrived on their doorstep. They fled town, but they could not flee the Mercer brothers. Evelyn welcomed Jack into the family with eager and open arms. She had to call in a few favors, pull several seriously tight strings and rush the paperwork, but Jack was under her roof and "Daniel Miller"'s case file was in her care in no time. She wasn't about to let Bobby's promise to Jack be another lie in his life. Angel and Jerry both took to Jack almost instantly. Of course, it wasn't The Brady Bunch and Jack certainly didn't recover from his external, or internal, wounds for quite some time.

But he did stay. And a year later, to the date, Evelyn signed the adoption papers for "Jack Mercer".

Jack no longer stole from the fridge. It was his food now, too.

It was his home.

A/N: Forgive me for the whole "Danny" name thing. I don't know what possessed me to do it. I had this little daydream about Jack and his life as the little thief. So yeah, blame my subconscious I guess.