Write Your Own Song

Chapter 7

"It's freezing out there and he isn't wearing a jacket," Jerry stated as he joined his brother at the window.

"And this is news how?" Bobby asked, shaking his head.

"He's gonna make himself sick. What's he doin' out there, anyway?"

"Pouting? Thinking? Writing a ballad about your treehouse? How the fuck should I know?" Bobby watched as Jack fidgeted with his lighter, opening and closing it, repeatedly lighting and extinguishing the flame. Bobby was hoping he'd keep it up long enough that the damn thing would run out of lighter fluid before the he got a chance to light the cigarette he was holding.

Bobby had no fucking clue where the cigarette had come from in the first place; he'd cleaned all that shit out of the house before Jack had come home. Part of him wanted to run out there and bitch him out for smoking, but another part of him was tired of being the Jack Police. It was getting boring - for both of them.

Jerry turned and looked at him. "Well," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well what?" Bobby asked as he took a swig of beer.

"Ain't you gonna go see what's bugging him?"

"Why me? I ain't no fucking Dr. Phil. You're better at this shit than I am. You go talk to him." Just as he finished his statement, something crashed in the family room, followed by high-pitched laughter and barking.

Jerry grinned. "Fine. I'll leave you with the girls and I'll go talk to Jackie."

"Right," Bobby said with a grimace as he pushed away from the counter and made his way to the back door.

XxXxXxXxXx

Just as he was about to light the cigarette, the door opened. Jack groaned, not surprised in the least to see Bobby step outside. Pretending he didn't notice his brother was walking toward him, Jack cupped one hand around the end of the cigarette to shield it from the wind as he lit it.

He didn't inhale as deeply as he usually did - it had been months since his last cigarette and he wasn't completely stupid - but that didn't matter and he was quickly in the middle of a world class coughing fit.

It hurt. It hurt like hell and it lasted forever. Bobby was right. He'd finally killed himself smoking.

The coughing subsided and he fought to catch his breath, wiping his hand across his mouth. Part of him was afraid he'd look down and find blood on his fingers after he'd literally hacked up a lung. But there wasn't any blood and as the pain eased and his breathing grew regular, he tried to convince himself he hadn't done any permanent damage.

Without even realizing he was doing it - it was just such an ingrained habit - he raised his hand to take another drag off the cigarette. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Bobby growled, stopping Jack just in time.

Jack was half-tempted to take the drag anyway, just to piss off his brother. Instead he ground it out on the tree stump and tossed the butt into the frozen, brown grass, missing the patch of snow he was aiming for.

A shiver ran through him and he wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly very aware that he was sitting outside in the middle of winter with only a sweatshirt on. He should go inside, but Bobby didn't have a jacket on either and Jack knew how much the cold bugged him.

Bobby had that pained expression on his face - the one that meant he wanted to talk, a talk that was more than likely for Jack's own good. Well, if Bobby wanted to butt in and be a pain in the ass, then he could do it while freezing his balls off in the snow.

"Don't start about the smoking," Jack said in a low voice as his brother took a seat next to him on the tree stump.

"Wasn't going to," Bobby said as he stretched his legs out in front of him, hooking one ankle over the other one.