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One of the absolute last things Jack Kelly wants to hear late on a Monday night, when he's already settled down for the evening, is a knock on his door.
He's certainly not expecting anyone; Davey is working a night shift in the ER, and the kids are in bed, so he's taking some much-needed alone time to try and get back into painting. His only guess, as he heads over to answer the door, is that it might be the kids' social worker— but Hannah usually calls first, and it's a weird time for her to come across the river to Queens for a surprise home visit. He's old enough that most of his friends have real, adult jobs and even kids of their own, so it's not like people usually want to spontaneously hang out at ten o'clock at night.
When he opens the door, it's quite literally the last person he would've expected— and someone he's not exactly sure he's happy to see. He can't really tell what he's feeling right now.
"Jack." Race swallows thickly, fidgeting with his hands as he stands on the doorstep, looking every bit like he's been dragged to hell and back. He makes eye contact for a quick second, before looking down. "Hi."
Jack stares at him for a moment. It's been almost a year since anyone has heard from Race, and here he is, out of the blue. Jack has been worrying about his brother for so long, wondering where he was and if he was okay... and now he's here, and Jack has no idea what to make of it.
"What the fuck," he finally breathes, his words falling into a heavy sigh. He's finally identified what it was he was feeling, laying eyes on Race when he opened the door— he's angry. "What are you doing here?"
Race shifts awkwardly and scratches at his forearm, which Jack can see is bright red from the incessant impact of his dull fingernails.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, not looking up. There's something in his demeanour that Jack can see is utterly beaten-down; any shred of self-confidence he once had is completely destroyed. "I know it's late, and it's been a long time since we've talked, and I'm an awful brother. I get it if you don't wanna see me, but... I really need help, Jackie. I didn't know where else to go."
Jack takes a deep breath, and he feels something in him soften. He's mad— and he has every right to be, considering that Race cut him off completely for the past year, and started becoming distant long before that— but this is his little brother. He doesn't think he could ever be so mad that he stops caring about him.
"Okay," he sighs. He doesn't move aside to let Race in just yet, even though the breeze outside is cold. "I'm gonna help you out, Racer, but first I need to know: are you high right now?"
Quickly, almost desperately, Race shakes his head. He scratches more viciously at his arm, to the point where it seems almost like he might draw blood, but then swiftly pulls his sleeve down to hide it.
"No," he mutters. "No, I'm sober."
Jack wants to believe him. He really does... but he's truly not sure if he can.
"Listen..." He tries to keep his tone as gentle as possible. Race, though he's twenty-five now, will always be his kid brother. "Even if you're high, I'll still help find you somewhere to go... but you need to be honest with me. You can only come into my house if you can look me in the eyes and promise me you're sober. This isn't the right place for you to be coming down from something, but we can find you somewhere safe to detox."
Race looks up, and his eyes remind Jack vaguely of a cornered animal, the way they're so wide and terrified. He's gaunt, thinner than ever, and shaking a little— it'd be heartbreaking if it weren't so infuriating.
"I promise. I swear to god, I haven't had anything in— in, like, three days, at least. I'm more sober than I've been in months." He hugs his arms around himself. He doesn't even have a jacket on, just a threadbare sweatshirt that hangs off of his bony frame. "I wanna get clean. I'm trying."
Jack closes his eyes for a second, processing that this is really happening, and then nods.
"Okay." He opens the door a little wider. "Come in. We have to keep it down since the kids are sleeping, but we can talk."
"You—" Race starts, and then cuts himself off, confused. "Kids? You have kids?"
"Davey and I are foster parents." Race is still hesitating in the doorway, so Jack gently pulls him in by the arm and shuts the door to keep the cold air out. "We've got two boys right now. They're seven and just-turned-two."
Race's breath catches sharply and he looks at Jack.
"Like us."
He's right. The boys are half-brothers, five years apart, being fostered together. They've been through too much for kids so young. The oldest is so protective of his little brother, can't bear to see him upset, and the youngest follows his big brother's every move. They're practically a picture of a much younger Jack and Race.
"Just like us," Jack sighs. It's crazy how much things have changed. "C'mere, Racer. You must be cold, I'll get you a blanket or something."
Race shakes his head. His arms are still wrapped tightly around his own torso, and he's visibly shivering. His fingers twitch a little where they hang onto his thin frame.
"I'm fine." He doesn't move to follow Jack into the living room, just lingers by the door. He seems skittish, like he's ready to turn and run away if Jack so much as looks at him wrong. He glances down at the floor, and his brow scrunches. "Is it bad that I'm here? Like, are you mad?"
Now that they're in better light, Jack can see the fading remnant of a black eye on Race's face, made more obvious by how pale and sunken he's become. He's lost weight somehow since Jack last saw him, despite having always been naturally stick-thin, and there's simply something off about his demeanour— he's obviously shaken up by whatever series of events led to him finally wanting to seek help.
"I'm not mad," Jack says, careful to keep his tone gentle to avoid scaring Race any further. He's frustrated, he's tired, and he's heartbroken to see his baby brother in this state, but the anger itself is waning. "I'm really, really happy you finally came home, Racer. I missed you."
Race sniffles, his eyes still glued to the floor. He clenches his fists in the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"I missed you too," he mumbles. "I... I shoulda called or something before I just showed up here, but I don't know your number, and my phone wasn't working anyways. I'm sorry."
"That's alright." Again, Jack reaches out to Race— he places a gentle hand on his shoulder, which makes the kid flinch. He's cold to the touch, which is worrying. God knows how long he's been outside. "You're freezing, Racer. Come sit down, okay?"
Wordlessly, Race finally follows Jack into the living room and sits precariously on the edge of the couch. He seems alight with tension— his eyes dart around to take in his surroundings, and his hands stay curled in his shirt. Moving slowly as to avoid startling him, Jack grabs a blanket from the armchair and lays it around Race's shoulders; Race flinches again, but immediately grabs it and hugs it tightly around himself.
There's a moment of quiet, where Jack isn't sure what to do. He almost wants to cry, but he needs to hold it together right now.
"When was the last time you ate?" he asks, still watching Race carefully. "I can make you something, if you're hungry. Or even just some tea or hot chocolate to warm you up— whatever you want."
Race swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"I keep throwing up," he mumbles, wincing slightly. "I'm having withdrawals, I think. I can't keep food down." He subtly pushes his sleeve back up and starts to scratch his arm again; it seems to soothe him a little, some of the tension in his body starting to ease. "I hate being sober. This sucks."
"It'll get easier," Jack offers. He certainly hopes that's true— after the first few days, the worst of the withdrawals should be starting to ease. "I'll make something gentle on your stomach: just eat as much as you think you can, and if you throw it right back up, that's alright. At least you tried, right? How about butter noodles?"
That earns a twitch of a smile from Race. Back when they were kids in foster care, plain pasta with a bit of butter was often the only thing he would eat— it was easy to make, tasted the same no matter what house they were at, and it was the only meal that consistently worked with his ever-changing food aversions. He was a picky eater with a sensitive stomach, and Jack would make him butter noodles every day if it meant he was at least eating something.
"Okay," Race says, his gaze flashing up to Jack for a second before turning back to the floor. He keeps scratching his poor arm, now bright red with fingernail tracks, and furrows his brow again. "Thanks, Jack."
There's a beat of silence.
"No problem." Jack steps into the kitchen and grabs a pot to boil some water on the stove. He can still see Race through the doorway. "The kids like it too— maybe it's a foster care thing. Every time they ask for it, I think of you."
Race doesn't really react, at least not visibly. It seems like he's lost in his head now that Jack has left the room, no longer paying attention to anything but his own thoughts.
Jack has never seen him so spaced-out and quiet, and it scrubs any doubt of Race's sobriety from his mind— the tell that always used to give away when he was high was the manic look he'd get in his eyes and the way he'd talk just a bit too fast. It was always uppers: while Jack has never known the specifics of what drugs Race was on, he knows that much. This utter exhaustion has to be the result of a withdrawal from whatever was feeding his constant energy, because he's utterly drained without it.
As he sets some water to boil, Jack tries to decide what to do next. He has questions, so many of them, but he knows the last thing Race needs right now is an interrogation. He's clearly been through some shit— the massive bruise on his face speaks for itself— and the best thing Jack can give him is probably just a safe place to rest and unwind. They need to take this one step at a time.
"Do you want a hot chocolate too?" he asks stepping back into the living room. "The kids say it's the only thing I make better than Davey. I like to think that means I've got a real talent for it."
Race shrugs. He doesn't say anything and simply keeps staring at the floor.
Jack decides he's going to be optimistic and make it anyways, flicking on the electric kettle and pulling two mugs from the cupboard to make some for himself too. It should help Race warm up— even if he doesn't drink it and just holds onto it, he'll absorb some of the heat.
He rests his hands on the counter for a moment and sighs as quietly as he can. He can't say this is how he expected to spend his Monday night, and he's not sure how he feels— he's thrilled that Race is finally safe and accounted for, but his heart aches with the fact that this is their reality. Race has come to him frozen, starving, and sick, but at least he's alive. It's bittersweet and a little overwhelming, and he wishes Davey were home to help him through this. He would know what to do.
"Jack?"
A little voice that doesn't belong to Race pulls Jack from his thoughts, and he turns to look at the staircase.
"Hey, buddy," Jack smiles as Josiah, the older of his foster sons, comes down into the kitchen. The seven year-old is tiny for his age, and he looks especially young when he's so tired. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed? Tomorrow's a school day."
"I had a dream where I was looking everywhere and couldn't find you or Davey or Ethan." Josiah rubs at his sleepy little eyes, which look rather like they were filled with tears very recently. "I just need a hug."
"Oh, of course." Jack crosses the room to pick him up and hold him tight. He paces slowly around the kitchen. "I'm right here, okay? I'll never ever leave you home alone, so you can always come find me. Davey's at work right now, but you'll see him in the morning. I bet you found E when you woke up and he was right there, huh?"
Josiah nods into Jack's shoulder. This is a recurring nightmare of his, so they go through this routine several times a week.
"He was sleeping in the crib. But in my dream, he was gone."
Jack rubs a gentle hand up and down Josiah's back.
"It's a good thing dreams aren't real, right? When you wake up, it's all over and everyone is okay." He pauses. "Should we go back to bed? I'll tuck you in again."
"Why are you making food? It's after bedtime," Josiah asks instead of a response, before peering over Jack's shoulder and into the living room. "Is someone here? Who is that?"
Jack turns to look as well— Race still seems zoned out, so it's not worth trying to get the two boys acquainted right now.
"That's my little brother," Jack replies, already starting to walk back towards the stairs to take Josiah up. "I've told you about him before, right? He's five years younger than me, just like you and Ethan."
"So he's twenty-five, because you're thirty."
"Good math," Jack chuckles. "But anyways, he's not feeling very good tonight— he came over so that I can take care of him while he's sick. You can meet him tomorrow when we're all a little more awake and he's feeling better."
"Is he the brother that lives far away?" Josiah asks, craning his neck to keep looking for Race even as they head upstairs. "You told me about that before."
That was a stretch of the truth, of course— when Jack had first mentioned having a brother as it came up in conversation, he hadn't been sure how to explain they fact that they'd fallen out of touch, especially to a child with a horrible fear of abandonment. He made up the story of Race moving to another state to soften the truth a little.
"Yep. I haven't seen him in a long time, but he's back now, so he'll be around a lot more." Jack opens the door to the boys' room and crouches next to Josiah's bed to lay him down, while Ethan sleeps peacefully in his crib. "I gotta go back down there and look after him, so you try and go back to sleep, okay? I love you very much, and I'll see you in the morning."
He kisses Josiah on the head, and tucks his blankets around him— the kid is out like a light almost immediately. Both boys are fantastic sleepers, apart from Jo's nightmares, which is a blessing when Jack is often handling bedtime alone while Davey works odd hours at the hospital, fresh out of residency.
Jack shuts their bedroom door behind him and pauses for a second in the hallway to gather himself. He sees a lot of his younger self in Josiah, and a lot of Race in little Ethan— sometimes it makes him emotional to think about it. He sincerely hopes that because he's giving them a better, more stable home than he ever had as a kid— at least for now, because it's hard to say how long their placement will be— they might have an easier go of things and grow up happier and healthier than he did.
For a moment, he hopes neither of them turn out like Race.
He shakes his head to get rid of that idea as he walks down the stairs— Race is a wonderful, smart, kindhearted kid who got screwed over by a lot of things he couldn't control and made some bad decisions as a result of it. He fucked up, sure, but he was smart enough and strong enough to come here and ask for help. That's nothing to scoff at, and Jack would be incredibly proud if either of the boys grew up to have his brother's wit, charm, optimism, or compassion.
He hopes they both steer clear of hard drugs, though. That's a better way to think about it.
He peeks back into the living room once he's downstairs again— there's Race, sitting right where Jack left him. He's relaxed somewhat into the couch cushions, but he's still gripping the blanket around his shoulders like he's scared someone will steal it from him.
The kettle is whistling, so Jack opts to deal with that first; the key to the hot chocolate that the kids love is to make the instant mix with mostly water, but add a good splash of cream to cool it down and avoid any burnt tongues. He does just that, throws a generous handful of little marshmallows on top of each mug, and walks out to the living room.
"Hey," he says, softly enough that it doesn't seem to startle Race too badly. "This should warm you up. At least try having a few sips, okay?"
It takes a second for Race to respond, his hands squeezing a little tighter where he's holding the blanket around his shoulders. When he finally looks up, his face has gone all blotchy and his eyes are full of tears.
"Jackie, are you sure you're not mad at me?" he asks, his voice shaking. "I'm really sorry."
Jack sighs heavily. He waits until Race has taken the mug from his hands before sitting down and trying to give an honest but gentle answer to that.
"I'm not mad at you," he states. He sets his hot chocolate on the coffee table and puts a hand on Race's knee, his heart aching at the way that simple of a touch makes him flinch away. "I'm really not, alright? I love you, and I've been worried about you... and I'll admit that I was mad for a while, because it really hurt me that you cut me out of your life." He pauses for a second. "You're here now, though, and that's all that matters. I'm just glad you're okay. I could never be mad that you were brave enough to ask for help."
It's silent for a few seconds... and then the dam bursts, and Race sobs. He leans into Jack's side, and the instinct to hug him is immediate— Jack wraps his little brother up in his arms and holds him tighter than ever before.
"I didn't mean for any of this to get so bad," Race chokes out. He's still holding his drink in both hands, and the steam is rising up to heat both his face and Jack's. "I wanted to talk to you, and I missed you, but... well, I was dating this stupid guy, and he didn't want me to talk to anyone but him, and it was so fucked up, but I was fucking high all the time and I didn't know what was going on. He did so much messed up shit to me without me even noticing, 'cause he liked me better when I was high, so I just kept using shit."
Jack rubs Race's arm gently as he takes that in. It had always sort of been itching the back of his mind, the thought that maybe Race was being abused— that all the hurt they faced in their childhood left Race thinking that kind of treatment was normal— but perhaps he'd been too scared of the idea to let himself seriously consider it as an explanation for his disappearance. He hadn't been able to get in touch with him to find out, every text and call going unanswered for months on end.
"What were you using?" Jack asks, his curiosity getting the better of him, before he quickly adds: "I'm so, so sorry he treated you like that, Racer. You didn't deserve it."
"It was meth," Race sobs, so quiet Jack can hardly hear him. He shakes his head where he's buried it in Jack's shoulder. "It's so embarrassing. I can't stop craving it, even though I hate it. I promised I'd never touch it, but he told me to try it, and then I couldn't stop."
"But hey, you did stop," Jack whispers, hoping it'll reassure him. "You're three days sober, right? That's amazing. You did that all by yourself, didn't you?"
Silently, Race nods.
"Meth makes your teeth rot," he mumbles after a moment, still crying. "I realized it was starting to fuck with mine— they're so yellow, and they hurt 'cause I think I have cavities— and it was like I woke up all of a sudden. I couldn't do it anymore. I wanna be sober and normal and healthy. I don't wanna be a gross fucking meth-head anymore."
The water for the pasta is probably boiling, Jack realizes, but that's the least important thing right now. It can wait.
"You're not gross." He carefully cards his fingers through Race's hair. It's greasy and knotted, but he doesn't care. "You're gonna be alright. We'll get you to a dentist soon, and your teeth will get all fixed up. Davey will be home in the morning— we can talk to him and make sure you're as healthy as you can be. He works in the emergency room, so he sees all kinds of stuff like this; he'll know how to help you. We've got your back, Racer."
Race sniffles quietly.
"Thank you," he breathes out. "I... I mean, you've got a family and everything to worry about, so you really didn't have to do this, but I don't know where I would've gone if you didn't want me."
"Hey, no." Jack shifts from hugging Race to cupping his wet cheek gently in one hand, to look him in the eyes. "You are my family. Nothing will ever, ever change that, okay? You're just as important to me as Davey and the boys, and you can always come to me when you need help." He pauses and smiles. "Brothers are forever, right?"
Race smiles at the reference to the little mantra they used to repeat when they were being shuffled around foster homes and occasionally placed in separate houses— Race would get so nervous about it, and Jack would always reassure him that they'd be back together in no time. It's the first proper smile Jack has seen from him in so, so long, and it's truly a sight to behold. Jack has sincerely missed that grin. He does notice what Race was saying about his teeth being in rough shape, but it doesn't even matter. Teeth can be fixed. Race is home, and he's safe, and damn it, he's going to be happy again soon.
"Forever and ever," Race responds. There's still tears in his eyes, but he seems to mostly be done crying for now. There's likely going to be plenty of emotional moments ahead, trying to get him to open up about what's gone on in the past year, but it feels good to take a second to breathe right now. "I love you."
Jack kisses the top of his head.
"I love you too, bug."
It's an old nickname— Anthony got shorted to Ant, and then a four year-old Race had exclaimed that ants are a type of bug, so Jack shouldn't call him that. As an older brother does best, however, Jack had only doubled down by calling him Bug instead, and the name simply stuck.
"You can hop in the shower while I make you some supper, if you want," Jack continues, after a moment, "or if you're too tired, that can wait until morning. You can sleep in the guest bed, or we can share mine because Davey's not home. Whatever you want, okay?"
Race sniffles again, and as they pull apart from their hug, he finally sips the hot chocolate. He looks so small, all wrapped up in the blanket, and his voice is still shaky when he speaks.
"We can share? You'd be okay with that?"
"Of course." Jack stands up and smiles down at him. "It'll be just like old times. I'll put some fresh sheets on while the pasta cooks, and I'll get out some toiletries and towels for you to go clean up, just as much as you feel up to. We'll try eating a little once you're ready, and then we'll get some rest. Sound like a plan?"
Race, to Jack's surprise, laughs.
"You're such a dad," he giggles, using the hand that isn't holding the mug to wipe the last of the tears from his eyes. "Holy fuck. Sorry, yeah. That does sound like a plan."
It's like the clouds have parted and a glimpse of Race's usual, sunshiney self has come through for a second. He's hurt and broken and sick, but he's still himself at the end of the day. When he laughs, it's like nothing has changed at all.
It's a reassurance that he'll be able to get better. He's still got it in him. With a little love, support, and hard work, Jack is sure that his baby brother is going to be just fine.