Chapter Text
He tapped the butt of his gun against his thigh. He didn’t like being in Eastman’s territory. It was too close to home, to bad memories, to the boys…
Eastman came out of the bar then, his dumb derby hat perched precariously on his head, his jacket ripped down the side. He stopped just outside the door, lit a cigarette.
This was his chance. Raising the gun in his hand, he fired. One shot. Two shots. Eastman fell to his knees, and Jack Kelly faded into the shadows of the alleyway.
*~*~*~*~*
He went to his apartment after. He probably should've reported back to Kelly, let him know that the job was finished, but Jack just… couldn’t right now.
Throwing his coat and hat over a chair, he took the gun from his waistband and, after giving it a distasteful look, tossed it on the table. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he scrubbed his hands across his face, ran his fingers through his hair before interlocking them behind his neck.
When had this become his life?
There was... an incident a couple years back, and he'd caught the attention of the wrong people. He never expected to get in so deep. One or two jobs, tops, to ensure all was forgiven. But once you were in, the only way you left was with a bullet in your head.
So, as Francis Sullivan rose higher and higher in the ranks of the Five Points, Jack Kelly started fading further and further into a faint memory.
He did the intimidation thing, harassing folks for the boys over at Tammany Hall, helped with the robberies, reaped benefits from others getting hurt. And he could almost live with himself. As long as his motivation for staying didn't change, and Kelly kept his word, Jack could handle the soakings and theft. It wasn't like there were really any upstanding citizens around these parts. They was all scum.
And then Paul Kelly himself tasked Jack with a job most guys would kill for.
Kill Monk Eastman, the leader of the Eastman gang and Kelly’s worst enemy.
Jack had soaked people before—came with working the streets—and waved the gun around for show, but tonight was the first time he’d used it.
Flopping back on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. He’d spent the last two years being Francis Sullivan, cutting ties with anything and everything that connected him to Jack Kelly.
And tonight, the lines had blurred so much—he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.
*~*~*~*~*
The next day, early afternoon, Jack entered Paul Kelly’s office. The man himself sat behind his desk, as Biff and Johnny slouched in the leather chairs opposite of him.
As he approached, Kelly watched him. “Francis.”
“Paul.” Jack mimicked, hooking a thumb in his belt loop.
“Is it done?”
Pulling his gun from waistband, Jack handed it to Paul, butt first. “Check it. Two bullets. Two shots. It’s done.”
Paul accepted the piece, smoothly checking the chamber before nodding and handing it back. “Good work, Francis.”
Jack nodded, taking back his gun. Biff let out a whoop.
“There he is! The man who killed Monk Eastman! Attaboy, Sully!”
Johnny echoed the sentiments, pounding Jack's back, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a battered brass cigar case. He offered one to Paul first, before holding the case out to Jack and Biff.
He felt his stomach tighten at the sight of them. Coronas. Forcing down the memories that threatened to overwhelm him, he hesitantly took one. Jack had never really been a smoker, couldn't stand the taste.
But... he wasn't really Jack anymore, was he? Jack Kelly didn't kill people, Jack Kelly didn't leave behind his friends, Jack Kelly didn't soak people just because someone told him to. Jack Kelly didn't smoke.
But Francis Sullivan did. So he accepted the lit match from Biff and took a drag from the cigar, allowing the tobacco smoke to fill his lungs as Johnny and Biff continued to congratulate him. Kelly, man of few words that he was, simply looked on.
The celebration was interrupted when Frankie burst into the office, yelling something in rapid-fire Italian.
A hush fell over the room as Paul answered back in Italian. The short exchange had them all on edge, and they watched with rapt attention.
Kelly waved Frankie aside and stood, taking in the room. The three of them started fidgeting under his scrutinizing gaze, which landed on Jack.
“Francis. You told me the Eastman matter was settled.”
“Yes sir. It is.” Jack didn’t like how Kelly was studying him.
Paul Kelly’s voice was dangerously calm. “Then why has Frankie just informed me that not only was Monk Eastman not killed, but he will survive his two gunshot wounds?”
Jack’s eyes widened. He shot Eastman, shot him twice, and the bastard was still alive? “I don’t—I thought—” He couldn't explain the feeling in his gut. Maybe I ain't totally gone, maybe Jack's still awake in here somewhere...
“Did you perhaps,” Kelly’s eyes flashed dangerously, “think to make sure he was dead before you left?”
Straightening his spine, Jack squared his shoulders. There wasn’t any use lying now. “No. I didn’t.”
Closing his eyes briefly, Paul sat back down. “That is… disappointing, Francis." Turning back to Frankie, he spoke in Italian once more, waving a hand, clearly dismissing the other man.
When the door clicked shut behind Frankie, Kelly stood from his desk again, slowly approaching Jack. Tensing his shoulders and balling his fists, Jack tried to prepare himself for the hit he knew was coming.
Quicker than he could blink, Kelly landed a solid punch to his stomach, catching Jack off guard. The blow caused him to double over, which just gave Kelly an opportunity to knee him in the gut.
Wheezing, Jack fell to his knees. His head snapped to the side when Paul backhanded him. Vision blurring, Jack held his breath as Kelly leaned down to talk in his ear.
“You had one job, Sullivan. And you failed it. Maybe we’ll have to reconsider your employment here. Or maybe I can have James here revisit your old friend. What was his name, again?”
Jack bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, but didn’t say anything. You can't be Jack right now. You's gonna get the boys hurt.
Paul shook his head, looking disappointed. “James, John. Get him out of my sight.”
Biff pulled him to his feet, and he and Johnny dragged him out into the hallway. The last thing Jack saw was Paul Kelly sitting at his desk, staring at some unknown spot.
And then the door closed, and the hits started coming.
*~*~*~*~*
Jack stumbled into his apartment, landing heavily in a kitchen chair with a groan. Tipping his head back, he considered saying a prayer of thanks that he was even able to walk back to his place, but after the two years he'd had, he wasn't sure anyone was actually listening. Not anymore.
Instead, he took stock of his injuries, trying to determine which ones needed the most attention.
Nothing seemed to be broken, which was better than he’d expected. A lump on his head from hitting the floor, left eye surely blackened, practically swollen shut, a couple of split knuckles from his own punches. His ribs ached something fierce. Lifting his shirt, Jack found a mottled canvas of dark purple bruises. It hurt to breath, his lungs burning with the effort.
But he was alive.
For some reason, that didn’t bring him the comfort he thought it would.
"You's an idiot," he muttered under his breath. "One job, ya had one job an' ya screwed it up an' ya got on Kelly's bad side an' now Racer's gonna pay—"
Gritting his teeth, Jack stood abruptly and limped to the cabinet where he kept bandages and a bottle of cheap vodka. He took a swig, wincing at the burn of alcohol and the discovery of a split lip. Moving to stand in front of the small mirror he had hung up on the wall, he grimaced.
The black eye took up nearly half his face, he had a cut over the other eye, and the split lip made his made his mouth look too big. Dried blood crusted in his eyebrow, under his nose, on his chin. He really needed to clean out those cuts, the ones on his hand, too, clean up the blood, but Jack just turned roughly from the mirror and dropped unceremoniously onto his bed. Clutching a pillow to his chest, he took a deep breath, shifting as his ribs protested, and stared up at the ceiling.
"You's Jack Kelly," he whispered. "You's Jack Kelly, not Sully, an' you's gonna make it. You's stronger'n this. You's better'n this."
His words were empty, hollow. He'd been repeating this mantra for two years now, hoping to bring him some source of comfort.
But after so long, they'd lost all meaning. And he knew the truth.
He wasn't stronger than this.
He wasn't better.
And he wasn't really Jack Kelly anymore.