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Trials can be a waste of time that few human activities could compare to.
This, Jackson knows in every fiber of his being. He has been in and out of courthouses way more than he’d have liked to – that’s on the line of work that he chose, unfortunately, but it has at least given him a broad perspective on the sort of things that happen in there. Sometimes they’re a stellar example of American democracy.
Other times, all they are is a shitshow.
He could tolerate it, perhaps, if it was just an annoying part of his job that can be shrugged off the moment he steps through the door of their house. It becomes a completely different matter, however, when it spills inside said house, in the form of official paperwork requesting their involvement in the trial of Colin Gentry.
Or rather, not theirs. Court’s.
“This is bullshit,” Holland grumbles, a thunderous look on his face, rifling through the pages for what feels like the billionth time. “They got their evidence, all the medical reports- do they really need more? Hasn’t he made it clear that he’s a bastard already?”
Jackson doesn’t answer, because he’s got enough expertise on the handling of Holland March to know that’s only a rhetorical question, meant only to allow him to rant further. Instead, he glances down at his own notes, which he took while his partner was having a very heated conversation with social workers on the phone.
Court’s a witness. No shit, he wants to say. The boy’s witnessed horrible things alright. He’s probably the only one to know the full extent of his father’s crimes. Which is precisely why he shouldn’t be dragged back to his home state for a stupid trial, where he might have to face the man again, or worse, have to recount all that he endured right in front of him.
There are supposed to be protections in place for kids testifying, for Christ’s sake. That’s what Holland will have to push for, probably – a video recording, maybe, or a private conversation with the judge. Sometimes children are deemed unfit to take the stand, if they’re too fragile, but that’d require taking a huge risk, because-
“Jesus, if only I could tell them to fuck off,” Holland continues glumly, scratching at the back of his head. “But the last thing these boys need is for that asshole to get out scot-free ‘cause someone thought they made it all up and wouldn’t double down on it.”
That is his cue to reply. “You know that’s not your call to make, right?” He says, a firm, gentle reminder.
“Of course I know that! Whatever the kid’s choice is, I’ll back it up. I just wish he didn’t have to make it.”
“That makes two of us.”
Holland sighs dramatically, shooting him a pleading look. “You’ll stick around while I ask him, won’t you? You know, for his peace of mind. He likes you more than me.”
Jackson doesn’t bother denying it, mostly because it’d be useless, even if it’s not strictly a matter of liking. Court is simply adapting as well as any nearly-fourteen years old would – perhaps he’s had such awful luck with the adult figures in his life that he doesn’t know what to make of Holland, whose ruthless streak only comes out when money or the kids’ lives are on the line. Perhaps he’s just better at handling this man that has no blood ties with him and would therefore be legally unable to do anything against him.
Perhaps it’s that stuff he’s seen on Holly’s magazines, about how children have phases where they pick a favorite parent and stubbornly stick to their claim. The two of them are not the boys’ parents, and the latter haven’t been around for long enough to have such preferences, anyway, but maybe it’s the same principle.
Whatever the cause, there’s no escaping it. Despite their best attempts at keeping a low profile, all three boys seem to sense that something is amiss when they return from school, and are puzzled and restless for a good while – primarily the one involved in the matter, obviously, because he’s older and still bracing for danger, even when nothing has happened. The twins, mercifully, are easier to distract, chiefly by being allowed to ramble about their days to their hearts’ content and then packed off to watch their cartoons, a snack in hand and the door nearly closed (but not in full, never in full, they’ve learned that lesson the hard way, don’t put any of them behind a closed door alone) while both detectives sit their brother down in the other room.
Court remains silent during Holland’s entire explanation, his expression hard to decipher, but that’s not as surprising as it would be with a normal boy his age – he’s not as talkative as either of his brothers, as has been made abundantly clear since their arrival, and his gaze sometimes hardens in a way that’s reminiscent of someone much older, someone who’s seen too much already. Neither is it surprising when the first question that comes out of his mouth at the end is, “Do Colt and Ry have to do it too?”
Jackson represses a grimace, hoping his partner has taken notice of the choice of words as well. It’s a rare thing, to see Court shorten both of the twins’ names; Holly questioned him about it at the very beginning, wondering why it was Court and not Courtland, and Colt and not Colton, but Ryland was always Ryland, as if he were already a serious little man and not someone who still needs help tying his shoes. It was done in good humor, a throwaway question at dinnertime, and yet the boy’s answer, quiet and detached, had made every adult at the table sober up real quick. Ry had been the norm at the beginning, it seemed, but their father had made one too many jokes about it – to let it take root would have meant hearing the twins be called Whiskey and Ry for the foreseeable future, so steps had to be taken. Their mother had left without looking back, and Court had started calling his toddler brother by his full name, and both things stuck over the years.
That he would slip up now, as if he were suddenly younger and powerless again, means he’s more nervous than he’s letting on, and honestly, why wouldn’t he be? If that was any of them in his place, they’d be terrified. Holland certainly feels it, given the way he shifts tensely in place. “No, I guess the lawyers think they’re too young for that,” he says, quick to reassure his nephew. “I’ll come with you, but they can stay here. You’d be okay with Jack looking after them while we’re away?”
Court nods slowly, his eyes darting to the other man with a subtle hint of relief in them. Whether that’s because he actually trusts Jackson to take good care of his brothers, or he’s just glad they’ll be spared from this responsibility, it’s hard to say. Realistically, it might be a bit of both.
That’ll have to be enough. Despite his uncle’s insistence that they could appeal to all sorts of things to get out of this, the boy is adamant that he wants to do it – that he needs to do it is an unspoken addition, but Jackson perceives it all the same, in the way Court’s shoulders hunch over and his jaw clenches not-so-subtly. They’ll have to crack down on his exaggerated sense of duty, eventually, but doing so today would be useless, not to mention stupid as hell.
For now, it seems like all they can do is start packing. That, and keep an eye on this kid, on the way one can almost physically see him raise his guard, curling in on himself until no one can guess what he’s thinking about.
The twins take their brother’s departure as well as one would expect them to, which is to mean, not well at all.
They’ve never spent a day without Court, and boy, does it show. Not immediately – they only require minimal effort to be pried off of him, especially after he tells them he’ll be okay and back before they know it – but once he’s gone from their sight, all bets are off. Jackson finds himself with two pairs of lost, shiny, big blue eyes looking to him as if he somehow held the solution to all their problems.
He should be glad of it, maybe. Isn’t that what they wanted, both him and Holland? For the boys to trust them enough to turn to them when they need help? This should count as a success. Ryland and Colt aren’t running away from him; they let him go through the daily tasks of trying to keep them alive and happy with just about zero complaints, in fact, even without their brother and uncle in the house.
But he doesn’t have the means to offer the kind of help they actually want, which would be somewhere in the realm of “preventing Court from flying across the country and possibly being faced with their shitstain of a father again”, so maybe he’s not that useful at the end of the day.
Besides, all of that flies right out of the window as soon as the sun goes down. He expects the first night to be difficult, but their opposition surpasses even his wildest dreams. Both children categorically refuse to go to bed knowing Court is not there – Ryland especially has trouble sleeping even on the best of days, and with him nearly in hysterics, there’s no chance in hell his twin will calm down.
And that, of course, is the exact moment when Holland decides to call him to confirm they’ve arrived safe and sound.
“Did you put the boys to bed?” Is the first question that comes from his end of the line. He must have found a payphone near their hotel – there is indiscernible noise in the background, crackling and muted.
Jackson glances down at the couch he’s sitting on, and specifically at its two other occupants. To his credit, they’re both in their sleepclothes and have washed up and brushed their teeth, so he’ll count that as a win – if he ignores the fact that Colt is laying in the wrong direction with his feet propped up on the headrest and that Ryland has left his glasses on the nightstand in the other room and is glaring at the pictures on some kind of discarded ad flyer, stubbornly rubbing at his tired eyes, that is. “Yes,” he replies, sarcasm dripping from every letter.
He can hear Holland chuckling, no doubt picking up on what he means just fine. “Hold on, let me say hi- hey guys!”
The last sentence is slightly louder, for the twins’ benefit, so it’s a good thing Jackson predicted it and put some distance between his ear and the phone, allowing the boys to crowd over it with only a minimal risk of elbowing him in the stomach. “Hi, Uncle Holland!” Colt says, entirely too cheerful for that time of night.
“Is Court there too?” Ryland asks, somewhat petulant.
Holland clearly hesitates before answering, though they might be too distracted (or too unaccustomed to his quirks) to notice. “Ah, no, sorry. Been a long day- he was tired and went right to sleep. I’ll put him on the phone tomorrow if he’ll let me, okay?”
Both children groan in displeasure, but their uncle is quick to tut-tut at them. “I know, I know. Tough luck, folks. Hey, d’you guys think you could turn in for the night too? I’ve got a couple questions for your friend Healy there.”
“We’re not sleepy,” Ryland protests immediately, his brother nodding in agreement.
“You don’t have to sleep,” Jackson cuts in, the tried and true method to put them on the right path. “You just got to give us a minute. Then I’ll come keep you company and you can tell me whatever story you want, okay?”
There is still grumbling and whining, enhanced by the fact they’re blatantly exhausted, but they slide off the couch nevertheless, and stumble over to their bedroom after biding goodbye to the phone. The man watches them until he’s sure they’re at least through the doorway, then pitches his voice low as he resumes the conversation. “How bad is it?”
His partner sighs heavily, taking a long, long moment to answer. Jackson can imagine him so clearly, standing there with that awful posture of his and running a hand through his graying hair and mustache, and his heart aches briefly with a longing that is frankly ridiculous at their age. “We haven’t really done any of that legal shit yet, that’s for tomorrow. But he’s- he’s just so goddamn quiet, Jack. He’s barely eaten a thing at dinner. If he freaks out at the stand-”
“I doubt freaking out is the right word-”
“Well I wouldn’t blame him if he did, alright? He’s got a right to it. But I don’t want any of those bastards on the defense to pounce on him. Didn’t even know Gentry had the money for lawyers, the way those boys were living. I thought he’d sent it all down the drain. That’s just the March family luck, I guess.”
“Hey.” Jackson finds himself leaning forward in his seat, as if that could do anything to bring them physically closer. “He’s not going to win this thing. They’ve got too much against him. You just watch out for Court- kid’ll put on a brave face when they’re grilling him, but he might crash the moment he’s alone. He’s just like his uncle on that front.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you,” Holland huffs back, but it’s clear the comment has lightened him up slightly, which was the goal in the first place. “With you acting like that I have a mind to keep driving up north once we’ve wrapped this up and never return. What’d you do then, uh?”
“Laugh, probably. Enjoy life in your house with your nephews and most of your money. But suit yourself, Detective. I’m sure that’s all part of your plan.”
“Smartass.” There’s a pause, and then his partner’s voice softens somewhat, returning to a more somber tone. “I’d better go check on the kid. Love you, old bastard. Say goodnight to the boys for me.”
“I love you too. Do the same with Court, if he’s still awake.”
There’s a click, and the call disconnects. Jackson hangs up the phone slowly, reluctantly, and then remains sitting there for a long stretch, thinking about a lot of things that the other man hasn’t said but that he managed to gauge, regardless. If their lives were still as they were just a year ago, he could keep ruminating until the sun comes back up, quiet and patient in the privacy of his own mind.
But if their lives hadn’t changed, Holland would be there, too, dozing off on the couch with his feet on Jackson’s lap, and he can sense the two curious, stubborn little monsters lingering just behind their bedroom door, anyway. It means that he has to get up, eventually, and try to wipe any lingering worry off his face as he makes his way to them, hoping that he can convince them to sleep for at least a few hours before they all lose their minds.
Holly shows up the next day with Chinese food, a big smile, and every intention to pick up her father’s slack in the case they’re currently handling.
Jackson is grateful for it, but that’s not new. He’s been grateful for Holly’s general existence for years now. He loves her as if she was his own blood, and not just Holland’s, and the boys allow her a proximity they have yet to fully adapt to with either of the men. Besides, she has never dropped that keen investigative eye she had as a child – she has her degree and her jobs outside, as they encouraged her to while she was growing up, but the siren call of detective work is still in her ears. It’s no mystery that she’d rather snatch the agency up when they retire, rather than let it close.
“You guys really need to get some kind of board to pin all this shit up,” she says conversationally, rifling through the admittedly insane amount of notes on the table. “Or let me come back to do secretary work. I don’t know how you can even think straight in this mess.”
Jackson chuckles, passing her the paper she’d been looking for. “You’ve got better things to do with your time, kid. And your father wouldn’t remember to pin things up anyway.”
“That’s his problem, not mine.”
Cuddled up against her chest, Ryland snores peacefully, lopsided enough that it feels like only Holly’s arm wrapped around him is keeping him from falling off her lap. A few feet away, Colt is fast asleep on the couch, curled up with two pillows and no less than three of the boys’ stuffed animals for additional company. Apparently, they both had a rough day at school – their teachers were warned that it was going to be a hard week, but that could only do so much in keeping them in a calm headspace. Sleeping alone was out of the question, as it was on the night prior, which Jackson mostly spent on Court’s narrow bed in a position his spine is still insulting him for.
Holland still hasn’t called with updates. Considering that Florida’s three hours ahead of them, it’s so late he probably won’t altogether, unless he, too, is unable to sleep. None of them has heard Court’s voice since he left the house, and today the pair of them were supposed to talk to the judge. That, to no one’s shock, has put a damper on the general mood in the room.
It doesn’t stop Jackson from shooting sideways glances at the phone, either. It’s pointless and dumb – he might be getting old, but he wagers he can still hear the ringing just fine – and yet he still catches himself doing that every couple minutes, as if he could force the call to arrive out of sheer will alone. He’d be mocked mercilessly for it, if Holland were there.
Fuck, he misses Holland. It’s weird having no other company in the house besides two jittery little boys who apparently spent the whole morning acting up because they’re not used to being so far from their brother. The other man might be annoying and loud and a pain in the ass, but he’s also Jackson’s other half in a way that is hard to compensate for in his absence.
And Court. What the hell could be going through Court’s brain now? He should be sitting there with them, doing his homework while Holly tries to coax him into making a guess about the case, not off to another state to ensure the piece of shit who’s sired him won’t get out scot-free. He’ll have been brave about what he had to do, Jackson hasn’t doubted it once since they found out, but at this time of night? Stuck in an unknown hotel room with his uncle? Who knows what kind of thoughts might have lulled him to sleep. Who knows if he’s even asleep to begin with, given the trend their family seems to be following today.
As if on cue, Colt shifts in his slumber, mumbling something unintelligible and tearing the man from his thoughts. Holly glances at the boy on the couch, briefly, then at the one in his arms, before whispering: “Do you think if I put them down together, they’ll latch onto each other like koalas instead? This one here is breaking my back.”
Jackson huffs in faint amusement. “You can try. Just don’t get mad at me if it backfires.”
“I’m quaking in my boots already.” There is a pause, and then she shoots him a look that brings out the sad spunky girl he first met, and not the clever, incredible young woman she is now, and her next few words are even quieter than before. “They’re going to be okay, right?”
If Jackson were still the man he was fifteen-odd years ago, he would give it to her straight. Even coldly, maybe, trying not to let it touch him too much. He’d tell her that it’s out of their hands, that Gentry might have done some kind of damage that none of them will be able to fix. That the twins are young enough to grow past this, but their brother is another matter entirely.
But fifteen years is a long time, and he doesn’t really believe any of those things anymore, not even as a front, so instead, he says: “We’ll do our best to make sure they are, alright? They’re stubborn kids. Just like their cousin.”
Holly pulls a face, but he can sense some of the weight lifting off her shoulders, even from the other side of the table. “Like you and Dad aren’t the same. Where do you think I got that from?”
“Don’t blame me, kid. That’s a March trait if I’ve ever seen one.” Jackson pushes away Holland’s chicken-scratch excuse for notebook and takes off his reading glasses, rubbing tiredly at his face. “Let’s call it a night, I’m getting cross-eyed. Do you need anything? You’re kinda stuck there, unless you try to tuck him in.”
“I’m good. Do you need anything?”
Actually, he needs a smoke. He needs to be able to turn to Holland and get the most nonsense answer he could ever imagine to any of his questions. He needs to have Court right there in his line of sight, hale and whole, and tell him he’s doing a damn good job with the lot he got in life.
But none of that is for Holly to fix, so instead he smiles thinly and says: “Nah, it’s fine.
“Stay right there, I’ll grab you a drink and then we’ll see if we can pry him off without having to call the bomb squad.”
Holland doesn’t call the morning after, either.
Jackson handles it as well as any adult would. He drops the twins off to school and wrangles a promise out of them that they’ll at least try to listen to their teachers. He goes to speak to a client who said she had news to share. He keeps up the charade of a normal day because, frankly, what other option does he have?
He waits, mostly. He’s not sure what for, and that would fray the nerves of any man, even one as patient as he is, but he waits. It gets to the point where even the word he helped Ryland spell off the calendar after breakfast seems to be a jab at him specifically – reify, verb. To consider or represent something abstract as a material or concrete thing.
Maybe that is what he’s doing. Maybe he made up his mind about the worst possible outcome and then decided it was a fact even if he had no proof to show for it. Maybe he has spent too many years by his partner’s side and some of Holland’s paranoia has rubbed off on him.
Or maybe he simply has really good instincts, and not listening to them would be a mistake.
He keeps fervently wishing the former will be right, and not the latter. When the call finally comes, he even dares to hope he was correct.
That is, until he hears Holland’s voice.
“Listen,” the man says, and there’s even more ruckus in the background now, the kind of environment were no one sane of mind would want to be on the phone. “We’re done here. I got us on a late flight- can you come get us at the airport? We should be there just around midnight, your time.”
The tension in his tone is so palpable it makes Jackson’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“We’re fine. But, uh- it was kinda rough, okay? Still is. I’ll explain when I see you- I really don’t want to take my eyes off the kid right now. Just be there at midnight, please, Jack, don’t make me flag down a taxi.” Holland pauses for a moment, then, but before Jackson can think to get a word in, he continues, surprisingly hesitant: “And...maybe don’t let the boys tag along, uh? I’m not sure Court’s in a good shape to see them.”
The blood instantly turns to ice in Jackson’s veins. Even after his partner has rushed through his goodbyes and hanged up, he finds himself somewhat stunned, dread climbing up his gut
So it wasn’t paranoia, after all. In fact, the situation is even worse than he’d imagined.
Despite the stress, he maintains a remarkable poker face at school pick-up, because the twins can be entirely too perceptive when they put their minds to it. It works, to a certain level – Colt is mostly just ecstatic when Jackson tells them they’re going to have a sleepover at Holly’s house, painting it as a fun adventure and nothing else, but Ryland stares at the man with a minute frown on his face, the puzzlement in his bespectacled eyes making him look like a suspicious little owl perched in the backseat of the car. “Why can’t we sleep at home?” He asks, leaning forward as much as the seatbelt allows him to.
“Work stuff.” Jackson keeps his eyes on the road, doing his best not to meet those identical blue stares in the rearview mirror. “I won’t be home tonight, and you can’t be on your own for that long without Court or your uncle. And Holly said she’d make popcorn for you guys.”
That much is true, at least. The popcorn thing, that is. Holly agreed immediately when he called her to ask for a favor, and if that means the boys will load up on junk food and conveniently ignore their bedtime for one night, so be it. He has bigger fish to fry.
And, well. It might not actually be work, but it sure feels like it from a certain angle. That foreign burst of impatience that is still accompanying him is so strong he gets to the airport parking lot way too early – it’s as if he was on a stakeout again, except it’s not some petty criminal or unfaithful husband that he’s waiting for, but a chunk of that makeshift family they’ve been trying so hard to keep together. The only difference is that he’s usually less nervous, when he’s trying to solve other people’s problems.
More waiting, then. Hours of it. He finds a dingy cafe that supplies him with a terrible cup of coffee, an even worse sandwich, and a dirty bathroom stall to relieve himself in. He lights himself a cigar and savors it, rolling down the window because the last thing he wants is for the car to reek even more of smoke when Court gets in it – it wouldn’t make any difference for Holland, even if his nose was still working. He watches the minutes tick by and tries to keep his concerns at bay, even if it’s like attempting to empty the ocean with a teaspoon.
Finally, midnight goes by. It’s not long after that that Jackson spots two very familiar figures coming out of arrivals – the taller of them is looking around, clearly searching for something or someone, and that’s his cue to approach. Holland relaxes instantly at the sight of him, a tired smile cutting across his face as he scrambles to reach his partner.
Court doesn’t. In fact, Court seems upset at everything in the world at once, his expression tense and twitchy, standing several feet away from his uncle with his hands shoved forcefully in his pockets. If this was a normal teenager, it would perhaps give the impression of a mood swing, of a kid embarrassed at his adult guardian for some inane reason.
But this is Courtland Gentry, and Jackson doesn’t think he’s ever seen the boy look so purely enraged before.
It’s clear, now, why it was better for the twins not to be there, even if their brother’s absence has disoriented them like sailors without a lighthouse. They would have been frightened, perhaps, or Court would have tried to squash down his own feelings for Colt and Ryland’s sake, which he does entirely too often for anyone’s liking. It’s hard to determine which of the two options would have been worse.
“What happened?” He mutters when Holland crowds him in for a hug, all crumpled clothes and stale plane air. It’s the same stupid question he asked on the phone, but he never got his answer, so… “Please don’t tell me that Gentry-”
His partner shakes his head, which gives him just a smidge of relief. “Guilty as charged. And he’s never getting the kids back. The judge was very clear on that.”
“So what is it? For fuck’s sake, Holland-”
“Did you know?”
This is a much younger voice speaking, cutting harshly through their conversation, a voice that hasn’t dropped to an adult octave yet. They turn around to find Court stepping closer to them, but not by much, glaring at the pair with barely contained fury. Glaring at Jackson, mostly, who returns the stare with genuine confusion. “Know what, kid?”
“That they’d give him so little. Two years and a fine. Did you know that would happen?”
“What?”
Holland clears his throat, wincing in displeasure. “Yeah, well- that was the sentence, yeah. Twenty-two months behind bars and some spare change to pay. I was getting to it.”
“That’s- Jesus.” It’s not exactly a surprise, not with the way the police tends to handle these cases and all the connections Gentry seemed to have with them back in Florida, but that doesn’t soften the blow at all. Twenty-two months is insanely short in this case.“Even with the hospital records? Colt was-”
“They didn’t care.” Court rounds on his uncle at long last, his words almost a growl in the silent parking lot. “So what was the point, uh? Why did we go all the way there just for this shit to happen? Clearly nothing I said to them helped.”
“Now hold on a moment,” Holland replies sharply, eyes wide in surprise. “That’s- that’s just not true, Court. You told ‘em everything you needed to tell. The judiciary system is just bullshit sometimes. I already told Perry- we’ve got to get on their asses about it, it’s not over.”
“It is over! Don’t you get it? He won’t ever stay locked up for how long he deserves, which is forever. In a couple years he’ll just be back to try and make us into real men. You might as well have left me there. Won’t make a difference when he gets out and decides I said too much.”
“Court,” Jackson begins, taking a step forward. The conversation is escalating more quickly than he’d expected, and the alarm bells are still ringing and ringing in his brain, making it difficult to even think coherently. “That’s- That will never happen. If he comes near any of you-”
“There’s no if!” The boy explodes. He’s pulled his hands out now – they are balled into fists at his side, shaking uncontrollably. And worse than that…
Court sniffs, his entire stance stiffening and clenching as if trying to will his knee-jerk reaction away, but it’s no use. His eyes, those eyes he shares with his brothers and that make them all look so much like Holland, are glistening under the streetlights, tears gathering and threatening to spill at a moment’s notice.
Jackson doesn’t think he’s ever seen Court cry like this, either. The thought twists in his gut like a knife, sharp and burning.
“Before we even came here, I thought- I thought I could just wait.” The kid’s voice cracks and wavers, making him sound wounded, younger, more terrified than angry.
“I thought that if things went bad, when I turned 18 I’d take Colt and Ry and leave. No one’d ever find us, and I could work. But two years- that’s too soon. I’ll still be in high school, and they’ll be too little. How are we supposed to get away? He already knows we live here now. He’ll find us.”
“No, he won’t.” Jackson hears the words before he realizes he’s the one saying them. His mouth has moved out of pure instinct, as has his body, closing the distance between them and taking the boy by the shoulders, gentle but firm. “Because if he ever tries to so much as talk to you, I’ll kill him myself.”
Court blinks at him for an interminable second, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Then he lunges forward and crumples in the man’s arms, sobbing so harshly it shakes him from top to foot.
Jackson freezes for a heartbeat, then sighs, wrapping himself around the smaller figure like a barrier, rubbing a hand down his trembling back. There’s thin fingers clutching desperately at his jacket and a damp face pressed against his shirt, but none of that is reason enough to let go. Honestly, there might not be anything in the world worth letting go of this kid, right now.
“I should have killed him,” Court stammers, his voice hoarse and muffled into the hug. “I knew where the gun was. He was so drunk sometimes he wouldn’t even have seen me. I thought about it, I did, but I was scared and stupid and chickened out. If I’d done it, the twins’d be safe now.”
“Yeah,” Jackson replies, quiet and level. “And you’d be in jail in his place, and would have wasted a perfectly good life. He’s not worth it. He’s right where he should be, and so are you.”
“For now! But-”
“I meant what I said. Neither of us will ever, ever let him come near you or your brothers again. Whatever bullshit excuse he comes up with, I’m not gonna hear it. I’m getting rid of him before he enters your line of sight, kid, and that’s a promise.”
“You should believe him.” Holland, who had been uncharacteristically silent for a while, finally interjects with the customary lightness in his tone. “That’s the kind of promise he’s really good at keeping. I know from experience.”
He puts a tentative hand on Court’s head, then, gingerly carding through the boy’s hair, pushing them away from his face. It’s a touch Jackson knows well, cupping the back of Holly’s skull, ruffling the twins’ hair when he knows he won’t spook them, tracing random patterns on Jackson’s own head when they’re laying tangled up in bed, simply talking through the night in hushed tones. It’s probably the least invasive way Holland ever shows his affection, and yet it’s the closest Court has allowed him to be yet, which is heartbreaking for all the right reasons.
“Look, we’ll find a way, okay?” He continues, his fingers trailing back and forth, and Court lifts his gaze to look at him in what can only be described as bewilderment, like an animal peeking out from under a bush, but still not protesting, still not pulling away.
“We always find a way, bud. Maybe it’s not always the fastest way, but we get our result eventually. And right now the result we want is for you guys to be safe. So just- just leave it to us. Please. You’ve done everything you could. Shit, you actually did more than anyone should have asked of you. You’re kinda making us look incompetent here, so let us handle the rest.
“Can you do that, Court? Just this once, can you trust me and Jack to fix it?”
There is a tremendously long pause where nobody moves. Jackson nearly holds his breath in anticipation, because if the boy wrenches away now, there’s no telling whether they’ll be able to talk him down again. They’d let him go, of course, because this isn’t the kind of problem they can solve by physically hauling a teenager elsewhere, but it almost feels there’s not going to be an answer at all, for a moment.
Then Court nods, slow but convinced, and that’s a relief, because Jackson has realized, selfishly, that he doesn’t want to let go of this small, fragile thing that’s clinging onto him like a lifeline. In fact, it only makes him hold on tighter, looking at Holland over the boy’s head as an understanding passes between them – it’s a conversation without words, the kind that makes them work so well on the field, on those days were they just click and everything falls in line.
So they remain there, and the parking lot remains silent around them, waiting for the moment to pass.
It’s only later, on the drive home, that Jackson allows his mind to wander.
Holland has dozed off, head lolling against the window and mouth halfway open. His neck will probably hurt like a bitch when he’s not so out of it, but Jackson doesn’t have the heart to shake him awake. Who knows how many hours he’s had to spend watching Court like a hawk, how long the boy was like that, full to the brim with fear and rage that he only allowed to burst out when he was on somewhat safe turf, away from lawyers and judges and the man who ruined his life.
Court is asleep, too. There are tear tracks drying on his cheeks and he’s clutching his backpack to his chest like a safety blanket, but he’s dead to the world in a way that is probably doing him good. He looks more like a child than he’s ever done, like this. In the rearview mirror he appears almost as young as his brothers did that afternoon.
Jackson glances at him at a red light and thinks, the silent car giving his thoughts space to expand and consider things he wouldn’t want to say aloud, especially not where the boy would hear them. He thinks he’d rather make good on his promise before the two years are even spent, just to be on the safe side – he’s a man of his word, especially to his family.
He thinks that among the people prisoners apparently hate the most are friends of the police and folks who lay hands on children. He thinks that the men locked up in the same building as Colin Gentry probably don’t know that he fits both of these descriptions yet.
And he wonders, idly, how many more phone calls to Florida he’ll need to make, to ensure that the word spreads until they do know.