Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ricky taught JJ how to push naloxone when he was thirteen years old, but tonight is the first time he's ever actually done it.

The auto-injector beeps in his hand. "Injection complete."

His knee and hip are aching from being knelt on for so long. He shifts away from Luke's leg to resume rescue breathing. It's something he's known how to do for a while; pretty much every kid on the Outer Banks older than ten knows how to do CPR. The naloxone kit Ricky had given JJ had a face shield in it, but JJ had forgotten all about it. The fear and panic when he realised Luke wasn't merely passed out had been too thick for him to think straight. It still is.

Or maybe it's the headache that's been steadily building since that first punch was thrown—that was over an hour ago by now. (JJ isn't unfamiliar with being concussed. Thanks for all the diagnoses over the years, Dr Pope.) He and Luke had crawled to their respective corners to lick their wounds and self-medicate like they always did after things blew up between them. It's when Luke is the most dangerous, during the aftermath. Like the aftershock following an earthquake.

JJ has seen it too many times: Luke comes down from the haze of violence, realises what he's done, and he reacts. JJ usually tries to be gone by the time Luke gets any clarity. Sometimes whatever Luke does to himself in reaction ends up starting another round of the whole thing if JJ's still there. But often enough, there isn't enough time. Patching himself up can take a while, especially when it's his face or head. Sometimes his bell gets well and truly rung, and he can't steady his hands or stop his vision from twinning.

And JJ's usually pissed. He's furious during the immediate aftermath. That's what he tells himself anyway: That it's anger. Because JJ is dangerous, too, during the after. Like father, like son. He's impulsive. Unpredictable. Stupid. Selfish. JJ knows this about himself. After, he spirals outward in a way everyone can see. In way that hurts and takes casualties.

But Luke spirals inward. He pulls away, isolates. Does something stupid to himself to try to forget it. Like after their last fight, where JJ fought back and had nearly taken things too far. Swallowing too many sleeping pills in the middle of the day was exactly the sort of danger Luke put himself in during the aftermath.

The pressure in JJ's head has only gotten worse since he'd laid in the sanctuary of his bedroom. But maybe it's actually the joint he smoked in a vain attempt to combat the pain of it and all the other wounds carved into him tonight. A single joint didn't stand a chance against the fresh John B-shaped crack in his chest. Those edges are too raw to even think about. He hadn't expected it to make a difference there anyway.

JJ doesn't really remember why he came out of his room at all. To piss? Maybe? He only knows he'd been slow in noticing that Luke wasn't breathing right. Slow to get from the hallway to the living room. Slow to read the bottle nearest his unresponsive father.

Not Ambien.

This time: Percocet.

And the panic and fear had sliced right through JJ's high and his pain, sending him skittering to retrieve the naloxone kit. It's a good thing the fucking injector has those automatic voice instructions built in. His hands had been shaking too much. Couldn't hold it steady enough to read. Never mind the swelling keeping his left eye mostly closed and blurry.

So now here JJ is, practically kissing his father on the fucking mouth over and over to get him to breathe. Every breath he pushes into Luke makes his own ribs twinge. There's always been a cost to everything they give each other. The pain is nothing. After so many breaths and compressions, JJ pulls back to watch. To see if he made a difference. To see if Luke is breathing again—if he's breathing better.

What JJ notices is this: His split lip had opened again, and his blood is staining Luke's mouth.

And then Luke takes a fuller, deeper breath.

JJ collapses backwards, pushing the coffee table back a few feet. Hips and knee still protesting, he squirms until they're out from under him. It isn't comfortable with the two of them in this little space on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, but JJ can't leave. He watches Luke's chest rise and fall and puts a hand to the split in his lip just to feel the sting.

The first time JJ walked in on Luke mid-overdose, he panicked bad. He couldn't get a reaction out of Luke and was scared of the choking sounds he kept making. Luke had been telling JJ since before he could remember that he should never ever trust the cops, and thirteen was plenty old enough for him to understand calling 911 was out of the question. They'd send help, sure. But they'd also send cops and people who asked too many questions that JJ and Luke didn't want to answer.

So JJ pulled Luke's phone out of his pocket with shaking hands and called Ricky; he had the number memorised.

Ricky was basically 911 without any of the questions to JJ, even back then. He looked out for JJ from afar, only wading into the mix when he caught wind of JJ doing something particularly stupid or self-destructive. Like when he sold JJ and John B their first dime bag. He'd refused to supply JJ for weeks—months—but finally caved after JJ called him freaking out after smoking some real twisted shit.

Oh, where had he picked it up? JJ couldn't remember. He didn't know. Did it matter?

At some point during that conversation, John B had taken the phone and asked Ricky if there was anything he needed to be worried about for real or if JJ would just trip balls and be fine in the morning.

"If you two are going to smoke, just do it with something that won't kill you," Ricky said as he handed over the first of several little bags of weed to come.

JJ hugged Ricky then. Just to annoy him. Just to make his cousin shove him away.

"If I hear you're smoking Barracuda Mike's shit again, you and I are going to have a conversation that you're not going to like," Ricky threatened. "Yeah, I know where that other stuff's from. If you really want to smoke that badly, come to me."

"Dude, that's what I've been trying to do."

John B was behind the two of them saying, "Just use it in the house where it's safe," in his god-awful Kook voice.

Anyway. That first overdose. JJ called Ricky. All of his faith was in his cousin. He would have done anything Ricky said, because he trusted him. And because this was his dad on the line.

"Do you have any idea what he took?" Ricky asked after JJ managed to stammer out what was happening.

The calm in Ricky's voice had been in stark contrast to JJ's panic, almost annoying if he'd had the room in his head to dwell on it.

Luke had been doing well. Things had been as good as they got for people like them. But then JJ had had the whole appendicitis thing, and the doctors sent him home with pain medication after the surgery. He'd been back on his feet and fucking around all over the Cut before the pills ran out. He hadn't thought anything about the leftover pills, too eager to see his friends and move again.

Until he came home from one of those fucking-around days to find an empty orange bottle with his name on it on the coffee table beside his unresponsive dad. His dad who had been lying in his own vomit and piss for who knew how long.

JJ should have flushed those stupid pills down the toilet. He should have refused to take them home in the first place, told the doctors not to write the prescription. Should have turned the extras in at a pharmacy. Should have just kept taking them himself until they were gone, even when he didn't need them. Even though he hated how they made him feel; the dulling of the pain never worth the floating sense of detachment that scared him. JJ hated that he could hardly even take a shit when he'd been on them—why hadn't anyone told him about that little side effect?

Fuck, JJ should have sold them—anything besides leave them in the house with Luke. All those good days that they'd built one at a time: Ruined.

Because of a bottle with JJ's name on it.

Ricky told him to call 911, and JJ told him that he couldn't. It would bring cops to their door. They couldn't trust cops. But then Luke's fingertips started to turn a little blue right before JJ's eyes, and Luke was still making those heavy breathing sounds.

All of it had been caused by a bottle with JJ's name on it.

And if Ricky was telling him to do it—Ricky, whom JJ trusted entirely—then it had to be the right thing to do.

"Hey, JJ, put him on his side, alright?"

"He already is."

"Good. Make sure he stays that way. Tell the EMTs that your cousin is going to meet you at the hospital. Call me back as soon as you can, OK? JJ, OK? I need to hear you say it."

"OK."

Ricky told him everything to say when he called 911, and JJ repeated it verbatim to the dispatcher. Then he hung up and ran frantically around the house hiding or disposing of anything that might look incriminating. There was a lot to hide. Luke had been doing so well. Steady work kept all the utilities running at the house, and the evidence was spread out on the dining table. He'd been letting JJ help him with jobs, bringing him to the sites, showing him how to improve his soldering technique.

JJ had to hide proof of his dad doing good from first responders now. It felt good to move though. To feel useful. To run, even if it wasn't away like he wanted to. By the time he called Ricky back, sirens could be heard approaching.

"Police or ambulance?" Ricky asked, a tinny voice in JJ's ear.

"Cops."

"Ambulance is still coming then. Let the police in."

There was a stony silence.

"JJ, let them in. They have something Luke needs to have as soon as possible."

There were two cops in the cruiser. The one on the driver's side got out quickly and said to the other, "Stay and wait for the ambulance. I'm going in."

JJ couldn't hear what the cop on the passenger's side said over the rushing in his ears and his own laboured breathing, but he didn't need to. He was able to see the other cop's shrug and eye roll just fine.

The driver made eye contact with JJ as he jogged up to the steps. Shoupe. JJ clenched his jaw and felt the hand not holding the phone to his ear curl into a fist. His first instinct when a cop ran at him was to hold his ground and prepare to fight, even back then. Especially if it was Shoupe.

Luke hated all cops, but his disdain for Shoupe was something more. Even more than that which he held for the sheriff. Shoupe was always cropping up in places Luke said that he didn't belong. True, it was a relatively small community, and people were bound to run into each other over and over again. Still: Shoupe was one of the cops that Luke took a particular dislike toward. It was the sort of thing that JJ knew there was history behind, but he'd never been brave enough to ask about it.

So now, JJ's instinct to refuse a cop anything they asked for was at war with his fear for Luke's life.

"Where's he at, son?" Shoupe said, urgent but not rushed.

The word grated hard on JJ's nerves: Son.

At the same time, Ricky was all stern and serious in his ear. "JJ."

JJ tilted his head toward the inside of the house and led Shoupe to Luke. He had cleared everything off of the coffee table except for the proof of his fuck up.

So why Shoupe felt the need to pick up the bottle and say, "This what he took?" was beyond him. Shoupe must have just wanted to rub it in. Punish him.

JJ's jaw clenched tight, and his lips pressed into a hard line. Yet he managed to force out, "Think so."

Shoupe whipped out the naloxone kit and did the whole thing before the ambulance arrived. The cop from the passenger's side of the cruiser came in with the EMTs. Luke hadn't been coherent when they left with him, but he'd been responsive. Mostly. No one would listen when JJ told them that Luke was waking up, he'd be fine, why were they taking him when he was fine.

That whole time, JJ's heart had been trying to beat out of his chest. The rushing in his ears never easing. But it changed pitch when the paramedics started to leave with Luke. JJ was feeling about a dozen conflicting emotions at once, and all of them confused him. He had wanted to hit something so badly. Wanted to hit and break and get the hurt outside of himself. The coffee table was right there. He'd seen Luke flip it plenty of times.

Shoupe was watching him. Seeing all of it play out on JJ's face. So he sat himself down on the coffee table and made his face all fake-soft like he was about to try to manipulate JJ with a good cop routine.

The other cop from the passenger's seat cut in, "Vic, I've done the youth training—"

Shoupe put a hand up to stop him. Eyes still on JJ. "You got somewhere to go, son? Someone you can call?" He nodded toward the phone still clutched in JJ's hand.

JJ threw the phone at Shoupe with a little more power than he meant to given the distance between them. If JJ had damaged that phone, Luke would have made him pay for it in more ways than one.

Seeing the on-going call, Shoupe held the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"

The other cop mean mugged JJ for the toss, but JJ scowled back at him with even more venom.

Fucking cops in his fucking house.

JJ wanted to blame that on Ricky. He'd only called 911 because his cousin had told him to do it, and he trusted his cousin's judgement on things like this. But at thirteen years old, JJ knew better. Ricky didn't deserve that heat. He did—JJ did. It had been his name on the pill bottle. His fault that there had ever been something in the house for Luke to take in the first place. If JJ had just—

Shoupe handed the phone back to JJ and said to his partner, "Looks like we're taking him to the hospital. His cousin's there."

It took some over-the-phone yelling on Ricky's part to get JJ to agree to the ride with the cops. He nearly made a run for it when the passenger's side cop held open the door to the backseat. No way was JJ going to be sat in the back of their cruiser like some kind of criminal. He was fuming, cursing everyone and everything out, until he remembered his name on the bottle.

He got in the cruiser quietly after that. Sat like a coiled spring, hands in tight fists and his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth might have compressed into dust. JJ did his best to block out the conversation the cops up front were having, and he was mostly successful. Told himself that he didn't want to hear anything that either of them had to say. Not about this.

When they made it to the hospital, JJ had planned to throw the door open and leave them behind. But the door was locked. Because criminals rode in the back. Both Shoupe and his partner looked back at JJ when they heard him pulling on the handle. The partner made an amused face that he turned to share with Shoupe.

But Shoupe didn't return the look. He didn't even acknowledge his partner looking at him. His eyes were on JJ, and Shoupe just barley frowned. "Yeah, yeah, I'll let you out. Just a second. Just don't go runnin' on us, alright?"

The moment the lock was released, JJ ran.

"Little shit!" he heard Shoupe's partner shout before they were too far behind him to discern.

But both of them caught up to JJ at the reception desk inside. He was called a shit again, and Shoupe dropped a firm hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar move. Shoupe did it a lot in all of the run-ins JJ had with him. It was something deliberate. A weight he couldn't deny. But it was easy to shrug out of, too. Shoupe left his hand there the entire walk from reception to the emergency department's waiting area. JJ had run to the wrong entrance.

It was weird to walk the hospital like this. It was only a few weeks ago that JJ had been here because of the appendicitis. His scar was still pink and tender sometimes.

"You see that cousin of yours anywhere?"

He did: Off to the side of the waiting area and talking to some EMTs. JJ yanked his arm out of Shoupe's grip with way more force than was necessary and made a beeline for Ricky. His cousin saw him coming and immediately broke off his conversation with the EMTs. He met JJ partway across the waiting room, put his hands on JJ's shoulders, and looked him up and down like he was searching for something.

"You good? I was worried. You sounded freaked on the phone."

JJ jerked his chin up just a little. "Fuckin' cops, dude. Why'd you tell me to call? Is Dad—?"

"Luke's gonna be alright." He gestured to the EMT he'd been talking to. "That's a buddy of mine. Was on the crew that brought him in. Luke's gonna be fine."

"Dude, that's what I was telling them! They didn't need to bring him here! He was waking up! He's gonna be so pissed at me."

"We'll tell him the truth: It was me who made you call 911. It'll be fine, cuz, don't worry about it right now. It was the right thing to do anyway."

The cops caught up to them then, and Ricky casually shifted around so that JJ was behind him; a shield between him and the cops. They shook hands and introduced themselves to each other. When Ricky shoved a few crumpled bills into JJ's hand and told him to go get something from the vending machine, JJ knew things were going to get worse. He had a sense about these kinds of things, the kind that could detect impending doom. A lot of people who grew up on the Cut did.

He thought about running again, but both Ricky and the two cops were watching him like hawks as he headed to the vending machines. JJ appreciated the way Ricky kept pivoting to keep himself between JJ and the cops, but everyone knew it was futile. JJ wasn't even allowed to see Luke before they took him away, citing some emergency custody bullshit.

Ricky was there though. He had to watch the whole thing go down. He couldn’t do anything but say sorry, it'll only be for a little bit, I'll come get you as soon as I can, it'll be OK, I'm sorry, cuz, I'm sorry. And Ricky looked it, too, while the cop was forcing JJ toward the hospital's exit. Shoupe stayed behind and had a hand on Ricky's chest, stopping him from following.

JJ ended up spending a couple weeks that felt like years with some people he'd never met. He spent most of that time pissing them off as much as he could. He kept sneaking away to the library—Pope said he was so proud when JJ told him, presumably once he stopped laughing—so that he could use the computers to message his friends. Testing the limits of these strangers hadn't been hard, but nothing JJ could think of to do was able to take his mind off of wondering about Luke.

JJ still wanted to be angry with Ricky. He went over the same old arguments with himself: He trusted Ricky's every word, called 911 because his cousin had told him to and that it would be alright. He'd trusted him. And look where that had gotten him: On the mainland with strangers who had shorter fuses than Luke on a withdrawal day. But the anger toward Ricky didn't stay. If calling 911 had been the right thing to do, then it had to have been something else that was the wrong thing. And it was: It was the pills. JJ had done the wrong thing that set the whole thing off by having those damned pills in the house. His name printed clear as day on that bottle.

Shoupe was the one to pick JJ up from the emergency foster family—or whatever the fuck they were supposed to be. He had to ride in the back again. JJ was convinced it was because he had greeted Shoupe with, "What, have you taken the youth training programme too now?"

When they got off the ferry, Shoupe took him to one of the restaurants on Main Street that was usually crawling with tourons so that he could ask probing questions about the emergency placement that were none of his fucking business. He wouldn't take the hint when JJ outright ignored the questions, so JJ had to tell outlandish lies with deadpan delivery to get Shoupe to give up.

The moment JJ recognised the sound of Luke's truck's engine outside, he bolted from the table. Left behind the hardly-touched meal Shoupe had insisted that he order without a second thought. He hadn't had much of an appetite since they'd dragged him out of the hospital.

Shoupe caught up to him on the sidewalk while JJ was waiting for Luke to park. That annoying hand dropped back onto his shoulder as Luke exited the truck and approached them. He looked rough. Like the older days. The bad days. Not like he'd been looking before, when they'd worked together on his jobs and JJ would be offered a beer at the end of the night for a job well done.

"You good?" Luke said.

JJ nodded his head. "Yeah, I'm good."

He knew better than to ask it back.

"None of those fuckers in the foster home mess with you?"

Shoupe's fingers pressed harder into JJ's shoulder.

He swallowed around a dry lump that formed in his throat out of nowhere. Repeated, "I'm good."

"OK. Let's go then."

But Shoupe didn't let go.

Luke raised an eyebrow in challenge. He had clocked Shoupe's hand on JJ's shoulder from the moment he'd stepped out of the truck. JJ knew Luke had, and it seemed his father's tolerance was running thin today.

Luke snapped, "There a reason you got your hands on my son, Shoupe?"

The pressure in Shoupe's fingers let up. He patted JJ on the shoulder just once before dropping his hand away.

"Anything you need," Shoupe said to JJ, "I'm just a phone call away."

"Whatever."

The tension was palpable in Luke's truck on the way back home. JJ tried to explain everything he'd done the night of the overdose, talking too fast and too loudly.

Luke cut him off with a sharp, "Ricky already talked to me."

The tone was final. End of conversation. The kind of tone that Luke used during bad days when he couldn't be bothered to even acknowledge JJ's existence. When it wasn't worth the effort of knocking him around.

It was on that ride that JJ came to an understanding with himself. He wouldn't take Ricky's word as gospel anymore. He wasn't angry with his cousin and still trusted him on all things emergency and weed-related. But what had happened when JJ had called 911 hadn't been Ricky's fault. JJ never had to call. He'd chosen to do that.

Like leaving those pills in the house had been a choice.

First time he saw Ricky after all of that, his cousin handed him the naloxone kit and said, "I'm gonna teach you something really important."

JJ remembered all of it: The overdose, the cops, the emergency custody order, naloxone. Above all, that the orange bottle had had his name on it.

Pressure pulses in JJ's head, and he blinks himself back to the present. He still has a hand to his split lip, and he presses down for several seconds so that the sting will help ground him. He isn't thirteen years old anymore, but Luke is still in the depths of the relapse that started that day.

The spent auto-injector is next to him on the floor. He wants to kick it away, but he picks it up instead. Awkwardly reaching back, he slides it onto the coffee table. There is a second injector in the kit, but Luke's chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm now. He probably won't need the second one.

Opioids weren't always Luke's typical substance of choice, and this shit is why. It was always too much. Too fast. Too many other things he takes at the same time. He always takes it too far.

JJ's eyes drift down to his father's hands. To the knuckles Luke split against JJ's face earlier.

Too far. But at the same time, nothing that hasn't happened before.

Luke was already been wasted when the cops had called him to come pick JJ up from the SBI tent.

"You get a hold of him or what?" Shoupe—it was always Shoupe—asked the officer tasked with calling Luke.

They nodded. "Says he's been drinking, and he can't drive."

"When's that ever stopped him?" JJ heard Shoupe mutter in response.

Heyward heard it, too. JJ knew he had, because he tried to reel JJ back into the clump of his family. JJ only let himself be moved halfway, and he made sure his resistance could be felt. Heward stopped pulling at him when he did, but he didn't drop his hand. Didn't lighten up on the pressure he was holding around JJ's arm.

JJ resented it. He wanted to pull away and go for one of the cops again. Wanted to start shouting, getting in their faces until they pushed back, threw him down, restrained him in the most painful ways they knew. JJ recognised most of the local cops. He knew they'd been wanting to thrash him for years. Why not now? When all of them wanted it, JJ included?

The immediate grief he'd felt when Shoupe had told them John B and Sarah were lost had been cauterised by anger. It stopped the bleeding. It had felt good to let some of the pain out at the cops for a few moments though. At Shoupe. Until it burned through him, quick but agonising, and closed off everything so that it would stay inside JJ where it belonged.

Giving John B a way out on the Phantom had seemed like the right thing to do. JJ only ever wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to do right by the people he loved. But he just kept fucking it all up. Making it worse. JJ was so fucked up that he didn't even know what the right thing looked like. John B had needed help, and JJ had given him a coffin and helped nail him inside. He gave him the shovel to dig his own grave.

What the fuck kind of friend did that?

By the time Shoupe was trying to contact Luke to pick JJ up, the SBI teams was packing up. People were leaving, fleeing the storm now that there wasn't much to do. The search would resume once the weather had passed. Recovery instead of rescue. Kie's parents had already dragged her out of the tent and taken her home. She had fought to stay, but she was too weighed down with grief to put up the kind of fight JJ knew she had in her.

It was probably for the best. JJ decided that he wanted to hurt and be angry with himself. He wanted to scare Pope and Kie away before he doomed them, too. He wanted Officer Thomas to beat his ass for threatening Shoupe. He wanted Luke to show up with the same wrench JJ had nearly killed him with and even the score. Never mind that Luke would never do that. Never had. Not even at his worst. JJ was the one to bring a weapon into what had always only ever been a fist fight.

"I'm staying," Pope announced from the centre of the huddle his parents made around him. He was staring directly at JJ as he said it. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

His parents agreed, didn't miss a beat. JJ might have been surprised if it weren't for the fury and grief occupying him. The three Heywards were still here now, Heyward with that hand still holding JJ's arm. Not pulling him in anymore but definitely stopping him from drifting any further away or instigating something with the cops. JJ stayed tense. He didn't pull out of the hold, but he did press against it. Didn't let himself lean into the hold. Heyward had to know that he was refusing the offer. JJ didn't want comfort or support. He didn't deserve it. It belonged to Pope anyway—as if parental support were a finite resource that JJ would have to be selfish to accept for himself.

Heyward didn't like him. It was charity. It wasn't sincere. Heyward just felt guilty when he looked at JJ, and the comfort was really just to make himself feel better.

"That Heyward's kid you been hanging around with?" Luke had asked one night.

This was years ago when JJ and John B had first claimed Pope as their friend but before the appendectomy and the orange bottle with JJ's name on it. Back when Luke was still good and still going to those court-ordered addiction support group meetings in the church basement. The meetings where they told Luke that JJ couldn't be there, so he wound up going to the Sunday school classes upstairs until the meetings ended.

JJ had looked up from the cargo hide Luke had been letting him help with ("I need small hands"). "Uh huh."

"Why do you sound like that?"

He and Luke had shared long eye contact across the dining table cluttered with components for the hide.

JJ had shrugged. "Nothing."

Luke had looked back down at the board he was soldering. "You never sound like that for no reason."

"I just think that Heyward doesn't like me very much."  

"Why d'you think that?"

He'd shrugged again. Slid the container of tiny screws he'd been cleaning across the table when Luke gestured for it. "Just a feeling. I can tell."

Luke had been looking at the screws when he said, "You know, Heyward and I used to brush shoulders on jobs."

"What do you mean?" JJ had fiddled with the long, narrow nozzle on the can of cleaner until it fell off.

"I mean that I know for a fact there's one of these on that boat of his," Luke had said while nodding toward the cargo hide. "Man's a legend on the island for a reason, and it's not because of a damn grocery delivery business."

"What!"

"Keep your damn voice down. Jesus Christ."

JJ had sat back in his chair but kept his eyes on his father. Made that face of his.

Luke had obliged the look, like he usually did. He'd said, "Family of his owned the busiest pharmacy on the island. You ought to know that. The Heywards were moving big things for a long time. Anything you could want, Heyward had it. Until he didn't. That kid of his was a surprise." Luke had laughed a little. "His wife probably thought she was in the clear, but nope. Heyward got out of the game when the kid came. Money dried up fast, and they were hurting just like everyone else. He got plenty of offers to jump back in, but he said it was too risky. His kid was too important to him. Didn't want the kid's chances to be ruined by association if he ever got busted."

The way Luke had looked at JJ when he said that had made JJ feel as if he were floating. Lucky. Loved. He hadn't understood why at the time, and he hadn't really cared. The feeling had been more than enough.

"Get us some beers, huh?"

JJ had. Gladly.

After taking the first swallow, Luke had looked down at the screws again, picking one out. "Heyward can barely look at the rest of us who're still in it. Wants to pretend it never happened. That he was never part of it.  I'm not surprised he doesn't want you hanging around his precious kid."

JJ was pretty sure hearing all of that changed the way he thought of Pope forever. Next chance he'd gotten, JJ had snooped around The Alp until he found the cargo hide. He'd been caught by Heyward right as he finally got the lock picked. Inside was a box of individually-wrapped brownies, opened and half-empty.

"That's where I keep things I don't want to share with my family," Heyward said each word with deliberate weight.

They'd stared at each other as the understanding of what it meant had passed between them. A secret had taken root.

JJ had pushed the door closed until the lock of the hide audibly clicked back into place. "Dunno what you're talking about, sir. I didn't see anything."

"Hmph. I know you didn't. Now get off my damn boat."

Neither of them ever mentioned it again. Sometimes JJ thought that he'd dreamt it. But it didn't really matter. His curiosity had been sated. He was pretty sure Pope didn't know about the existence of the cargo hide but that didn't matter. It was just Hewyard's stash of sweets and cobwebs now. The most interesting thing about finding the hide was that Luke hadn't been lying about him and Heyward running in similar crowds once upon a time.

Heyward and JJ both had Pope's best interests at heart even though they didn't agree on the precise definition of "best." The main thing they did agree on was that Pope had to get out of the Outer Banks. He was something special. Weird? Yeah. Oh, yeah. But he worked hard. He was the smartest person that JJ knew and probably ever would know. It was sort of cool for someone like JJ to have a friend like Pope. Someone who had a future beyond the Cut and had made it this long without needing to know how to throw a punch.

Hell, JJ liked that Pope didn't know how to throw a punch. He hoped he'd never have to know how to do it properly. JJ would gladly do all of that for him. It was pretty much the only thing he could do for Pope. One of his only skills on offer. He'd do what need to be done if it meant Pope always kept his chance to get out and do the things he wanted to do. Even if those things were, like, watching dead bodies shit themselves.

That was why JJ had done it. Why he'd done everything. Not just taking the fall for sinking Topper Thornton's boat but the hours before that, when he'd helped out with that grocery delivery.

Heyward had stopped JJ on the dock out of sight of Pope. He'd looked stressed. He'd looked desperate. He'd looked guilty, and he hadn't even said a word yet. Heyward had just passed JJ the key to the cargo hide where Pope couldn't see, and the expression on his face had been loaded when they finally made eye contact.

JJ could read a room. He'd always been able to; it was a necessary skill to survive the life into which he'd been born. Heyward wouldn't have been asking him if he didn't need it—if Pope didn't need it. A big time university cost big time money even with a nerdy scholarship. So it was really that simple for JJ. He'd accepted the key. He'd smiled at Heyward like he'd been waiting years for the man to ask him to do this. Maybe he had been.

Really, it was no big deal. JJ had gone on bigger and riskier runs for Ricky by this point. What was a single drop-off for Heyward? For Pope? Heyward hadn't needed to look so destroyed when JJ took the key and hopped onto the boat. It was fine. Pope needed it, so that made the risks and consequences worth it. It did. Heyward hadn't needed to stand there looking like he was already regretting asking.

(But he hadn't asked. That bastard was so smart. He really had been in Luke's circles once, hadn't he? All Heyward had done is give JJ a key. Everything else was JJ's choice. His.)

So when the boat was tied off on a Figure Eight dock and Pope went one way to complete his delivery, JJ opened the cargo hide and delivered whatever was inside right along with his part of the groceries. He didn't ask questions. He didn't snoop. When the client had made some extra demands disguised as requests while reviewing the delivery, JJ had handled it. He'd done what needed to get done.

He'd kept the tip, though, and pretended like there was no better job in town than delivering Heyward's groceries. He'd made a hundred bucks. He was fine. Pope was the one who had gotten jumped. That was what Heyward had needed to focus on when they got back. He should have had more eyes on his son's injuries than on the brittleness of JJ's smile as he'd discreetly passed over the cargo hide key.

He did always wonder if anything about that delivery got back to Heyward. Because in the SBI tent that night, JJ knew Heyward was feeling suffocated with guilt. He knew Heyward didn't want to be asking some kid to assume the risks of delivering drugs to Kooks on power trips for his benefit. But JJ got it. He understood. Pope was priority here, and he wouldn't take it well if his dad got popped for distribution.

JJ though? JJ Maybank?

That was fine. JJ was fine with it. He'd already done it for Ricky. This was for his family.  He could take the risk. It was really the only thing he was good for: Doing the things that the others had too much to lose to do.

Heyward's fingers tightened on JJ's arm.

"We'll take him home with us," Heyward said to Shoupe and the officer who was trying to reach Luke. In a lower voice directed at Shoupe, he said, "You know damn well he's better off with us anyway."

"You know I can't," Shoupe hissed right back. "I would if I could."

"He's gonna be killed if he goes back there tonight. You want that on your conscience?"

JJ wondered if they knew he could hear every word. If they cared.

"I'm doing what I can, but my hands are tied pretty tight here."

Heyward's voice was low and dangerous. "That was their best friend out there. They're all in shock. That alone—"

"I know."

JJ briefly considered making a run for it again or maybe throwing a punch. Something that would get him a nice cozy jail cell all to himself for a night. But there was still that bigger, angrier part of him that wanted Luke to cave his head in with a crescent wrench. JJ wanted to go home. The last two times he'd been there he'd been one swing away from killing his father and then had stolen (and subsequently lost) valuable property.

Third time's the charm.

Shoupe ended up announcing that he was going to drive JJ home, because it was always fucking Shoupe.

Pope objected and shouted a bit about how much of a piece of shit Luke was. About how JJ couldn't go back there. It wasn't right, it wasn't safe. Shit like that. Shit Pope had no business saying about JJ's dad. Pope's mother had to intervene to quiet him. It was just a heightened reaction because of John B and Sarah, JJ told himself. Pope was just freaking out because of the grief and trying to feel like he had some control over things. He was doing what Pope does and trying to make sense of senseless things.

"It's fine, Pope," JJ said, voice raised. Heyward's hand was still firm around his arm.

"Dude! It's not fine!"

Pope's mother turned toward Shoupe. "Just let us take him for the night. You can drive him over to his house yourself  first thing in the morning. It's so late now anyway."

"Cara, listen, I would love nothing more than to be able to do that—"

JJ jerked his arm free and stepped out of Heyward's reach. He didn't want to be recaptured. "I want to go home," he said over all of them. "Fuck. Shoupe, fine. Just take me the fuck home."

"Yeah," Shoupe sighed. Resigned. "Yeah, kid, OK. Let's go."

JJ swore that Shoupe did it just to piss him off: He put a hand on JJ's back and kept it there the whole way to the sheriff's truck. Why did these people keep doing that? Touching him like that? Trying to stop him. Control where he could go.

Pope still freaked, his grief making him more emotional than ever. He tore away from his parents and followed JJ and Shoupe to the truck. Pope was the one to break Shoupe's hand off of JJ's back. Shouldered him out of the way so that he could hug JJ in the same way he had at Midsummers. The kind of hug that crushed and forced a grunt out of JJ.

"This is fucked, man. You can't go back there."

"Don't worry about it," he mumbled back.

But Pope did the Pope thing and worried about it. JJ had to pry himself free, and Pope's mother snuck in to lead him off. Heyward just kept up the waves and waves of guilt. JJ didn't have it in him right then to let himself be used to make other people feel better. He just got into the truck and closed the door.

Shoupe tried to say something to JJ the whole drive to his house, but JJ wasn't listening. Too busy being consumed by the John B-sized sink hole opening up inside him. Didn't help anything that Shoupe was driving him home in the very same stolen police vehicle John B had pulled up in at the dock. Same as the one Shoupe had taken JJ to the station in on Pope's destruction of property warrant.

When the truck parked outside the house, Shoupe just sat there and let it idle for a while. Rain lashed the windows.

"I know I've said it to you probably a thousand times by now," Shoupe said, "but I'm just a call away if you need anything. Day or night, son, you got that?"

JJ didn't respond. He was squinting through the rain at the lights on in the living room.

"A lot happened tonight. I know that. And you must be feeling a whole lot right now. Ain't no secret how close you and Routledge were."

JJ didn't want to hear it. He especially didn't want to hear it from Shoupe—not when he was reaching his fucking hand out again. JJ shoved the door open—wasn't locked that time—and got out. He kicked backwards to slam it closed. He would rather face Luke than have to deal with all of that.

Luke's breathing hitches, and JJ lurches forward to roll him onto his side and get his back propped against the foot the couch. It's tight quarters here, and it's a struggle to get Luke's dead weight fully arranged in the recovery position. Especially with the pounding of JJ's headache, the persistent twinge in his ribs, and the weight of all the grief around his heart.

JJ's not quick enough to avoid the vomit. But at least he's close enough to see Luke's eyes crack open. He's fucking gone, as expected. He coughs, and a mix of bile and saliva rolls down his chin. It mixes a bit with the blood JJ's split lip had left when he'd been breathing for Luke. He groans a little and rolls his head away from his own sickness, into his arm. JJ's pretty sure he passes out again immediately.

He allows himself a few moments to push his lungs against his aching ribs as hard as he can, until he can feel them stretching against the swelling. Then he's pushing himself away from Luke so that he has enough space to stagger to his feet. A sharp bolt of pain lights up one of his legs starting at the hip. His knee protests. But JJ gets upright and retrieves a roll of shop towels from amongst all the shit on the dining table.

It hurts worse to get back down, and that's why JJ makes sure to do it slowly. It's graceless and full of bit-off yelps. Makes his head feel like it's ready to bust by the time he's back where he started. He throws a few towels over the mess on the floor but takes more care with Luke. Easing his head up to wipe off his chin and then just as gently setting it back down on his arm. JJ dabs a little clumsily at the wet spots on Luke's shirt.

He doesn't bother much with trying to clean up himself once Luke's looking better. JJ just settles back against the coffee table and stretches his legs out in front of him. He wants to lie down. The throbbing in his head might make the choice for him soon if he's not careful. He wants that second joint he left beside his pillow. Maybe wants to text Kie back. They'd been messaging before JJ left his room and found Luke. Well, it was mostly just Kie messaging. JJ had been occupied with getting high and reminding himself that he was supposed to be pushing Kie and Pope away before he took them down the same way he'd just done with John B.

But it's after now, and JJ is liable to make stupid decisions—stupider decisions.

Kie never liked to do things alone, especially not after she came back to them after the Kook year. She ingratiated herself amongst them even harder than before. Grabbed hold of each of them and wouldn't let go for anything. She is grieving John B and Sarah hard right now. Two of her best friends gone all at once. (Because of JJ.) And she doesn't want to go through this grief alone. She shouldn't have to. She didn't say that in so many words in the messages, but JJ is a lot better at reading than anyone ever gives him credit for.

Never mind that he has a way harder time denying Kie things than he does with anyone else.

He wants to get back to her, but he can't let himself do that yet. He's in the middle of an after. So JJ stays where he's at, roll of shop towels gripped tight in his hands, and he watches his dad. It shouldn't be long. He'd already come around once. JJ only has to take care of Luke for a little bit longer. It's the least he can do. This is his father. The first family he ever had.

Luke threw a black sweatshirt directly into JJ's face.

"Put that on."

"Huh? Why?" He pulled it off and stared at his father. He was dressed for a job, bag of tools in hand.

"Because I said so. Hurry up."

JJ stared at him for a moment longer before pulling the sweatshirt over his head. He'd been looking for a distraction from his boring third-grade homework anyway.

"Is Hollis here?"

"No, she ain't here."

JJ's head tilted a little and he squinted at Luke. Fear zapped through him. "I'm not going over to her house, am I?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "No. There's no more Hollis." He ran an irritated hand down his face and then through his hair. JJ couldn't tell how sincere the emotion was. Luke sighed, "I know she scared the shit out of you about the Crain house—"

"I am not scared!"

"Then who was always waking up yelling in the middle of the night from nightmares about axe murderers?"

JJ scowled.

"Didn't I tell you to hurry up?"

He hurried up. Followed his father out of the house and into the truck.

"What did you mean about there being no more Hollis? Where are we going? There's school tomorrow."

"You're asking too many questions at once."

JJ rolled his eyes while he fiddled with the door handle. "Where are we going?"

"I got a job."

Duh.

"Where am I going?"

"I just said I got a job."

JJ whipped around in his seat to face Luke. "You mean I get to help?"

"That's what I said."

But Luke hadn't really said that. JJ let it slide though.

"Why! I get to help now? What changed?"

Luke shot him a warning look, but JJ just grinned. Unafraid.

"What changed is that there's no more Hollis, and I got a job tonight."

"Why is there no more Hollis?"

"Why do you ask so many goddamn questions? You should be happy. She won't be telling you any more of those bullshit stories about her crazy old lady." Under his breath, Luke muttered, "And I might be able to sleep through the goddamn night for once."

JJ shrugged and went back to messing with the door handle. He liked Hollis. Didn't mind when she got distant and spooky-sounding and told him stories about her dad's decapitated head staring back at her from the outhouse. JJ liked scary stories. A few bad dreams were nothing. It was all part of the scary-story experience. And Hollis wasn't like that all the time anyway. She was usually pretty fun, taking JJ out of the house and all around town on the nights Luke left JJ with her. Hollis wasn't at all like what the other kids at school had to deal with when they were stuck with a babysitter. JJ thought he'd gotten really lucky to have her.

Having no babysitter was even better though. JJ had always wanted to see where his dad went when he had night jobs like this. Always curious about where all those projects that he worked on all the time at the dining room table went when Luke was done. JJ was looking forward to finding out. 

They pulled up to a port. Luke got out, got his tools, and walked purposefully through the maze of buildings and piles of equipment. JJ followed behind him and tried not to get distracted. They entered one of the buildings and were greeted by Barracuda Mike shouting at them, "The fuck is this?"

JJ waved. This wasn't his first time meeting him. "Sup?"

Barracuda Mike scowled at him before turning the expression on Luke.

Shrugging, Luke said, "His fucking babysitter disappeared, if you haven't seen the fucking news. I didn't have a choice."

"So you brought him here? Isn't he old enough to stay by himself for a night?"

"My fucking neighbours are still nosy as shit. Coming up with all kinds of excuses to come over. They'll have cops at my door if the kid's there alone. He'll shut up and stay out of the way—" Luke stopped abruptly and looked over Barracuda Mike's shoulder at the other guys in the room. His face grew hard, and he clamped a hand on the scruff of JJ's neck, pulling him closer. Luke levelled a finger at a guy manning a small press on top of what looked like a homemade worktable made of pressed wood. "What the fuck is he doing back."

He said it like that. Like it wasn't a question.

It was Barracuda Mike's turn to shrug. "I needed the hands, and he owes me. You're the one who brought a kid here."

They started to argue in low, tense voices. At one point, Luke released his hold on JJ and pushed him away. Message received: He wasn't supposed to listen to what they were saying anymore. JJ wandered away to take a look around the storage facility. It smelled: Seawater, metal, grease, weed. JJ was looking at partially disassembled handguns when Luke called him back over. He looked pissed, but it wasn't directed at JJ.

It had been a while since Luke had been like that toward him. He was still going to his weekly meetings in the church basement, even now when it wasn't required by court order. The strongest thing he kept in the house was beer. There weren't a million bottles of pills ready to fall out of the cabinets like there used to be. He spent his time obsessively working on the Phantom instead of getting wasted with his buddies. Instead of courting fights and getting kicked out of bars, Luke had been at the boat shed, tolerating JJ and his incessant questions enough to teach him everything he'd ever need to know about servicing and driving a boat. Luke was doing good.

Still, JJ went to his father cautiously. Some lessons only had to be learned once.

"I'm going to work. I'll be at the dry dock. You do not leave this building. You do not touch anything." Luke looked over his shoulder at the same guy he'd pointed at before. Then he faced JJ again and said in a low, stern voice, "And you don't go near that fucker, you hear me?"

JJ's eyebrows shot up his forehead.

"I asked you if you hear me."

"I hear you."

He really did try to do as Luke said, but JJ easily grew bored. And he was hungry. Something had to give under the weight of boredom and hunger, so JJ found himself trying to put back together one of the disassembled handguns. He'd seen Luke take things apart and put them back together all the time. His dad could fix anything. JJ wanted to be like that. But he learned pretty quickly that he had no idea how guns worked. Not that a lack of knowledge had ever stopped him from trying to do things before.

JJ all but forgot Luke's warning when the fucker he wasn't supposed to go near approached him and offered to show him how to put the gun back together.

"Yeah, OK," JJ agreed.

The guy led him back to the worktable with the press. It was too tall for JJ to see properly, and there was only one bar stool. The guy gripped JJ under his arms, picked him up, and sat him on the table. He took the stool for himself and scooted so that they were gathered close around the gun. JJ was annoyed at being manhandled (he'd been climbing things taller than the worktable by himself for forever) but not enough to stop him from leaning over and watching the gun get put back together.

JJ was allowed to take it apart and put it together again himself with the guy's help. It was pretty cool. Pretty satisfying to be able to make something that worked from nothing.

"I gotta get back to doin' my job," the guy said. With quick, practiced motions he got the gun back to its original state of disassembly and returned it to the shelf it had come from. He sat back down at the press.

Swinging his feet off the side of the table, already bored again, JJ asked, "What's your job here? What is this thing?"

"This," the guy said as he put a red tube at the bottom of the press, "is a shotshell reloader." He grinned at JJ. "I'm reloading shotgun shells."

JJ had a million questions about the powder, the shot, the colour of the shells, if reloader meant the shells had been shot before, where had they been used, why didn't he have new shells to load, why there were two steps to crimping. The guy was pretty patient about answering JJ's questions. He slowed down the process, explaining each step. Then he loaded and crimped a bunch at his regular working speed.

Naturally, JJ asked if he could try it. The guy had JJ sit on the stool before the press and stood close behind him, chest pressing into JJ's back and shoulders when he reached around him to guide or correct him on something. Reloading the shells wasn't as fun as assembling the gun, but there was some satisfaction in seeing the final crimp on the shell all folded up. And there was something nice about the repetitiveness of the process, too. JJ was really in the rhythm of it, so he didn't notice that Luke was back until he was snapping off a fist that whistled as it clipped JJ's ear and flew into the face of the guy he wasn't supposed to be near. The guy went down like a ton of bricks that could say "what the fuck is your problem."

JJ dropped down off the stool immediately and scurried away from the table. Barracuda Mike intercepted him before he could reach the door.

Luke laughed over the fucker JJ should have stayed away from in a way that was all danger and no humour. "You must have a death wish."

Barracuda Mike didn't look concerned. He guided JJ toward the door, calling over his shoulder, "Do what you gotta do, but don't kill 'em. He still owes me."

JJ was sitting on the hood of the truck and eating his way through a handful of cough drops from a giant bag Barracuda Mike kept in his car when Luke caught up with them.

"You good?"

Luke made a face. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You leave him breathing?"

"He can still work."

Barracuda Mike nodded. "Don't bring the kid again."

"Hey!" JJ cut in around a cough drop. His mouth was nearly numb from them by now.

"Don't bring the kid again unless he can work. How about that?"

"I know how to reload the shells." JJ grinned.

Barracuda Mike tried not to smile. It ruined his reputation. He said to Luke, "I mean it."

Luke said, "Yeah, well."

On the ride home, Luke reminded JJ how he'd said that he wouldn't go near that fucker and what it meant to break his word. Loudly. Forcefully. Luke was pissed. JJ thought that it wasn't targeted at him still, not entirely. Or maybe it was that there was something more to it than just being mad that JJ hadn't listened (again).

JJ never saw that guy again. He made himself a best friend in John B by the next night job Luke worked, and he spent the first of many, many nights at the Château. It was even better there than being babysat by Hollis, because sometimes Big John would leave for hours at a time. It would be just John B and JJ free to do whatever they wanted. And they did do whatever they wanted.

Even when Big John was there, it usually didn't feel like he was. To JJ, Big John didn't act like a dad. He was hard to figure out. He seemed content to lock himself in his office most of the time, but he'd always ring the bell signalling to John B that he had to come back home. Like suddenly Big John was concerned about John B being around after he'd ignored him all day.

"How do you know when you're supposed to be home?" John B asked once, when JJ had suggested that they ignore the bell.

JJ had only shrugged.

There was no doubt that John B loved his dad, so JJ mostly just shut up about it. He didn't say anything the times that Big John would get suddenly snappy, his frustration at something boiling up to the surface. Or when he yelled at people on the phone; JJ and John B could hear him through his office door. Stuff like that always made JJ uneasy. He was wary of the unpredictability of Big John's moods. John B wasn't. They never scared him. He always had an explanation for his dad's irritation that he'd tell JJ with a laugh: Big John's research partners were being dicks. His funding had been cut. He'd been forced to abandon his doctorate, because it was too restrictive on what he wanted to do. An interview denied, appointment cancelled last minute.

"He's looking for a shipwreck full of gold!" John B told him one day.

That sounded stupid as shit to JJ, but there was no way he was going to say that to John B when he was looking so happy. Dads and what they got up to were a sensitive topic. And the shipwreck stories were pretty interesting. But they were only ever stories to JJ. So when John B started talking about his dad and his research, JJ grinned and played along with it. Whatever made his best friend happy. A lot like what JJ did in Sunday school. Big John, and by extension, John B, did sound a lot like the church people when they got to talking about gold. It was harmless to indulge them in their interest. It's not like they'd ever find it.

It was better that Big John stayed wrapped up in his buried treasure quest when JJ was around anyway. He liked it better. Because the alternative was having Big John look at JJ out of the corner of his eye and sometimes having to field weird, leading questions about Luke and how things were going at JJ's house. That on top of everything else just gave JJ a vague feeling that he didn't particularly like Big John. He loved Big John for John B's sake. But being alone with the guy without John B around wasn't something JJ really looked forward to.

Not that the possibility of that was anywhere near enough to stop JJ from showing up at the Château every chance that he got. JJ and John B kept doing whatever they wanted even when JJ didn't need a babysitter anymore. It never occurred to him to stop going over just to hangout. John B was his best friend.  

They climbed things, played flashlight tag in the middle of the night. They made obstacle courses in the yard and took pleasure in wiping out on their bikes as they competed for the best time. They chased the chickens, working together and against each other to get the rooster first. They surfed when it was dark, during storms, when weather turned cold as hell. They took the canoes out on the water with the intention of going fishing and accidentally-on-purpose tipping themselves more than once. JJ didn't think that he would ever laugh harder than the time he and John B were cleaning fish at one of the tables at a marina and a gang of hungry, impatient pelicans attacked them. It wouldn't have happened if John B hadn't been so slow and sloppy. They only went after him at first, but JJ felt obligated to intervene once the birds started biting. They lost the entire day's catch to those birds.

The Château was where it all happened. The place John B and JJ always managed to drag their crossfaded asses back to after a night of stirring up shit and doing things they shouldn’t have been doing. It was only that much better with Pope and Kie, if the two of them managed to evade their caring parents and reasonable curfews. All of them spent a lot of time there. JJ knew John B was proud of that. Was so, so happy to be the house his friends could crash at no matter what was going down.

There came a time, right around JJ's appendectomy, when he started to go with Luke more often to those night jobs. And he worked. Barracuda Mike set him up with one of his welders, and JJ learned fast and made himself useful—like he always did when the motivation was right.

At the end of these nights, usually dawn the next morning, JJ was almost always found passed out on the pull-out couch at the Château. Because he knew John B didn't mind (Big John probably didn't even notice). Hell, JJ knew that sometimes John B preferred when JJ was there when he woke up.

John B always acted weird when JJ let him know that he'd miss a party or wouldn't make it to the Boneyard because he was hitting a job with Luke. And JJ got it. Knew John B wanted the warnings even though he didn't like to hear it. Because John B held back saying things about Luke in the same way JJ did with Big John. There were things only they got to say about their dads, not anyone else. Those thoughts they had about the other's dad only ever bubbled out of them when they were pissed off at each other. When they got into those arguments that burned hot but ended as soon as they began.

John B's opinions were born of worry. JJ knew that. Could admit it. He and John B weren't scared to say "I love you, bro" to each other and mean it. So JJ understood it. He knew where John B was coming from that time at the beginning of freshman year, a handful of months after the appendectomy and that first overdose and those long days on the mainland with the emergency foster family, when he made that big appeal for JJ to just move into the Château. Big John wouldn't care; JJ was there all the time anyway. What was the difference?

JJ got it. He did. But the offer still pissed him off for a few days. It had been made during one of those times after Luke and JJ clashed. When JJ was angry, impulsive, stupider than usual. It hadn't been the first clash since he was returned to Luke's custody, but it was biggest one so far. JJ knew what John B was doing with the offer. Why he was doing it. But John B didn't get to say that about Luke. He didn't even get to imply it. Only JJ got to complain about it. And it had been his name on that pill bottle in the first place.

And it was fine. Things were always fine. John B said the couch was JJ's whenever he wanted it, and they got over it. So JJ kept coming back to the Château like nothing had happened. Toward the end, JJ was definitely there more often than Big John was. And good thing, too. John B didn't do well on his own. JJ did everything he could to make up the gap, fill the hole Big John's disappearance was carving into his best and oldest friend. But every day of not knowing made John B's grief grow bigger and faster than JJ could patch up. 

And for all JJ had learned about taking things apart, seeing how they worked, improvising a fix, putting them together again...he wasn't able to help John B at all. The only difference he'd made was making it easier for John B to end it.

The naloxone kit says to call 911. JJ hasn't done that. He has no intention of doing that. There had been the flicker of a thought to call Shoupe, finally take him up on the offer. But JJ decided that was really the dumbest idea he'd ever had. Besides, Luke's been mumbling and coughing and cursing for a while now. He hasn't sat himself up yet, but he will soon.

JJ's slumped toward the floor, barley upright, still holding the roll of shop towels. If Luke were truly awake, he would be telling JJ off for wasting them on cleaning up vomit. But he's not awake yet.

JJ thinks he'd like to cry. An entire night has passed and his headache isn't any better. The sun's starting to shine again, but nothing is better. That's another thing about afters: The wounds hurt more than when he first gets them. JJ hates this part the most. Hates when it hurts like this, in the space between getting a wound and healing from it.

He's known for a long time that he doesn't hate Luke. He wants to hate Luke. He thinks he should hate Luke. But JJ doesn't, and he won't. He will never do anything but love the fucking bastard, even when he doesn't want to. So instead, JJ hates himself for being too stupid to hate his father.

It's never been a choice for either of them.

JJ gets arrested; Luke bails him out.

Luke beats his ass like he deserves; JJ almost shoots him in his sleep.

JJ robs a drug dealer; Luke tries to take the money and spend it on bullshit.

JJ fights back and beats Luke's ass; Luke takes a handful of Ambien.

JJ steals the Phantom and gets his best friend and best friend's girlfriend killed on it; Luke beats his ass like he deserves.

Luke overdoses; JJ brings him back.

That's who the Maybanks are. All they have is each other down here at rock bottom. Toxic to everyone else.

"Jayj?"

"Bro?"

A door is squeaking on its hinges.

"What the hell?"

A miracle must have happened between one blink and next, because JJ's staring at a slightly blurry mirage of Pope and Kie in his dirty ass living room now. He can't even remember the last time either of them has been in his house. Maybe Pope was with John B on a few of those occasions where JJ had asked him to come help scrape him off his bedroom floor during an after.

Kie and Pope are crouching down next to him.

"Do we need to take you to a hospital?" Kie says.

"Does Luke need a hospital?" Pope is looking at the autoinjector on the coffee table and then feeling for a pulse at Luke's neck.

So naturally, Luke swats an uncoordinated hand at the touch and grumbles curses.

Pope pulls back and looks from Luke to JJ. Smiles a strained smile. "Never mind. He seems pleasant as ever. Great. Good for him. We came here for you anyway."

JJ's lips stick together at first, so the words are sloppy: "All good here. Thanks. You can go."

"There is exactly a zero per cent chance of that," Pope's voice says at the same time Kie's goes, "No way. Not without you."

Get out while you still can, he wants to say when they each take one of his hands.

No point, he thinks when they pull him, wincing and groaning, to his feet. The shop towels bouncing and rolling away, unravelling as they go.

I'll just ruin you guys next—the pressure in his head spikes. He screws his eyes closed and can't stop the weight of his head from dropping onto Pope's shoulder. It's the Cat's Ass all over again. JJ's pissed. He's embarrassed, ashamed.

It hurts.

Pope's hugging him. "I know, dude. Me, too."

Kie's hand is on the back of his head. "New rule: Pogues don't go it alone. We have to stick together."

"Yep. Ratified," Pope agrees.

JJ rolls his forehead against Pope's shoulder so that he can see Luke's blurry outline. His friends are talking, saying something. Maybe even talking to him and expecting a response. But all JJ can think is, That's going to be me one day soon, and it's going to hurt them.

Kie's hand leaves his hair, and she adjusts the way she's supporting him. The new hold presses on a spot that makes something burn inside him, but JJ doesn't make a sound. Then Pope is shifting, too, and by the time he's done repositioning, JJ can't see Luke anymore. Held up by his friends, he's led out the door and outside into the morning.

He thinks they should have left him in there. He's glad they didn't.