Write Your Own Song

Chapter 4

"Hi, Bobby." The nurse at the desk smiled at him and he grinned back, resisting the urge to start flirting. She'd been giving him the eye ever since Jack had been transferred to her floor a couple weeks ago and he had to admit that she was hot as hell, but he didn't need any more complications in his life right now. "He's in his room, all packed up and ready to go," she answered before he even had the chance to ask.

She grabbed a clipboard and motioned for him to take a step closer. "There are just a couple of things you need to sign and the doctor left some instructions for Jack to follow - exercises and stuff like that. Plus, there are a bunch of prescriptions you need to get filled."

"It's too soon, isn't it?" Bobby said, voicing the worry he'd been carrying around with him all day.

She shrugged. "He'll be fine. He can heal at home just as easily as he can heal in rehab. Plus, he gets to sleep in his own bed. He's been pretty restless in here." She smiled as she tried to reassure him.

"I'm just worried, ya know. He's been real quiet," Bobby admitted as he blindly signed the forms. His other hand was in the pocket of his jacket, his fingers toying with the guitar pick he had buried in there. It had been there since last week, after he'd finally remembered to bring Jack his guitar. He'd given Jack the little piece of plastic, pleased with himself for thinking to bring it. Jack had only given him a tired grin and told him he never used one anyway. Well, he should at least get credit for trying.

"Well, you're his brother, so you'd know best, but he strikes me as a quiet kind of guy."

Bobby nodded. Yeah, but lately … he thought, but didn't say out loud. The hard plastic dug into his thumb as he forced a smile.

XxXxXxXxXx

He made his way down the familiar hallway, dodging some lady in a wheelchair and nearly knocking over a guy who was struggling with a walker. The old man flipped him off, but Bobby ignored him. Wasn't his fault the guy was so damn slow.

The door to Jack's room was open and he stopped just short of crossing the threshold, finding it a bit hard to believe that this day had actually arrived. He still had dreams at night where he didn't reach Jack in time and he died in his arms. Those dreams scared the hell out of him.

Jack was sitting on the bed, unaware that his brother was there. His head was down, his hands in his lap, and he was actually twiddling his thumbs. It was a nervous habit he'd had as long as Bobby could remember.

His bags were piled on the floor along with his guitar case, a set of crutches and a cane. The crutches hurt his shoulder but he was still really unsteady on the cane. Bobby's own knees ached every time he thought about all the hardware that was now in Jack's leg and all the painful surgeries it had taken to get to where he had a fifty-fifty chance of walking again.

Well, he was walking again, if that's what you'd call the halting, lurching gait that Jack now moved in. The therapist was optimistic - predicting Jack would just have a limp by this time next year. At this point, Bobby was just happy to have his little brother alive and well; he didn't care if he ever walked again.

Of course, Jack being Jack, he was more worried about his shoulder. Turns out, Jack's shoulder was just about as screwed up as his leg - the nerves and muscles damaged, screwing up his whole right arm. When it came to fucking up - his baby brother rarely did anything halfway.

There was a chance Jack might not be able to play guitar again, at least not was well as he used to. It didn't escape Bobby's notice that the guitar stayed untouched in the corner of Jack's hospital room after that first day he tried to play it..

Bobby cleared his throat and took a step into the room. "Cracker Jack," he said and he was rewarded with an annoyed sigh as Jack looked up and pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes.