Fandom: Person of Interest
Title: Brothers
Characters: Carl Elias, Bruce Moran, Anthony Marconi
Author: godsdaisiechain
Rating: PG (suggestions of violence)
Length: long....3400 words

Preview:
“You’re okay,” Bruce said. “You’d make a good boss.” Carl started.
“Boss?” he asked. “You want a boss?”
Bruce smiled.  “Front man.  You have a way with people. Cool head. Ain’t never in a rush. I’m good behind the scenes. In the shadows. We’d need some muscle, though.  Smart muscle.”

Summary:
in Season Five, we learn that Anthony and Carl and Bruce met in a group home. How they may have become friends and come to love each other as brothers.




They hadn’t met under the best circumstances.  Carl landed in a group home after another fight at school.  The social worker decided that his foster mother, Gloria, couldn't control him.  Carl wasn’t sure he could control himself, tamp down the roiling rage that threatened to engulf his soul.

That first day, he’d met Bruce. Most of the rooms had three or four or even five kids crammed in together, but Bruce didn't have a roommate yet.  He’d been put off in a smaller room that had once been an office. “Ain’t no one in a rush to share with that one,” Carl heard a voice as the social worker led him along the hallway.

When Carl walked in, Bruce was on his bed, reading. Bruce looked up, a stony expression on his face. Carl nodded, pulled a copy of The Prince out of a pocket and sat down on the other bed.

“Machiavelli?” Bruce asked. He said the “ch” like in “chop” but Carl didn’t bother to correct him.

“It gets the job done,” said Carl. Bruce nodded. They read quietly until dinner time. “How bad is it?” Carl asked.

“You done juvie?”  Carl shook his head and Bruce’s face drew in. “Stick with me,” said Bruce. Carl made a surprised noise. “You’re nice and quiet. I could do worse. You better brace yourself. It gets bad here after dark.”

“Thank you…”

“Moran. Bruce Moran.”

“Carl Elias.” Carl held out a hand as he had been taught to do as a child. Bruce gave him a funny look, but accepted. And so their initial understanding was cemented into friendship.  The dining room went silent when they sat together, but Carl assumed it was just because he was new.  After the first night, he understood that no one wanted to think about what was about to happen to him. Bruce hadn’t said much, but he made a lot of noise out in the hallway when he thought Carl might start to cry. And when he went back in a few minutes later and saw Carl, dry-eyed, reading the house rules carefully, said “You’re one cool customer. I could do a lot worse.”

Someone stopped by their room every ten minutes or so the first few days, to find Carl and Bruce reading quietly or working on homework together. No one official seemed to notice that Bruce did a brisk trade in contraband, mostly candy and cigarettes. Carl asked everyone about themselves, collecting their stories as if they were treasure. Carl didn’t know how much trade had improved until Bruce slipped him ten dollars and then another five a few days later.

“You’re good for business,” Bruce explained as they snuck up the back stairs one day a few weeks later. “I want to be an accountant.”

“It’s a good living,” said Carl.

But Bruce had grown up with a father and uncles and cousins in another kind of business. “It’s a safe way to be in on the action. Run things from the shadows.”

“You’d like Machiavelli,” said Carl pronouncing it correctly. Bruce winked and Carl could see he’d already known that. “Want to shake things up without too much fuss?”

“Tell me,” Bruce said.  Carl explained how to get rid of the night crew. Stage a mass breakout, but then pretend to have been following the house rules.

“It has to work,” Carl said. The previous night’s session of ‘correction’ had left more than just the two of them shaking and afraid to sleep.

“You’re okay,” Bruce said. “You’d make a good boss.” Carl started.

“Boss?” he asked. “You want a boss?”

Bruce smiled.  “Front man.  You have a way with people. Cool head. Ain’t never in a rush. I’m good behind the scenes. In the shadows. We’d need some muscle, though.  Smart muscle.”

“Muscle?” Carl asked.  Bruce seemed to consider this question carefully, while Carl waited.

“To keep the crew in line. It’s tricky. We need someone who can handle himself, but doesn’t like getting violent. Quiet but a real part of the team.”

“The team,” said Carl, flatly.

“Us. Triumvirate.  Like the Romans.  I like the Romans,” said Bruce. “They were real soldiers. Not to be in any rush… but we could do worse than sticking together.”

“Let me know when you find someone,” said Carl, not knowing how serious Bruce was being. The next morning, Bruce mailed a letter. Carl thought it was an odd thing to do, but he didn’t say anything.

*****

A week later, they came back from school to find Anthony, still in a juvie uniform, holding a pile of clothes, sheets, and towels. He stood silently, as if he could remain still and watchful for hours without tiring, his face green and purple around a black eye that could not quite mask the livid scar across his cheek. The custodian, a decent enough man who was hiding an illegal gun business in the basement, had just finished cramming a bed in next to Carl’s. The frames practically touched.

“Hope you boys like each other,” he said. “We can’t bunk the beds after what happened last week.” Twenty kids had gone missing, leaving pillows in their places, shown up at the emergency room in a group, covered in bruises. They had copies of the house rules with them, which said to go to the emergency room if they felt they were in danger.  A few fainted and had to be rehydrated. Half were diagnosed as malnourished. One had cigarette burns in private places. Another had a broken foot. Even in that neighborhood, it drew attention. Carl, questioned later by the social workers, said he wasn’t too surprised. No one wanted to be there after lights out. He’d been stripped naked and beaten the first night.

Carl, surprisingly to the social workers, was earning A’s and B’s in all of his classes at the high school—he’d always had good grades—and belonged to the chess club.  Bruce, who had been failing half of his courses, but skating by on math and history, had shown a sudden improvement in the month since Bruce had moved into his room. The director was forced to fire the entire night staff. The new staff, mainly friends of the custodian, only cared about their gun business and having a place to stash their drugs out of the way of the Moretti gang.  They spent much less time humiliating and tormenting their charges.  Bruce and Carl stayed out of the way, but it was noted that there was no vandalism on their hallway.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Carl said, to call attention away from Bruce’s bulging pockets. Carl and Bruce pulled off their jackets.

Carl rested his book bag, full of discarded library books and cigarettes, on his bed, and Anthony set his pile on the other. They helped shift two desks together next to Bruce’s bed. The third left them stymied. “Just shove it in front. We can share,” said Bruce, turning. “Save you some work carrying that thing back to the elevator.” The custodian’s eyebrows lifted.  “We got it,” Bruce said and the man left.

Anthony started to unbutton his uniform. Carl noted the absence of red marks on those hands, saw that this newcomer had taken a beating but not fought back. Carl got up to close the door against curious eyes.

“Thanks,” said Anthony, and Carl met his eye for the first time.  Anthony’s face opened into a bright smile, reminding Carl of a flower—a rose—unfurling in one of those school films about plants. Carl felt his face mirroring that cheerful welcome, wondered how such a beautiful, friendly boy had survived juvie. It took Carl a moment to realize that Bruce and Anthony already knew each other, that Anthony had turned that disarming smile from him to Bruce.

“Ain’t never seen you smile before,” said Bruce, answering Carl’s question. “You can get far with a smile like that.”

“Been saving it up special,” Anthony said and Bruce laughed, then moved forward to hug him.

“I missed you,” Bruce said, his arm still around Anthony’s shoulders.

“Who’s this?” Anthony jerked his head at Carl.

“He’s okay,” said Bruce. “Smart. This is Anthony. My wingman in juvie.”

Carl held out his hand. Anthony’s eyes flicked to Bruce’s and Carl caught a hint of a nod before Anthony reached out as well. Carl would never forget the surprising softness of that palm against his, the electric tingle of destiny and desire, even though he could not have put his feelings into words in that moment. “Carl,” said Carl.

“Carl,” said Anthony, nodding, a smile still playing across his handsome face.

Bruce made a little noise, clapped a hand on Carl’s shoulder.  Anthony and Carl turned faces up, serious, ready to listen, their hands still together. Three boys pledging friendship and lifelong loyalty without realizing it. “You can help Anthony.  Keep him out of trouble at school.” Anthony’s face closed. He dropped Carl’s hand, and Carl resisted the dual urges to take a step back from that angry glare and to fold Anthony in his arms. “He’s okay,” said Bruce again, shaking Anthony’s shoulder, waiting.

“I don’t read too good,” Anthony said to the floor between their dirty sneakers. Bruce clapped them both on the backs.

“Get changed. He’ll show you,” said Bruce. “Got me to pass a test on all that stupid poetry.  All the tests.” Anthony shrugged. Bruce rifled in a desk and came up with a pile of papers. “The stuff for this week,” he said, shoving them in Carl’s hands. “Help him,” Bruce said. “Like you did me. Last guy just filled the papers in himself. Useless.”

“Is it all right if we talk?” Carl asked. “You seem to like it quiet.” Carl found himself thinking that a smile like that could take Bruce places.

Bruce slapped Carl on the arm again. “Just keep it down to a dull roar,” he said.

Carl looked over the papers while Anthony changed, shrugging a tattered t-shirt over a scatter of old scars and a number of newer bruises. The ribs showed at his sides as he flexed. “They not feeding you enough?” Bruce asked. Anthony shrugged and Bruce tossed him an apple and a candy bar.  Offered a snickers to Carl, who shook his head. Bruce tossed it over to Anthony.

Anthony ate the apple hungrily, gnawing all the way to the core, then sat next to Carl at the desk they could still reach, nibbling the chocolate as if he hadn’t had anything sweet in a long time. “Read this?” Carl asked.  Anthony stumbled through a few words, his eyes darting toward Bruce, colored deep red, and stopped.  He hunched over defensively, tapping his feet against the chair legs. Bruce looked up from his book, History of the Peloponnesian Wars, (Carl had taken it out of the trash at school) as Carl pulled the paper away, touched Anthony’s knee.

“Sorry,” Carl said. The feet stopped tapping. “That was my fault. I should have explained.” Anthony’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s about the presidency,” Carl continued. “History. You want to try something else?”

“Like the one now or old ones?” Anthony asked the paper.

“The first ones,” said Carl. “How we got them at first.”

Anthony looked up. “Like George Washington?” Carl nodded, startled by Anthony’s level of interest.  “I like him,” said Anthony. “Real warrior. Didn’t want to be the king. You know he was right here in New York and New Jersey? My gramma brought me to see. All the places. In the summers… before…” Anthony’s face went dark a moment. “They had films and everything.”

“I didn't know that,” said Carl, genuinely interested. “We never went anyplace when I was a kid. Tell me about it?” Carl had a way with people and Anthony, unlike himself, spoke about the first president. Carl looked at the sheet, asked questions. Anthony answered them, not quite eagerly, but with more willingness than Carl had expected. “You remembered all that real good,” said Carl, impressed. Anthony went extremely still, the foil from the half-eaten chocolate bar crinkling in his fingers. “You got all the dates right and everything.” Anthony shrugged.

“How about I read this paper first?” Anthony shrugged, but he watched attentively while Carl read aloud, a finger under each word as he went.  After a few lines, Anthony said a word before Carl did. Then another one. “Good,” said Carl, touching Anthony’s knee gently. “You’re doing real good.” After that, Carl paused more often to let Anthony chime in. Bruce, lulled by the quiet voices of his two friends, smiled behind his book.

****

At school, Anthony and Carl had the same lunchtime and sat together with some guys Anthony knew at juvie. The teachers eyed them suspiciously. One of the guys, Nico, liked to talk. “You must be real tough to bunk with Moran. He’s a lot more okay now, but in juvie, whew.” Carl looked at Anthony, who shrugged, head down over a free school lunch.  Carl had been horrified by the food, but Anthony ate with evident enjoyment. When he finished, Carl picked up an apple and swapped trays. Anthony looked his question, and Carl nodded. “He was one scary little dude.  Hooked up with that Moran crew.” The other guys laughed.  “Only one I ever saw him like was Anthony here. That’s what got us in.” Anthony shrugged again. Carl’s insides went to ice. “He’s okay underneath, but man, can that kid handle hisself.”

“So what about that George Washington?” asked Carl, while Anthony finished the second lunch.

“Those guys aren’t so tough,” said the friend and the others agreed.  Anthony caught Carl’s eye, his face expressionless.  They were referring to another high school. Carl wondered why Anthony spent time with them until he casually asked what had happened in their classes. In only a few minutes, Carl understood the secret workings of the whole school. Anthony tilted his head in emphasis. The guys wanted to cut class, but Anthony shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. “Carlie wants to go to a club after.” The faculty moderator dropped a box of chess pieces when Anthony and Nico sloped in after Carl, who bent to pick them up. The newcomers listened carefully to the explanation of the game.

“It’s like war,” said the teacher, which immediately drew Nico’s attention and respect.  Carl kept an eye on Anthony, who seemed to learn the game almost instantly. The teacher paired him up with a younger kid whose glasses were taped together at the temple.  Anthony won the second game, and the teacher moved him.

The next day, a few others joined them. Aside from Anthony, the others never got very good, but they stayed out of trouble and made friends with the brainy kids—the ones they might have beaten up in other circumstances. The lunch table became an informal study hall, and grades went up and behavior problems went down. One of the guys, Joey, had an uncle who was a policeman and helped him go to city college. That would come in handy one day.  Even handier, at least for Bruce, were the chess club members: most of them went on to college.

****

One afternoon, a few weeks after Anthony arrived, Bruce had a visit with one of his uncles, which left Carl and Anthony alone for a few hours. Carl took a chance and wrote out the alphabet and went over each of the letters. Anthony didn’t know the names of any of them except A. Feeling foolish, Carl sang the alphabet song. “I always thought that was stupid,” Anthony said thoughtfully. “I thought the middle was about animals.”

“Me, too,” said Carl. “Tell me them back again?” Then Carl explained about the sounds. Anthony paused, looked at the letters, then up at Carl, who could almost see the connections being made behind those dark, startled eyes.

“Damn,” said Anthony, and Carl experienced the thrill that was successful teaching. “I thought I was just stupid.” He stopped talking, punched Carl in the arm, smiling, wiping his eyes. Carl, punching back and knocking their knees together, was reminded poignantly of the hours his mother and foster mother had spent helping him with his homework. “Damn,” said Anthony again, and Carl gripped his shoulder and shook him. “No one never…” Anthony said, his voice breaking.

“Maybe they had other problems,” Carl offered, squeezing the shoulder.

“No maybe about that,” said Anthony.

“Thank you, Anthony,” said Carl. Anthony looked up in shocked surprise. “For letting me help you.  It couldn’t have been easy. But I never felt as good as I do right now.”

“Me neither,” said Anthony, melting Carl’s heart with a charming smile. Carl smiled back, but his expression froze when Anthony pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. Bruce’s handwriting. Anthony unfolded a letter with a few crudely drawn pictures in the margins.  “It’s our code.” Carl listened.  Anthony and Bruce had shared a bunk for years and Bruce’s sentence ended first, leaving him in the group home until he could be emancipated.

“He wrote when he got here.” Carl shuddered. “Told me to stay inside if I could. I got in a fight, but it was too crowded. They said they didn’t believe I’d started anything because I was always so quiet. Then you showed up. He sent this.”

“Me?”  Carl.  Anthony pointed to a stick figure next to two smaller figures, one with a broken arm and one with a strange loop around its head.

“Boss,” said Anthony. “We was waiting. Now we can use a book code. Bruce read about it. We just need to pick out a book.”

Carl pulled a tattered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo out of his bag.  “I took this out of the trash at school.”

“That’s why you’re the boss,” said Anthony. Bruce came in with a bag full of hero sandwiches and Anthony stopped talking, concentrating on the food, listening while Bruce described a day out with his uncles. Carl quietly folded up the paper with the letters. If Bruce noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“They got a job for us,” Bruce said.  “All of us.” Anthony nodded. “Pays good.”

“Thanks, Bruce. This is a good sandwich,” said Anthony, his mouth full. “Roast beef. Nice and rare.”

“You’re welcome,” said Bruce, amused.

“What do you got, Carlie?” Anthony wanted to know. Carl slid over an unfinished section of his sandwich.  Anthony looked his question, and Carl nodded. “Italian.  Good,” Anthony said between bites. “Not too much vinegar.”

“I ain’t never heard you talk so much,” Bruce said, eyes flicking to Carl. Anthony looked up, a piece of lettuce sticking out between chapped lips.

“Been saving it up,” said Anthony, the shred of lettuce flapping before he caught it with the tip of his pink tongue. They all laughed.

Bruce had a small crew, but wanted to expand it. “We got a year before Anthony can be emancipated,” he said a day or so later. “He done good. They had an appeal. I won’t leave him here on his own. Not after what we been through.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” said Carl.

Bruce laughed. It was the bitterest sound Carl had ever heard.  He didn’t understand until they went on the job.  Anthony transformed into a tight-faced, terrifying figure, wielding a menace far in excess of his fifteen years on the planet.  Carl nearly stepped back when Anthony set his jaw and flattened a man much bigger and heavier than himself with a single well-placed blow. He saved Carl from getting stabbed and in the end no one lost a life.  Afterward, Anthony met Carl’s eye, then looked away for the rest of the night. Carl waited until Bruce fell asleep, reached out and touched Anthony’s hand.  Anthony looked up, and Carl caught a glimpse of feral terror behind those dark eyes, the fear that this part of him would cost him Carl’s friendship.

“You have to teach me now,” said Carl, gripping Anthony’s hand.  Anthony nodded, knowing that Carl could never fully learn the savage wildness of heart that he would need to be the muscle, but that they would all have to be able to defend themselves.  In his own bed, Bruce smiled again.

“Keep it down, you two,” is what he said, but in that instant they all knew that they had become brothers.