Author's Note (aka Covering My Ass):
Just a quick reminder for those of you still here, still reading, and hopefully not filing a lawsuit:
This story is not meant to be taken seriously. Jacques is definitely not meant to be taken seriously. Cringing is the correct response to him.
This is a parody comedy fic first and foremost, and an unholy love letter to every ridiculous self-insert, overpowered protagonist, and "I'm not like the other guys" shit MTL fantasy clogging up the fanfic tag.
That said… sometimes, heavier stuff slips through. Real feelings. Sad bits. Existential dread. The occasional "damn, that hit kinda hard" moment.
Not because this fic suddenly grew a soul, but because even a joke can have teeth.
So yeah. Lower your expectations, enjoy the nonsense, and if you start feeling something halfway through, don't worry. Jacques will gaslight you into thinking you didn't.
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XX years before-- Birmingham, United Kingdom.
Jack was never really much of the thinking type.
Nah, scratch that—he thought plenty. His brain was always ticking away, firing off questions and musings, just not about anything particularly philosophical.
Stuff like, who decided spaghetti and meatballs deserved the crown as the king of pasta dishes? Why not tagliatelle? Why posh types were always banging on about "the finer things in life" when half of those things were just tiny portions of overpriced food slapped on massive plates? Or what the actual fuck was Southgate thinking waiting that long to sub Palmer in while they're bloody down one-nil in a fucking European final?!
Questions of utmost importance, obviously.
Jack wasn't much for deep thinking. See, Jack wasn't one for sitting around contemplating. Jack wasn't a ponderer. He didn't sit around chewing on life's great mysteries or debating ethics over some chippy chips.
when it came to serious thinking; things like consequences, morality, or decisions that wouldn't land him in the shite, yeah,.. Jack was better off flipping a coin. And even then, he'd probably rig it for a laugh and end up worse off.
His moral compass? Simple as it gets. Things he liked? Good. Things he didn't? Obviously bad. That system worked just fine for him... most of the time. Did nuance exist in his world? Sure, but he didn't care much for it.
Sure, some clever sod might call that shallow, but Jack didn't see the point in overcomplicating things. Did it make sense to anyone else? Didn't matter. It made sense for him, and that's all that counted at the end of the day.
He was a proper Brummie lad, after all, and life wasn't about getting bogged down in deep thoughts. Nah, it was about living full pelt, no half measures. Chasing birds, having a laugh at the pub, catching the footy, and hustling for a cheeky bit of money on the side. The kind of stuff that put a spring in his step.
Course, it wasn't all smooth sailing. He'd have the odd stumble and tripping over hurdles both figurative and literal (usually after one pint too many down the local). But that's just how it went, innit? Pick yourself up, brush it off, and crack on.
Jack wasn't about solving life's big mysteries. Life weren't a puzzle to figure out; it was a ride to enjoy. And he was dead set on squeezing every last drop of fun out of it before the credits rolled.
Just like Pa used to say: "Remember, Jack, life's not about thinkin' too hard. It's about keepin' your head up, your pint full, and your arse outta trouble."
Solid advice, really. Pa always came through with pearls of wisdom like that. Jack reckoned he'd managed two out of the three most of the time, which, by his own accounting, was a pretty respectable success rate.
He reached his destination, strolling through the old metal gates like he owned the place. The hinges creaked, but that was just part of the charm. He threw a casual nod to the guard standing nearby, an older fella who'd been there longer than the gates themselves.
"All right there, Gaffer?" Jack called out.
The guard squinted at him and grinned wide enough to show the gaps in his teeth after. "Jackie, lad! Still kickin', are ya? Ow's life treatin' ya these days, eh?"
"Same old, same old," Jack replied with a lazy shrug. "Could do with a few more quid and a lot fewer headaches, but, y'know, that's life."
The Gaffer snorted, leaning on his post. "Aye, tha's roight, tha is! Stirrin' up a bit o' bother again, are ya? Or izzis one o' them rare 'sponsible visits, eh?"
Jack smirked, tipping an imaginary hat. "Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now, would I?" And with that, he sauntered off, hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling some half-remembered tune as he went.
The story from its arse: Jack really didn't like thinking about things that bummed him out.
Death was right at the top of that list. So, talkin' about the dead, or God forbid, mourning them for too long, was just not his thing. Visiting graveyards? Big, fat fuckin' no-go. The whole thing just made him itchy, like the kind of itch you can't scratch.
Sadly, life had a way of throwing you into those situations whether you liked it or not. And right now, Jack was smack in the middle of the town's shittiest cemetery. He still couldn't believe he'd let Sister Angie guilt-trip him into this nonsense.
He stopped in front of the grave, boots crunching against the gravel, and glared at the pathetic excuse for a gravestone. One of those cheap, sad little markers that looked like it'd crumble if you so much as sneezed on it. You couldn't even read the name proper without squinting.
It wasn't his Pa's, thank Christ. No, Pa was buried where he belonged back in the countryside, right next to the family plot. Jack had made damn sure of that. Scraped and hustled every quid he could to give the old man the best damn casket and headstone he could afford. The funeral had been a proper sendoff, too.
Peachy as funerals went. Pa deserved that kind of respect.
This? This was... well, this was a piece of shite in comparison. The bitch was lucky Jack even spent some of his hard earned cash on it. Said a lot about her when he was the only one who gave a shit.
"Ah well, that's what you get for being a cunt," he muttered, not too bothered.
This was his mother's grave.
Jack wasn't really sure what the good Sister Angie expected him to do here. Talk to it? Bit hard to have a chat with a skeleton, wasn't it? Especially when the woman didn't want anything to do with him when she was still breathing, let alone now that she was six feet under.
He jammed his hands into his pockets, glancing around the cemetery like he might find a sign that said, 'How to Bond with the Dead Parent You Hated.' Nothing. Figures.
Jack kicked a loose pebble at the base of the gravestone, watching it bounce off with a dull thunk. "What's the protocol here, then? Do I say 'hi,' ask how you're doing? Oh wait, I know: fuck all, same as always."
He let out a dry, bitter and humourless laugh. "Angie reckons this'll give me closure or some bollocks. Like I've got some deep, hidden well of feelings for you waiting to gush out. Newsflash, Mummy dearest: I don't."
He paused, sighing heavily as the the moment caught up to him. "I don't know what Angie thought this'd fix. You're dead, and definitely looking up, heh... and I'm not. End of story. So... cheers, I guess. For whatever it is you gave me."
Surprise, surprise, no reply.
Jack stared at the gravestone. His jaw clenched tight as the silence pressed down around him. Thoughts of her always left a bad taste in his mouth, like biting into something rotten.
This was exactly why he hated thinking about deep, philosophical shit like life and death. It always left him feeling like he had smoke in his lungs he couldn't cough up.
He hated her. He hated thinking about her.
She hated him. That much, he was sure of.
But...
But still...
He knelt down, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of weeds strangling the base of the grave. With a rough yank, he pulled them free, tossing the wilted mess to the side without a word.
He scraped at the moss with his thumb.
Pulled out more weeds.
Wiped the grime off on his coat.
Straightened the plaque.
He hated her.
Just—
She was still his problem.
Even now.
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Jacques stood there looking utterly dumbfounded for a moment. Then he let out a low and uneasy whistle. "Well, son, you...uh...you 've got a way with words. A bit dramatic, but effective."
Whitley tilted his head while keeping his faux serene smile still splattered on his face. "I learned from the best, father."
Jacques laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're not exactly thrilled with the idea. But listen, your mother is perfectly capable—"
Whitley raised a single finger, cutting him off. "Father, you don't seem to understand. I'm not merely unenthusiastic about this arrangement. I am actively repelled by it. I would sooner—"
"Alright, alright!" Jacques threw up his hands in surrender, his face scrunching as he tried not to cringe at just how serious Whitley sounded. "I get it, Whitley! You'd rather bathe in molten lava or wrestle a Beowolf blindfolded or... whatever else your overly dramatic brain can come up with. Point taken."
Whitley leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together primly. "I'm glad we've reached an understanding."
"Well... I wouldn't say so." Jacques tried again, leaning a bit on the chair. "Son, I know she might not look like it, but your mother is very competent. As a huntsman."
Whitley let out what could only be described as a dignified snort. "I very much doubt that woman's competence in anything that doesn't involve embellishing our family's reputation."
Jacques' face twitched, a frown forming as he stared at his son. "Okay, kid. I get your feelings, but you're starting to cross a line there."
Whitley didn't even flinch, his face as calm as ever. "Father, I am merely stating the obvious. Willow's talents lie more in the art of the bottle, not... well, anything practical."
Jacques blinked, genuinely taken aback by the bluntness. For a moment, he stood still, processing what his son had just said. "Now, listen here, Whitley," he began, shaking his head. "I know she's not perfect—she's got her flaws, sure. But that's still your mother."
Whitley scoffed, glancing to the side. "Could've fooled me," he muttered lowly, likely thinking Jacques wouldn't hear it. But without missing a beat, he spoke a bit more clearly, carrying a colder edge. "I suppose that's what the law says, but... to me, that woman might as well be dead, father."
He stood frozen, processing his son's unexpected, cruel words. Hate her, sure, he knew Whitley had his issues with Willow, but this... this was different. To outright say she might as well be dead?
That crossed a line Jacques never expected Whitley even to approach., a line that even Jack never dared to cross when dealing with his own mother.
Hate and resentment were one thing, but to speak of her as if she didn't exist, as if she was nothing... not even Jack, in his most heated anger, had ever gone that far.
And Whitley's smile was like he'd made a casual remark about the weather. That level of coldness, of finality, made Jacques' chest tighten.
When no reply came from his father, Whitley turned his face back to Jacques, only to freeze mid-motion. Jacques was staring at him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.
The expression on his face was not kind, of that Jacques was sure.
It wasn't angry, nor was it disappointed. It was too calm, but the anger in his eyes said something entirely different.
But it was the silence of his Aura that made Whitley's stomach drop. His father's Aura which was usually chaotic, dominating, and in motion like a storm, had suddenly gone unnervingly still.
It was silent.
Dead calm. And that, more than anything, sent a chill down his spine.
"Father..." Whitley's voice trembled just slightly, his wide eyes betraying a slight uncertainty and fear.
His father blinked, almost startled. His Aura returned to its natural state.
"My bad..." Finally, Jacques broke the silence, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if it might help ease whatever mood between them. His tried to let his voice seem casual, but it still carried an undertone of edge. "That was a bit harsh, don't you think, kid?"
Whitley opened his mouth, but no words came. His usual response stuck in his throat. For once, he couldn't find his usual confidence.
Jacques sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders sagging for a brief moment before he clapped his hands together. "Alright, walk me through it. I know you don't like your mother, but did something happen to make you say those things?"
Whitley's shoulders sagged, his gaze shifting to the ground. He was used to being asked to explain his grades or his behavior, but this... this felt different.
The feeling made his stomach twist. He wasn't used to dealing with emotions like this.
"I—" Whitley's voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat, looking away. "I don't need a lecture, Father."
"I'm not trying to give you a lecture," Jacques said softly. "I just want to understand. If something's bothering you, you can talk to me. I'm still your father."
Whitley shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "It's not that simple. It's just... her. The way she..." He trailed off, the words sharp but unfinished.
"Her?" Jacques repeated, his brow furrowing. He dropped to his knees, leaning in a little closer, painting his movement as more controlled than desperate. Whitley would have called it pleading, but that was obviously wrong. It wasn't pleading, even if it looked like pleading.
It was clear Willow's influence was weighing more on Whitley's observational skills than he had realized. "Did she say or do something? Sometimes, when people drink, they say all sorts of things. Most of the time, it's not even true."
"No," Whitley snapped, the scoff escaping before he could stop it. "She never did anything. That's the problem. She never had to."
"What do you mean, 'never had to'?" Jacques asked carefully.
"That woman might as well have been a stranger," Whitley continued. "But I never really cared." He let out a small sigh, as though the words had come out without him fully thinking about them. "I had everything I needed. The maids were more than enough to replace her. Klein and even Ohma, especially, raised me."
He paused for a moment as he thought of those who'd filled the void. "I had Weiss and Winter to play with, and most of all..." Whitley trailed off, then looked away, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. "I had you, Father."
'Oh...' Jacques felt something fuzzy in his stomach.
"Ahem..Whitley, your mom has been in a very bad place for a long time," Jacques sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to explain. "I admit that's mostly because of me—"
"That right there is the problem!" Whitley cut him off, his voice rising with frustration. He stood, fists clenched at his sides, eyes looking down at Jacques. "This is what I mean! She never has to do anything, and people just start talking about how poor and sad she is. Poor Willow, she never does anything wrong!"
Jacques opened his mouth, ready to respond, but Whitley wasn't finished. "All my life, everyone kept telling me I should feel bad for her, like nothing's ever her fault. And all the while, they're trying to convince me it's all your fault!" His fists shook at his sides, his anger building. "Those two stupid sisters telling me to blame you, and when I defend you, they just say more terrible things. Then we fought, over and over, until they just left."
Jacques started to speak again, his voice a little more strained. "Whitley, I—"
But Whitley wouldn't let him finish. "And now, she's got you doing it too!" Whitley shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. "You're blaming yourself, and not her. And if I defend you, you'll just get mad, and then... then you'll leave me too."
Jacques looked at the boy with an awkward expression. Holy shit. That was...fucking heavy! Also, a lot more coherent than Jacques would've ever managed if someone asked him about his own damn mommy issues. Still, it made things a lot clearer when it came to Whitley. Guess he'd really underestimated just how messed up this family was.
"I'm sorry," he said, because that's what people do. They apologize. It felt like the right thing to do. "It was never my intention to make you feel like this or that you were alone in your feelings. And I'm sorry for getting mad at you earlier." He stood up, raised his hand, and gently wiped the tears welling up in Whitley's eyes. "And knowing you felt strongly enough to defend me... that makes me happy."
Whitley sniffled but said nothing, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.
"I'm not the best father," Jacques admitted, crouching slightly to meet his son's downcast eyes. He placed a hand under Whitley's chin and gently lifted it so their gazes met. "But I don't want you to think I don't care, even if I'm terrible at showing it sometimes. Whatever happens, the only way I'll ever leave you is when they lower my cold body into the ground. You're stuck with me until that day."
Jacques let a faint smirk tug at his lips. "And even then, I'm not making any promises about staying there, so you'd better bolt the hell out of that casket."
Whitley blinked at him, caught somewhere between a sniffle and a laugh. "That's morbid, Father," he muttered, though there was a faint waver in his voice, betraying the flicker of relief he was trying to suppress.
Jacques shrugged, his smirk softening into something warmer. "Maybe. But it's the truth. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
For a moment, the room was quiet again, save for the faint sound of Whitley trying to collect himself. Jacques didn't push, giving the boy a moment to breathe.
"...Do you really mean that?" Whitley asked at last.
Jacques tilted his head. "Mean what, kid?"
"That you won't leave. That you—" Whitley hesitated, his eyes darting to the side as if he was ashamed to say the next part. "That you care."
Jacques knelt back down, meeting Whitley's eyes head-on. "Of course, I mean it. Whitley, you're my lad. I know I've messed up plenty, but you don't have to doubt that." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "And if you ever do doubt it, I'll make sure to remind you. Every single time."
Whitley stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for any hint of insincerity. When he didn't find it, he finally gave a small nod. "Okay."
"Good, now with that in mind. I want you to listen to me." Jacques sighed, his grip on Whitley's shoulder firm but not heavy. "Your mother wasn't always like this," He began softly and gently. "She was a good person. A good mother, at least for your sisters. That's why they defend her, Whitley, because back then, she was someone worth defending. Just like you feel about me."
Whitley frowned but thankfully didn't interrupt.
"That stopped," Jacques continued with a quieter voice now, "when I said things I shouldn't have. When I let my temper, my pride... everything else get in the way. I broke her, Whitley. She didn't deserve that."
Whitley's lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Jacques took a breath, rubbing his stubble.
"I'm not saying this to excuse her behaviour or to make you forgive her. She's made her choices, and those choices hurt you. I hate that they did." He paused, lowering his gaze briefly before meeting Whitley's eyes again. "But I need you to understand something. Your mother and I? We're both a mess. And I won't pretend I'm not responsible for most of it."
Whitley's hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tight. "I'm not sure what you're asking of me. Am I supposed to ignore everything and feel bad for her instead? Because I can't, Father. I can't."
Jacques shook his head and grabbed his son's shoulders. "No, Whitley. You don't have to ignore it, and you don't have to feel bad for her. But maybe... maybe try to see that there's more to this than just sides. She wasn't always this person you see now. And I wasn't always..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at himself. "Well, whatever I am now."
Whitley said nothing.
"But know this," Jacques said seriously, "Your mother's love for you is no less than mine. For all the anger you feel toward her for what she's become... she hates herself for it a thousand times more." He let the words settle for a moment before continuing. "And now, Whitley, she's trying to fix things with you. In her own way."
Whitley made a face like he'd just bitten into a lemon. "Is that why you keep ruining breakfast with her presence? And now, you're pushing me to have her unlock my Aura?"
Jacques cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure. "That is… one of several reasons. The second reason is that it's probably best, traditional, even for the Schnee heir's Aura to be unlocked by the previous heir. Your mother, in this case. That's how it's always been done, apparently. And even if it weren't, I suppose it feels proper."
He hesitated for a moment, ducking his head slightly almost sheepishly. "Another reason is… I'm trying to fix my own relationship with your mother."
Whitley gave him a long, unimpressed look. "So, you're using me."
Jacques winced at the bluntness, then again, he supposed he deserved it. "I'm sorry. You're the only one I could rely on."
Whitley huffed, glancing away, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him. "I suppose that would be the case, Father. I can't blame you in any case; you did tell me to always utilize whatever resources are necessary. Not that I'm sure why you're even bothering."
"This one bows to your generosity," Jacques replied with a playful grin, his usual cheeky demeanor slipping back in. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused for a moment, looking at Whitley's face. He sighed. Fuck it. It was the least he could do, and they were already spilling their feelings. "There was... another reason."
Whitley tilted his head but said nothing.
"Looking at how much Willow hated herself for neglecting you kids... it reminded me of my own mother," he admitted.
The words took a while to register in Whitley's brain, but as soon as they did, his eyes widened, and he went very still. This must have been a big deal for Jacques to speak about something so personal as his own parents when Jacques had practically erased his previous records from existence. Gone! Poof. Straight to the Shadow Realm.
Jacques hesitated, glancing at the ground as if the words might be easier to say if he didn't have to meet Whitley's gaze. "She wasn't exactly... warm. Not in the way a mother should be."
Whitley asked hesitantly, "W-what do you mean, Father?"
"My mother was a vile fucking whore, Whitley."
"O-Oh."
"Yes, that woman was the furthest thing from a mother anyone could be. Fucking hell, I think I have more motherly instincts than her, and I'm a fucking bloke! Damn cunt..." He clicked his tongue in annoyance, ignoring the way Whitley was startled by the sudden accent and curses from his dad's mouth. "I don't think I've ever hated a person more in my life, but..."
Jacques trailed off, running a hand through his slowly shaping beard, debating whether to continue. Finally, he exhaled sharply and shook his head. "But... as much as I hated her, I couldn't ignore the fact that her neglect... her choices... shaped me. Made me into who I am. For better or worse. And that's a part of me that will always feel like shit that she never gave a shit about me."
Whitley blinked, stunned into silence. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it definitely wasn't this. His father never spoke about his past—never shared anything remotely personal. And now, hearing this? It was almost too much to process.
Jacques chuckled humourlessly, noticing the look on Whitley's face. "Surprised? Don't be. Everyone's got skeletons, kid. Mine just happen to be a damn cemetery."
Whitley frowned, his voice hesitant. "So... you're saying Willow is similar to Grandmother?"
"God, no!" Jacques shook his head vehemently. "Your mother and that woman couldn't be more different. Willow... she cares. Even if she messed up, she loves you kids in a way my mother never could. That's why seeing her like this... broken and crying for failing you... And desperately trying to do what my horrible, drunken, spiteful, snake of a mother never did, it gets under my skin. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I know what it's like to feel that kind of emptiness."
He sighed, his tone softening. "I just don't want that same emptiness to pass on to you. Or Weiss. Or Winter. I'm not asking you to forgive her, not yet, or not ever if you don't want to. But... if there's a chance to pull her out of this, I think it's worth trying. For your sake, if nothing else."
"...I still don't want to do it." Whitley shifted uncomfortably. "But... I'm willing to try... for you. Not for that woman's sake."
"That is all your mother and I are asking, kid."
"But don't expect me to suddenly act like everything's okay."
Jacques gave him a small, approving nod. "Wouldn't dream of it. Just... take it one step at a time, kid. That's more kindness than we deserve."
Whitley turned away, his voice quieter now. "You're not going to start crying or hugging me or anything, are you?"
"Of course not. We're men. We don't hug." Jacques said, snatching Whitley up and hugging the absolute shit out of him. "What'd I tell you about hugging and touchy-feely stuff?"
"That—"
Jacques cut him off with a squeeze. "Do it properly, like I taught you!"
"Oh...uh .."Remember, Whitley, hugging other men is for the poor, the homosexuals, and people who wear socks with sandals," Whitley said, squeezing Jacques even tighter. "Unless you score a goal, then it's fair game."
Jacques grinned, giving Whitley one last squeeze before setting him down. "Exactly. You've learned well, kid."
Whitley smiled at him, but then his expression shifted, and his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute, Father. What did you mean by 'The previous heir should be the one to unlock the current heir's Aura'? Wasn't Weiss your..." He trailed off, his eyes widening in realization.
Jacques smiled, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "I suppose congratulations are in order."
That's what that damn girlie gets for not picking up the phone, and not responding to his messages.
It would appear those three short months at Beacon had made dear ol' Weiss forget some critical information about her Daddy Dearest.
No one and he means no one, keeps Jacques Schnee on 'seen✔' Goddamn it!