Disclaimer: All characters herein are property of CBS/Viacom. No profit is being made from this story.
Treasured Things
By Jo
Smiling, Steve tucked his photos and his bronze star safely away in the metal container where he kept his treasured things. Reading the note on the brown cardboard box flap, he smiled once more, placed it carefully on top of everything else, and closed the lid. Life didn't get any better, and he wanted to keep this memory, and the new ritual it had started, forever. So, after putting the box back into his closet, he settled into bed with a contented sigh and a broad smile and let yesterday evening's events play though his mind once more.
~~~
"Dad! I said I'd get the . . . "
"Yee-ouch!" Mark yelped.
". . . screen," Steve finished dryly as his father pinched his fingers trying to get things set up so they could watch some of the old 8 millimeter movies of when Steve and his sister were children.
"Well, I had the projector all ready to go," Mark said as he came round in front of the screen sucking at the painfully rising welt on his finger, "and you were still making popcorn, so I decided I'd set it up while I waited."
"Dad, you just got home from the hospital two hours ago. You're supposed to be taking it easy."
"Son, I feel fine," Mark insisted. "I don't need you hovering, and I don't need you to coddle me."
"Maybe I need it," Steve muttered under his breath as he flicked off the lights and moved gingerly toward the couch, careful not to trip over anything while his eyes adjusted to the dark. He started slightly when the light by the couch came on and his father looked him right in the eye.
"I'm sorry, Son. I should have realized. That's exactly how I feel when you get hurt."
Steve lowered his eyes, surprised and mortified to find he had actually voiced his thoughts. It was bad enough that his own father had almost died in his computerized house, but to know that he, himself, was Bruce Locatelli's intended victim was almost too much for Steve to bear.
"I'll make you a deal," he offered. "If you humor me this time, in the future, when the shoe's on the other foot, I'll try to be more understanding."
"When?"
Not understanding his father's inquiry, Steve thought a moment. Then smiling wryly, he said, "If. If the shoe's ever on the other foot again."
Mark gave him a smile and settled himself on the couch. "Ok, then, as long as we're being optimistic, how about a couple of sodas to go with our popcorn?"
"So, now that you realize you want something, you are willing to be coddled, huh?"
"I'm an old man, Sonny," Mark said, drawing his chin down, deepening his voice, and blinking myopically as he hunched over in his impersonation of a deteriorating old man. "I take my joy where I can get it."
Shaking his head and chuckling affectionately, Steve handed his father both bowls of popcorn and went back into the kitchen for the requested drinks.
~~~~~
Three hours later, after sharing reel after reel of embarrassing footage and fond memories with his father, Steve smiled at the sight of his dad, beaming with pride and glowing with joy as he held a tiny baby in his arms. That was me. He didn't even know me yet, but he was already so proud of me. Steve couldn't help choking up, and he had to blink to clear the moisture from his eyes. He sneaked a surreptitious glance at his father, who was watching the film with the same rapt attention the younger Mark Sloan had studied his newborn son some forty-odd years ago.
The film ran out and started flapping from the spinning reel, and Steve turned to shut off the projector and set it up to rewind. As he turned back toward the blank screen, he caught his father watching him much as he had watched the movie. Feeling caught in that earnest blue gaze, he just sat numbly as Mark began to speak.
"You know, a man might fall in love with his wife," Mark said. "But he utterly, totally drowns in it with his children."
Like a deer confused by the headlights, Steve froze and for a moment just blinked dazedly in the face of the affectionate glow of his father's loving smile. Finally, he gave a tight, uneasy smile and said lamely, "That's nice, Dad. Thanks."
The movie finished rewinding just then, and the renewed flapping of the film against the projector broke the moment and saved Steve the embarrassment of trying to think up a better response to his father's profound statement. Mark yawned and stretched and winced when muscles still sore from trying to burrow through the walls with a fireplace poker protested the excessive motion.
"Dad?" Steve said worriedly, noticing his father's discomfort.
"Just a little sore, is all," Mark reassured him with a grin. "I'll take our dishes out to the kitchen and you can get the screen this time."
"Oh, thanks," Steve said with gentle sarcasm. "If you'd let me do it when we started, you wouldn't have mashed your finger."
"Ok, so you told me so," the elder Sloan grumbled as he wandered out to the kitchen.
~~~~~
Now showered and in his pajamas, teeth brushed and ready for bed, Mark popped a couple of TylenolPM tablets, washed them down with a glass of water from the bathroom faucet, went into the bedroom, and slipped under the covers. Ordinarily, he would have sat up reading for an hour or so, but he was still tired from his ordeal and knew he really just needed to turn off the lights and roll over for a good night's sleep. As he nestled under the covers and pressed his head into the pillows, he found himself staring into the darkness and knew it was going to be a sleepless night.
You shouldn't have embarrassed him like that. He knows how you feel, but he doesn't know how to say it himself. Mark sighed to himself, feeling tremendously sad and guilty. He knew Steve realized just how much his father loved him, but neither of them had ever been very good at verbalizing their affections. If he had been aware back then of what he was doing, he would have made more of an effort to say what he felt while Steve was growing up, and he probably could have taught his stoic, silent son to be more open about his feelings. And, in what you thought were your last moments, you wouldn't have had to resort to scrawling a message on a box flap to tell him how much you cared.
Turning over, Mark punched the pillow and tried to settle in again. As he stared at the darkness on the other side of the room for a while, Mark couldn't help but feel he'd somehow let his only son down.
At least you didn't admit that you were glad it was you stuck in that house instead of him.
~~~~~
That's nice, Dad. Thanks.
Steve shook his head in disgust.
What an ingrate! You could have thought of something better! You should have.
As he removed his watch and placed it on the bedside table, the cardboard box flap caught his eye, and he picked it up and read it again.
To my dear son Steve, it said in his father's distinctive hand, I lov… and then it turned into a scrawl that just dropped off the edge of the cardboard, apparently when his father had lost consciousness.
At least you didn't tell him you wished it had been you stuck in that house instead of him.
Steve choked back . . . something . . . that was trying to escape. His eyes stung and his throat hurt, and he couldn't help feeling guilty. His dad had always tried hard to communicate his love without letting it get embarrassing, but Steve knew he'd never made it easy. If he could have just relaxed and accepted the love his father had so freely given, Mark wouldn't have had to resort to scribbling it down on the flap of a cardboard box when he thought he was dying.
Steve took a deep shuddering sigh. "I love you, too, Dad," he whispered.
As he stared at the cardboard message, Steve slowly realized it was shaking even though he held it in both hands. They had come close this time. Too close, and it had frightened him. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. Sliding his feet into his slippers, he headed out of his room and up the stairs to his father's part of the house.
~~~~~
Mark hadn't been sleeping, but he had apparently zoned out for a while because he was aware of the soft rap on his door refocusing his thoughts at the same time that the faint line of light focused his vision on his opening bedroom door.
"Dad?"
Steve's call was soft and surprisingly tremulous. It wouldn't have woken Mark if he'd been asleep, but awake, the anxious, pleading tone galvanized him. Sitting up, he flipped on the bedside lamp and sat for a moment blinking into the light.
"Steve? Son, is everything ok?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm . . .uh . . ." Shrugging, knowing 'fine' would be a lie, Steve confessed, "I need to talk to you."
He took one timid step into his father's room, reluctant to invade the inner sanctum, but when Mark slid over to make room for him to sit and patted the mattress, Steve felt heartened and moved on with more courage. He settled onto the edge of the bed and sat facing his father for several moments until Mark broke the silence.
"Well? What do you need to talk about?"
Steve still sat quietly. Mark noticed him fidgeting with a piece of heavy brown paper in his hands, and he had a pretty good idea what was on his son's mind.
"What do you have there, Steve?" he asked as a way to open the conversation they should have had years ago.
Steve thrust the message into his hands, and before Mark could even begin to read it, he said, "I know how much you love me, Dad, even though I have always acted like I don't want you to say so. And I know that, besides being scared, you were probably grateful that I was safely on the outside of that house."
Mark nodded. "I was, Son. I really was . . . thankful to know you were safe."
Steve nodded. "Well, I love you, too, Dad, and the whole time we were trying to get you out, I was wishing I was inside instead of you. I just needed to tell you that."
"I knew that, Son," Mark said as he looked at his son. Steve sat before him, arms folded protectively in front of him, reluctant to make eye contact. It was strange that such a simple thing as admitting he loved his father could frighten the big cop so much. "I know you love me, Steve, I always have. Never doubted it. You don't have to say so."
Steve nodded, but he said, "Sometimes I want to."
Mark smiled. "So do I. Maybe we should try to do it more often."
"Yeah," Steve agreed, "Maybe once a day, for practice?"
"Ok." Mark opened his arms, offering a hug. "I love you, Son."
Steve moved willingly into the embrace. "I love you too, Dad."
The End