As much as I know Sam's father is usually reviled in fanfic, I like to imagine I have a bit of a different perspective. Growing up with a military man is rarely easy, but even these mighty men are human, and sometimes, they give themselves the chance to show it. This is what I could imagine Sam seeing as he goes to visit his dying father, and I hope that, somehow, this can replace the words that my dad never got to hear from his.
I own no recognizable characters, to my dismay, or we'd be getting more than five seasons!
The smell of this place was what always got Sam Braddock. That too-clean, saccharine antiseptic smell of hospitals that tried to mask sickness and death, and instead became another telltale sign of it. That smell never failed to make him a bit nauseous.
The lights were too dark for a normal building. Hallways and corridors seemed like secret passages – that little area that looked like a vending-machine area actually led to a new wing; never a pleasant wing for Sam, but this visit, to the old folks' unit. Sam couldn't bear to call it by its proper name.
The signs weren't very clear either, and he found himself back-tracking to one of those secret hallways, discovering that it lead to his final destination. Past some god-awful Andy Warhol imitations by a local high school. Fake plants and more dimmed lights.
The old folks' unit.
The scent was stronger here, as if they were trying to ward off the pain and sorrow with chemical flora smell. Idyllic scenery painted on the doors tried to make a sad place more inviting.
As Sam pulled up to the room number he'd been quoted, his stomach knotted. This place seemed almost unholy for what he knew he'd find inside. His father, the General, lay upon an uncomfortable bed, looking not even half the man of Sam's memory.
"Sam, you came…" came the hushed voice of his mother, sitting by his father's bed.
Unable to trust his voice, Sam nodded. The General turned his head, and inside, Sam wanted to run out the door, curl into a little ball, and make the world spin backwards.
This skeletal person could not be his father. His father was strong, and upstanding, and standing. The frail creature in bed may have the same nose, the same hair, the same steely eye, but the rest of him… Sam couldn't fathom it. The only indication that he had the right room was Anne Braddock, sitting in the visitor's chair.
"He's been waiting for you, Sam. I'll let you talk." His mother slipped out, and at once, Sam despaired at being left alone with this being that was at once his father and not.
"So you came, Sam." The heavy rasp of his father's voice, around the machine, rattled both the General's chest, and Sam's nerve.
"Yes, sir."
A look crossed Braddock Sr.'s face. Sam couldn't tell if it was sadness, frustration, amusement, or annoyance. He thought he'd gotten good at reading the General's looks, but perhaps this strange, hollow place had changed even his comprehension.
"No need to call me sir, now, Sam. No point to it."
Somehow, this failed to comfort Sam, as his expression must have showed, he supposed. It felt a little like the world was falling away for him. His father was no longer strong, or standing, or even a sir now?
"I mean, Sam, that at this point, I'm the same as every other person in here."
Dying, he meant.
"And I'm afraid," the General said, "that it's too late for me to say this. But I'm sorry."
General Braddock's demeanor became more his old self at that point, putting Sam a bit more on an even keel. Even when apologizing honestly, the General made it sound like his apology was matter-of-fact; truthful and apologetic, but only for what was necessary.
"I was an unsupportive father when I was around, and when I was there, I was wrapped up in what I thought we all needed. And you did an amazing job, in spite of myself."
The rattle of the General's breath was the only thing that interrupted the quiet of the hospital room for a moment. Sam felt himself breaking a little inside, but the same old inability to show the flaw, the fracture. The rug had been pulled from under his feet, and continued to do so when his father whispered, "And you continue to do an amazing job, son, in spite of me."
Sam had to sit down at that point. The man in the bed couldn't be his father, his General. His father would never have spoken so bluntly, so critically of himself. And yet, his mother had been here, his eyes were the same, and the voice, gently hoarse as it may be, was the same voice that had barked out orders.
"Just sit with me a while, Sam, please?"
At that point, Sam didn't think he could move. And he listened as his father moved into different subjects, from memories before Sam was born, to the day he broke his arm at age seven in Petawawa, or got in trouble in Shilo at 15 years for a prank gone wrong.
And somehow Sam felt, despite this hollow place, so barren of real life, that he was finally coming home.