I came up with this story idea about four hours ago. I started writing an hour and fifteen minutes ago. -_- I shouldn't even be writing, for crying out loud! I have a lot of other work I need to do. I guess I was just taking a break. (For those of you who don't know, I'm taking a break from Fanfiction because of school and other projects.) Um . . . don't be mad! I have it written, so why not post it? I won't be posting anything else, though. (Probably. Hopefully.) I just got this done and figured, "Eh, why not?"
This was a very interesting fic for me to write. It was pretty different. I've been wanting to do something like this for a while, and I had actually had a lot of fun writing it. Just as a warning, some parts may possibly be considered OOC.
This one-shot is based off of the song "Believe" by Skillet. It's a really fantastic song, and I would recommend listening to it while you read the story. It goes along well with the theme.
Anyway, let's get on with it! I don't own Lab Rats or the song "Believe." This story is mine. Enjoy!
* * * Brother * * *
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared down at the tombstone in front of him. The sign for Mission Creek Cemetery stood several feet behind him, and ahead were rows upon rows of markings that stood for graves. He grimaced and walked closer to the stone that marked the grave he wanted to visit. He had never liked cemeteries.
He stared down at the bare stone that only had the name and date. No flowers decorated the front of it. It was completely plain. He chuckled a bit, hoping it wasn't disrespectful.
"You never did have many friends," he whispered. He glanced down at his empty hands. "Sorry, I, uh, don't have anything for you." Slowly he got down on his knees, ready for the talk he had come here for. The talk with his brother.
"I miss you," he began. It was as good a place to start as well. "Well . . . I mean, kind of. Some days I miss you more than others. Sometimes . . ." He paused and sighed. "Sometimes I'm actually glad that you're gone.
"Do you remember when we used to fight? Aka, our entire lives? You and I never really got along. We were always fighting, always arguing, always trying to prove we were better. By the way, I still am . . ." He trailed off. Now was not the time to brag. "You could be a real pain, you know that? But I guess I wasn't any better. Sometimes, though, you went past just being annoying. Sometimes you were downright . . . scary, I guess is the word. You could make me uncomfortable with just a glance. I don't miss that."
He glanced at the gravestone next to the one he was kneeling in front of. A sob climbed into his throat, but he managed to swallow it. "We thought it would be a good idea to bury you next to Dad. You don't mind, right? I know you and him never really saw eye-to-eye either, but I know that you really loved him. Do you remember his funeral?"
Tears welled up in eyes as he remembered their father's death when he was only a teenager. It had come as a great shock to them, and their family had never been quite the same after that. He and his brother bickered more often, and their mother would tear her hair out over them.
"Before . . . before you died, we had a fight," he whispered, gulping back the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I think I had some valid points. What you did wasn't right, and I still believe that. But there were some things I said that I really regret. I was . . . I was angry. The wishes I made were not right. I didn't mean what I said! I promise! You still mean something to me. You always did. I'm sorry if I ever made you think otherwise."
He placed his hand on the stone and ran it over the indented letters. He read it again and again. Even after all these years, part of his mind still didn't want to believe it. Seeing his brother's name spelled out like that was genuinely horrifying. He was the older one! He should've died first! Why was his younger brother gone? He mouthed the name and date one more time.
Douglas Daniel Davenport. April 22nd, 1975—August 4th, 1999.
Twenty-four. His brother had been twenty-four years old when he died. That was not fair. That was way too young to die. His brother could have been a great person! Well . . . his brother had never exactly been "great person material," but given more time, maybe he would've turned his life around.
"I did find the kids," he mumbled. "And I'm the one who took them. You would've been a terrible father, and you know it. I still can't believe you did that. Wait, I can." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't regret firing you from Davenport Industries. You were taking a turn for the worse. Experimenting on children? Really?"
He shook his head. In his mind's eye he could still see the small children—the youngest of whom was barely a year old—curled up in the corner of the lab. According to his brother's notes, each had incredible superpowers. His brother wanted to rent them out as weapons, and he knew that he couldn't let that happen. So he had hidden them in his attic, for lack of a better place. Eventually he would get a better house and hide them in the basement, but for the first few weeks after their rescue they would live in a tiny attic in a small apartment.
Prior to that, his brother had been experimenting with things that were quite . . . unethical, to say the least. He had been more than upset by his brother's actions, and was finally forced to fire his own flesh-and-blood. It wasn't long after that when he discovered the kids and hid them without telling his brother.
When his brother had discovered the absence of the children, he had been quite distraught. So the brothers wound up having a large and loud argument. Of course his brother had never directly mentioned the kids—since they were supposed to be a secret—but there were plenty of other things to fight about.
"You were furious that I had fired you," he whispered. "You said that I couldn't have that power; that I didn't have that right. But . . . you were getting dangerous. And when I found those kids, I knew that I had done the right thing. I still think I did the right thing. Firing you, destroying some of your inventions, and taking those kids—I'll never regret any of that."
He bowed his head. "I will regret what happened after that," he mumbled. "Okay, I still don't know what you did . . . if it was on purpose or what. I don't think so. But you always got careless when you were angry. So maybe in a way, this is indirectly my fault." He grimaced. It hurt to admit that.
He would never forget that night. He had driven over to his brother's house. Their "lab" doubled as his brother's garage. He knew that his brother spent a lot of time in there, whether they were working or not. So he had driven over to have a talk. Things had gotten heated just a few days before, and after having some time to cool off, he was ready to have a more rational conversation. His brother had gruffly given his consent over the telephone for him to come over.
The sight that awaited him when he got to his brother's house was horrifying. The entire thing was consumed by flames. Fire trucks lined the streets and the smoke rose high, choking out the warm purple glow from the setting sun. He had hopped out his car, mouth agape. An officer had come up, a questioning look in her eye.
"Sir, what are you doing here?" she asked.
"I . . . I was . . ." He was too frightened for words.
"Were you coming to meet someone in that house?"
"Yes."
"Sir, do you know if someone was inside that house?"
"Yes . . . yes! My—my brother . . ." The reality slammed into him suddenly. His brain finally registered what those pillars of smoke meant. He understood that the flames licking up the remains of the house were completely unforgiving. They would have no trouble consuming flesh and bone. Fire had a voracious appetite that even a slightly-crazed, power-hungry scientific genius couldn't stop. "Douglas!" he had finally screamed as he came to the full realization.
He shuddered at the memory and stared back down at the grave. A body had never been recovered. The fire had burned to the house to a pile of ashes, not to mention causing massive damage to the houses next door. There had been absolutely no hope of recovering a body from that mess. What had once been a human being was nothing more than a pile of ash, eaten up by the flames.
"Why . . . ?" He trailed off again, unable to complete the thought. Why what? Why had his brother left him? Why had the house burned down? Why had he never been able to apologize? Why did they always fight? Why had his brother taken such a dark road? Why?
There were, of course, no answers to his questions. He could search and search, but he would never find the answers. Never. And he knew it.
"I'm still very angry," he said. "And there are some things I don't think I can forgive you for. Like the kids. Your own kids, and they're never going to have a normal life. You deprived them of that. I'm trying to train them to be heroes, because they're going to be either heroes or villains. If you had your way, they would be latter, but I won't let that happen."
He thought about the young children. They were growing up. The eldest had such a mirthful outlook on life. He was constantly amazed by the simplest things. The middle one was eager and feisty, ready to take on whatever challenge life threw her way. The youngest was much like his father: very intelligent, with a hint of darkness hidden away in the depths of his heart.
"Chase is like you," he mumbled. "He even looks like you. But I'm determined that he won't end up like you. If I can condition him now to be a hero, maybe he won't become so evil like you did. He'll be a good person. Unlike his father. He'll actually help people.
"Bree has your wit. You don't know how many times I've heard her say something dry or sarcastic that I could've sworn came from your own mouth. And the face she makes when she's mad looks just like you. Pursed lips, flared nostrils, everything. It's actually kind of funny.
"Adam has that wonder that you always had. He see things for what they are. He's great at knowing how people feel, and comforting them accordingly. You used to be that way. He also has your curiosity. And your love of destruction. He blew up his toy car last week and promptly proclaimed that it was 'awesome.'
"You're missing out on a lot, Douglas. These kids are incredible. I'll . . . I'll take good care of them, I promise. But would you have wanted that? You wanted to rent your kids out. Who does that? I won't. I'll do the things you never had the common sense to do. I'll give them the love they deserve."
He stood up abruptly. "I know I say the same thing every time I'm here, but I feel like it needs to be said over and over again. Besides, it makes me feel better to rant at you. Yes, at you. Douglas, you were my brother. Nothing will ever change that, not even death. Not even unethical experiments. But what you did was still wrong, and I'm still mad at you for the position you put me in. Seriously, what was going through you head? I know you were never exactly a 'good child,' but I still wish that you had never done any of this. If you had only acted . . . normal, for once in your life!"
Everything was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, "Happy thirtieth birthday, Douglas. I'll be back in August."
He turned around and marched out of the dreary cemetery. The chilly spring wind whipped at his face and made him shiver mechanically. The clouds above signaled an approaching storm. The grass underfoot was bright green and flowers bloomed at the base of tall trees.
The sleek back car with the license plate that read "DAVENPRT" was parked near the front. He hopped into it and placed his hands on the steering wheel, but he didn't start the car. Slowly he let his head fall forwards until it rested on his hands.
A tear was finally able to make its way down his cheek. He chuckled mirthlessly and whispered, "I really hate that I miss you."
Yay! So, was it a different pair of brothers than you originally thought? Of course, Douglas was indeed alive, but Donald didn't know that at the time. It was really interesting to write from that perspective. And I finally created a theory about how Douglas faked his death! Hooray for me! :D
Ugh, all those birthdays/death days. Lots of math. -_- I think I got it right. (Assuming that Douglas is thirty-nine in season three, I should've. And yes, he's thirty-nine, not forty. The Lab Rats writers aren't too good with ages.)
Just curious: How many of you know where I got DAVENPRT from? And yes, I got it from somewhere.
I'm sorry for any mistakes that were made. I only edited this once. Usually I do it a couple of times. So apologies!
Yeah, I won't be around much this week. At all. I wasn't originally going to post this. But not writing for me is like not being able to breathe. So I just went ahead and uploaded. It will still take me a little while to catch up on PMs and reviews, so please be patient! Thank you!
Hey, as long as I've got you here, there's a poll on my profile that I would love for you to check out! It's about what one-shot you would like me to write when I come back from my break. Please vote on that if you have time! Thank you!
And I'm gone! Really gone! Unless I get the writing bug again and do another random one-shot. But hopefully that won't happen. (I really have to work on other things.) So, don't forget to favorite/review if you liked it (thanks in advance!), and see you in a few weeks! Bye!