Sanctuary
Bartholomew knew he wasn't the perfect father. He was reminded every time his son looked at him. It was in the way Hope couldn't look him in the eye for long, in the way his voice became small and humble as soon as they were in the same room, and it was there when he stopped smiling when he saw him. It was a painful reality for him, and each time any such instance occurred he resolved to make it better, next time. However, when the next time rolled around, Bartholomew only further reinforced the barrier grown between them. But never, ever, did he raise a hand to his son.
Nora, the angel that she was, acted as something of a mediator for them. She showered Hope with the attention he needed, couldn't get from Bartholomew. She listened to his thoughts, dreams, and fears, cementing herself as the boy's own personal, all-knowing goddess. She would guide the boy until the night's hours carried his tired body off to sleep, returning to her husband's side as Bartholomew's goddess, his special sweetheart with a gentle smile saved only for her family. Then Nora would relay the day's events to him as he worked into the late hours, her strong, soft fingers massaging his stiff shoulders until they relaxed and he felt himself lull like an infant. Mothers were astounding creatures, he always thought. She would shepard him to the bed, and as they drew up the covers, he would confide in her. The subject was constantly on one person.
"He hates me," Bartholomew would say.
Nora would shush him, place a finger over his lips. "We didn't raise a son who hates."
"I'm a terrible father," he would tell her at other times.
Nora would rest her head against his chest and exhale her day's stress. "So long as we're here for him, there's no way that'd be."
Such arguments usually ended with Nora's soft spoken words, but throughout those nights he would lay awake for at least an hour after she had fallen asleep, holding her close, thoughts cycling over the constant inclusion of himself when Nora spoke of Hope's upbringing. How could she do that? Bartholomew didn't ask, fearful of both his wife's answer and of her subtle, excruciating wrath for having doubted her maternal genius. He remembered the first and only time he asked. He also remembered the firmness of the couch against his back instead of the plushness of his mattress.
When Nora mentioned Bodhum, Bartholomew figured he had more time as he scanned mechanically through data sheets. Days flew by before he even noticed, absorbed in his work, but Nora smiled softly, sadly, at him on the night before she and Hope were due to leave, saying that she didn't blame him and maybe he could come with them on their next vacation. While that admission relieved a fraction of Bartholomew's heartache, it did not quell the part that forced his eyes to stray to Hope's bedroom door. Forgiveness came easily from the woman who loved him as much as he loved her, but would it come so easily from his son?
They left the morning after. Bartholomew had an early meeting and missed seeing them off. It wasn't until he returned to an empty house that he remembered. He kicked himself over and over and pledged that when they came home, he would repay them for his ignorance a hundred fold.
Bartholomew was at work when he heard about the Purge. His son and wife were in Bodhum, so near the vile, bloodthirsty beasts of Pulse. He was frightened, scared out of his mind, and prayed fervently for their safe return, his pledge at the surface of his thoughts. To his colleagues, he might have looked only mildly concerned that a Pulse fal'Cie was anywhere in Cocoon, oblivious to his family situation and terror. Only Nora ever got him to put his defenses down, and dammit if she didn't come home to keep doing so, making him feel foolish as only a woman can.
They didn't come home. Bartholomew took time off work for the first time his memory could recall, becoming well-acquainted with the liquors in his cabinets. Had their return trip merely been delayed? He hoped so. Had they been detained? Or had horrible things happened and they would never walk through his door again? They could have been Purged. They could have been killed. Pulse was nasty business, after all.
It was several missed days of work and countless empty bottles later that he found out that Pulse l'Cie had infiltrated Palumpolom. Bartholomew's insides had done something strange and worthy of a contortionist when he got the news, resulting in a clenched jaw and whitened knuckles. He got angry.
Were they the same l'Cie that stole his family? How dare they show up again, where innocents lived without worry and where Bartholomew chose to drown in his miseries and sorrows. The nerve! Pulsian monsters-!
The images on the screens had to be fake. The wanted l'Cie bastards Bartholomew raged at couldn't possible be those people. They looked so human, so mortally fragile, and among them and the starbursts of frightfully powerful magic...
Hope's face was drawn, scared and confused as the PSICOM soldiers demanded his death. Bartholomew was struck numb. L'Cie were creatures born from the fires of Hell and the Devil's piss, but his son was born of himself and cherubic Nora. He was a shy, feeble boy that wouldn't hurt a fly for fear that the fly would hurt him in retaliation. The two didn't add up. And Nora, where was she? He couldn't tell.
When they showed Hope's escape, Bartholomew decided to keep the door unlocked while countless other citizens probably bolted theirs in terror. Home was the same as sanctuary, and he'd be damned if he denied his son, Hope, not a dreadful monster, refuge. He would return with Nora and they could answer his numerous questions and he would hold them, breeching his invisible walls and telling him how much he missed them, how scared he was, how much he cared.
And as he had expected and hoped (more so hoped), Hope and his band of l'Cie did return, but Nora was not with them. Before he even asked, Bartholomew knew things would be different. The l'Cie brands glared at him, but what really stood out were Hope's eyes. His son hadn't looked him in the eye in years and Bartholomew almost forgot their color. But Hope was looking straight at him, his blue-gray eyes telling more than lips could ever spell - hardship, agony, fear, and harsh determination. The stark difference almost made Bartholomew deny that this boy was his son, but a l'Cie imposter, a stranger with a similar face, but no, he could see Nora reflected in those eyes, in the roundness of his face.
When their tale was done and Nora was officially gone forever from his grasp, Bartholomew shut down. He stared at the l'Cie in his house, at his son-who-was-not-but-undeniably-was, and wanted to hit them. He wanted to scream, strike, cut until they didn't exist and he could pretend this was another boozed nightmare. He almost did.
But Bartholomew made a pledge, and he was going to keep it. He lost Nora, he wouldn't lose Hope, too. He need to fix - no, he needed to restart his family with the pieces he had left, and he could begin with believing in his only child.
Bartholomew knew he wasn't the perfect father. But never, ever, did he raise a hand to his son.
A/N: I like this kind of stuff, ffff. Also, I like family dynamics. Hope and Bartholomew ftw.