Title: Scars

Summary: The real scar wasn't going to be from the bomb about to go off, it was that of his father's fate about to be burnt into his memory and onto his heart. Based on a scene from eppy 4.07 'Shockwave'

Disclaimer: Sadly I own nothing from the awesomeness that is Flashpoint, that belongs to CTV and whoever else! Lol if I did, you'd never see Spike or me again! Hehe :D

A/N: Okay so yes Alice had to tell me to breathe a few times but we thankfully recovered and came up with this. Hope you all like it. And yes you might need some tissues at the end, I did. *phew*

"Words in italics and double quotes – directly from the eppy."

Definition: Scar:

A mark left on the skin after a surface injury or wound has healed.
A lingering sign of damage or injury, either mental or physical.

Scars.

I really do hate that word as I think I have more than enough, especially mentally and emotionally, for one person. Physical as well. The one good thing about physical scars is that some over time can fade and heal. Mental and emotional scars last a lifetime and never fade into existence. Time sees to that.

Let me start at the beginning. I was at my father's bedside, each of us lightly arguing about something in the paper. It didn't matter, I was at his side where I needed to be...that is until I got a call that would land me next to one of the biggest bomb scares of my entire life and career. Leaving my father was a tough decision, given the fact that I know work has always been a source of contention between us. Today was no different, in fact it would be worse. I could only make up another excuse as I rush from my the hospital, my ears as always registering his whispered uttrance of disapointment as I take my leave; him always accusing me of putting a life threatening job before things that really matter. Like the fact that he's dying and I could have used that as an excuse to pass the job to another team.

But I didn't. My father had always instilled in me integrity, to family and to my work and ironically he has only himself to blame. Part of me suspects that's why he's always so angry about my job, he knows that I'll do my damnest becuase he made sure I knew from a child growing up to an adult, that that was expected of me.

However, the call wasn't what was expected and as I look back now, inside that dimly lit hallway we were trapped in, I know I would have regretted not being there with my team. It was where I was needed.

But why is it that you feel the most comfortable confessing some past childhood misdeed when you are in a tense, life and death situation? Maybe because you feel that at that very second, it doesn't matter because you know the person you are telling your past mishap to could also be facing their last seconds on earth and all they can do is sympathize instead of try to pick it apart. There is a reason I don't like to take my shirt off around the guys in the locker room, they always teased me about being shy – after today, I do have to wonder if they'll say anything about it.

"One day he came home and caught me mixing fuel, bleach….yeah that's a great explosion. But the thing is, I didn't do it right and burnt myself pretty bad. I was nine years old."

Those faint scars are on my back as I had turned my back to the bomb. Ironically it was just as my father came in on me and so not only did my back receive the physical scars his horrified and disappointed expression was forever burnt into my mind at the exact same time. A scar that would linger with me and help to dictate my career and life choice.

'Michelangelo…what have you done?'

I'm sure he thought his words sounded comforting to a nine year old, as tears of pain strolled down my face but they weren't and all I knew at that moment is I had to make things right. I gently sobbed all the way to the hospital as my father lightly berated me and told me that I was now facing the consequences of my childish and stupid actions.

'I hope you learned your lesson today.'

Boy was he right; to this day, now as a grown adult, I hate to look at myself in the mirror for fear when I see those scars, his expression pops into my mind. It was a hard lesson but a valuable one. But that was the last straw, before that he had allowed me my foolish stints at experimentation.

"He thought maybe one day it would turn me into a scientist, chemist. Something he could be proud of…something safe."

Safe, yeah he always wanted that for his only son and I can't blame him, but I wanted to keep people safe and I thought that he would understand, especially after I had tried to reason with him countless times about why I wanted to do what I wanted to do. But he didn't; he didn't listen then and he still doesn't. And after my first day with the bomb squad I was forever reminded of that day when I was nine.

'You could have died today.'

'But pa I didn't...I helped those people.'

I had tried to argue that I was doing all this to make a difference but he would march up to me, pat me on the back and ask my why it was I didn't like to get a tan like everyone else in the summer or take my shirt off to impress the ladies. Then he would walk away with a small frown and I'd be left to ponder my career choice once again, seconding guessing what I had done.

I remember coming home after my first big situation, a bomb I expertly diffused. I was so proud of myself and couldn't wait to tell my family. My mother of course would only give me a hug and say she was happy I made it home safe and sound. But my dad would turn on the TV news and explain that if I had made one wrong move I would have been the evening's top headline.

'But I didn't dad. I diffused that bomb and those people are safe. Aren't you proud of me?'

I wanted his approval more so than my team at the time or my mother's; I wanted to prove that I had grown out of my childish ways of so long ago and was now using my knowledge to help others. But he never saw it that way.

'How many more scars will it take before you stop this nonsense?'

Is all he would say and disappear into the other room to watch the baseball game. I would look at my mother for some sort of mental reprieve, but all she would do is shrug and just nod before turning back to making us dinner. I kept thinking with each new job that the scars from the past would fade and my father would come to see just how good I was at my job and what I was doing to contribute to keeping the peace and sending another bad guy to jail. But he couldn't. Sometimes he would give me his trademark look of disappointment, or worse sometimes pull out the careers section of the daily newspaper and spout off some high paying government job that would land my ass in a desk and put his mind at ease. Course Lew's death only served to make things worse.

'Is this how you want your father to see your death? On the news!'

Maybe he felt like he personally failed. Over the years I have tried to make it very clear to him that this is what I want to do and it's something he can be happy about. I'm still waiting for that happiness to settle inside me. The day we were told he was diagnosed with terminal cancer was one of the darkest days of my life.

'Lung cancer…terminal. I'm sorry…we don't know how long he has Mrs. Scarlatti.'

I remember looking at my mother, shaking my head and then rushing after the doctor in case his diagnosis was wrong. There had to be a mistake, my father can't be dying, he's too strong – too stubborn. My argument was fruitless and the doctor just looked at me with a sad expression but wasn't about to change anything just because I was begging him to tell me what I wanted to hear.

When I had wandered back to my father he just looked at both of us but said nothing, only turned around and headed for the car, my mother's sobbing frame left to sag into my shaking embrace. Another scar burned onto my already anguished mind. When I would I get something happy to dwell upon? Wasn't I long overdue? Or is that too a selfish thought?

Even today, as I sit beside my father's beside I wonder if those happy memories are still waiting to be found. I have offered countless prayers over the years asking God to give him strength or even to take the cancer away. I know it won't happen but somehow it brings me some small solace that a man cannot provide.

I had rushed here after the last large bomb was diffused, not caring about changing, quickly washing my hands, but nothing else. I had done my job to the best I could; even pushing through a panicked call from my mother halfway through today's monumentally stressful ordeal. I was able to empathize with the bomber and even get him to help me in the end. I did an amazing job under the pressure and my team showered me with heartfelt praise and thanks.

But as I sit here holding my father's hand I can't tell him any of that. He wouldn't care, he hasn't in the past and I know the stubborn man he is, he's not about to start. He'd simply say, they have other teams they could have called in, why did you leave me?

However, I push those negative thoughts aside for I have another growing scar to deal with. As soon as I had rushed here, I gave my mother a hug and went right to my father's side, telling him I was here and would stay for as long as I could.

"I'm scared."

In all my years I have heard my father utter many things, some good, some bad, some angry and some spoken rashly in the heat of the moment. But those two words are now seared onto my mind for the rest of my life. My father isn't scared, he can't be, I am…I'm scared. Despite the fact that we have been at emotional odds most of my adult life, I can't lose him.

I look up at my mother as my eyes water.

"How can I fix this?" I speak in futility.

It is of course rhetorical and maybe I'm still coming off that high of diffusing the toughest bomb in my entire career, but it was all I could ask. My mother of course can only shake her head and sniffle softly, nothing can be done. And for a few seconds today, after that bomb was diffused, I felt on top of the world, but even superman couldn't save everyone and that horrible truth stabs me to my very soul.

I look back down at my father, our hands still clenched as I try to assure him that I am here for him now and that won't change. That I love him no matter what. I see glints of fear in his dark eyes and my heart is begging my brain to come up with the right solution to take everyone's pain away. I've always had that, ever since I was a kid; wanting to lighten the mood with a silly comment and bring smiles back – taking away the growing tension.

I think subconsciously I would always do that with the hopes that in the back of my mind I'd see my father's smile of approval. That's what I have always wanted; especially now. However, possibly in a few short hours I am in fear of never having that dream realized.

And that will be one of the biggest scars I will have to learn to deal with yet. Working so hard, desperately seeking one thing and yet having the one person who could give me what I seek, die without satisfying that inner need.

"You don't have to be scared," I tell my father with a small nod.

I know it's silly as I can tell he's scared, hell I am. But what else can I say? He's my father and despite my being a grown man, right now I feel like a scared child. He's always been the one to look after my mother, soon that will be my responsibility. I can't do this…not yet, I'm not ready.

Father…you can't die. My mind laments in sorrow as I quickly brush away a few anguished tears. I tell myself I need to be strong but right now, what I want more than anything is to run into another room and cry, and yell and curse life and say that this isn't fair. Why can't I save him! I save people all the time, why not my father? I hate feeling helpless.

"I'm scared."

My father's watery eyes close once more and he completely slumps back into his bed, his grip loosening. I have become a master of hiding my emotions up until now, this is just one more scar that I'll have to bury deep inside and tell others that I am fine and can handle it like I have the others. A few tears finally escape my eyes and run down my soot stained face, leaving faint scars that I will be able to just wash away. I wish everything was that easy.

But after today, I know one thing is certain his death and me not being able to help or stop it - the scar on my heart from that failure, will never be removed, it will never heal.

THE END!

A/N: Okay so I know these past few eppy OS's have been angsty but a parent's dying/death is always angsty (yeah I know from personal experience) and yes this was hard to get through in places so I do apologize for that in advance. So I hope you liked this and please review, it'll let me know especially if you'd like more when the rest of the season starts up again in September.