title: On His Way
summary: "I was on my way…then fate reminded me that I shouldn't." She was insanely perfect; and he was just insane. He didn't deserve to be her father - but he loved her anyway.
word count: 1,846
characters: Jefferson, Grace
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note: my first ever non-romance fic dedicated to the amazingly complex character of Jefferson - because he needs more love. Hope you enjoy!
He was on his way.
Then fate reminded him he shouldn't.
He was ready - he really was. He was ready to face her, even if she was angry at him, even if she hated him. He was ready to leave his past behind, to give up his lies and secrets, to start life anew. He was ready to be a father. Her father.
He was driving to her house, the place she called home for twenty-eight years, in his beat-up green car. The sky was clear, the sun was shining, and everything was alright.
Everything was going to be alright.
Then a flash of familiarity flickered before his eyes.
He slammed his foot on the brakes and his car screeched to a halt. With the slam of his car door, he stormed out across the pavement and pressed his face to the glass window of a thrift shop.
And there it was, with its beady eyes staring blankly into space. A rabbit. His rabbit.
It wasn't perfect. It had never been anything close to perfect. But it belonged to her. Every stitch he had sewn, every second he had spent, every ounce of effort he had devoted to it, all belonged to her. So he bought it, took it to his car and placed it in the back, next to the tea set. And he went on his way.
Grey clouds began appearing above him, and the sun started to disappear, but everything was still alright. He tried to imagine her face when she saw the rabbit. Would she be as happy as she had been when he gave it to her the first time?
He glanced back at the toy rabbit, just to reassure himself that it was there.
And when he turned back, he saw a rabbit standing in the middle of the road. A real rabbit.
His knuckles grew white as he gripped the wheel and spun it. The car swerved violently. It mounted the pavement. His body jerked backwards as he crashed into some benches and a barrel of something. He felt his stomach jump as his car turned over. Then it stopped. Stuck.
His car was broken. His tea set was shattered. And his spirit was crushed.
He cried out for help but nobody heard him.
So he was stuck. Trapped inside his car, holding onto a toy rabbit. He began to cry. It wasn't because he was worried about his car, or his money, or even his life. All he could think of was his Grace. And he cried because he might never see her again.
But of course, Prince Charming came to save the day, like he always did. And he pulled up him up so hard and fast that he dropped the rabbit in his hands.
Eventually, he managed to escape the uncharacteristically unnoble prince, because he was a thief and that's what thieves do.
He ran and he ran and he ran. And then he stopped.
The toy rabbit was still there, by his crushed car, exactly where he had left it. He picked it up and held it in his hands, and he looked at it. He really looked. And he saw.
He saw the dirty stuffing sticking out from the holes that had formed. He saw the way the stitches came apart. He saw all its flaws. And he saw himself.
I know it's not the same as what you wanted. She deserved a better rabbit. Just like she deserved a better father.
So he went home.
(But he kept the rabbit anyway.)
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He didn't like going to the town. He preferred staying up at his house, watching everyone. But even he needed to go out and buy the things he needed.
He took cover under the darkness of night, walking along the streets of the town centre, wearing his thick coat, trying to see without being seen.
The biting wind slammed into him the second he stepped out of his favourite tea shop. It whirled around him and rustled his hair.
That was when he heard it, flapping in the wind, stuck to a lamp post with a flimsy piece of tape. He took a step closer and studied it. A childish drawing of a man, a page torn from a sketchbook.
Have you seen my Papa?
She was looking for him. She wanted him back.
Gently, he reached out to touch that piece of paper. It didn't disappear from under his fingers. It wasn't just some illusion, some cruel trick his mind was playing on him. It was real. She was really searching for him.
He ran his fingers over the drawing his face. Black circles for eyes, hooded by eyelids. (She used to tell him that his eyes were the kindest she knew.) Long hair covering a part of his forehead, flowing down the sides of his face. (She used to laugh at how long it was and try to braid it for him.) Vibrant clothes, dyed with purple and pink. (She used to choose those colours whenever they went out to buy cloth, because they were her favourites.)
He couldn't believe how different he looked. He felt different, too. Back then, he hadn't abandoned his daughter. He hadn't broken his promise to her.
He was a good man. A good father. He wasn't either anymore.
He didn't know how to tell her that the man she thought was his father had died. He couldn't bear to tell her that. He couldn't bear to see her.
So he left the town centre.
(But he took the picture anyway.)
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Of all the places in Storybrooke, he liked the docks the most. It was away from nosy townsfolk who liked talking about things that didn't involve them, away from the noise of cafes and workshops, away from the people he didn't want to see, or the person he wasn't ready to face.
It was quiet enough, with no one around. He sighed and let himself relax. It had been so long.
He reached into his coat pocket and took out that drawing of hers. That drawing of him.
He unfolded it and stared at it, letting his mind roam free. It ran around in circles, his thoughts chasing their tails in an endless cycle. Still, he managed to reach two conclusions.
Firstly, he loved her. He knew deep in his heart, that even after going mad in Wonderland, even after his mind was trapped in a prison for twenty-eight years, even after all the pain that he endured, he could still love. And he loved her.
Secondly, he didn't deserve her. He was a failure of a father. He had made a promise and he broke it. He left his own daughter. What kind of father leaves his own daughter? The kind that doesn't deserve his own daughter.
He thought he might cry. But then Henry came along and his tears ran dry.
His first instinct was to hide the picture in his hands. It was meant for him and him only. But something stopped him. Maybe he couldn't bring himself to take his eyes away from it. Maybe he was at odds with himself and wanted someone to tell him, to convince him, to go find her. Maybe he knew that if there was one person who would understand, it would be Henry.
He was so innocent, so full of compassion, so desperately trying to find a way to his mother. But in the end, not even the truest believer was enough to help him.
"I gotta go home, kid."
Henry stopped him. "Why aren't you going to find her?"
"Because I left her!" His voice was trembling. "And she'll hate me." What kind of father would he be if his own daughter hated him? He couldn't face her. He couldn't live with himself, knowing that his own daughter hated him. At least if he hid from it all...
"How do you know that?"
He stepped back and shrugged. He didn't know. He only guessed. "I was on my way…" He thought back to the crash, to the bunny, to the broken tea set. He thought back to the day he left her. "Then fate reminded me that I shouldn't."
"You should." He doubted Henry's words. He was just a boy - what did he know about it? "Not knowing is the worst."
Not knowing. His Grace not knowing why he left her. He hadn't wanted to. If could explain it all to her, try to make her understand, then maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.
Not knowing. Him not knowing how she thought of him, how she felt about him. Twenty-eight years of running through scenarios in his head, never really knowing which - or whether - one of them will come true.
He thought he might cry.
"I gotta go home, kid."
Henry didn't stop him this time.
He left the docks.
(But he changed his mind anyway.)
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Henry was right. Not knowing is the worst.
His heart was filled with anxiety and fear. He didn't know. Too many things he couldn't control. Too many outcomes he couldn't see.
But he learnt a little something from Emma's kid. He learnt a little faith.
He breathed in.
"Grace."
She froze.
He expected her to run away from him. He expected her to pretend she hadn't heard him. He expected her to turn around and start yelling at him. He expected her to...He didn't know what he expected.
But years of sanity slipping away taught him never to hope, because happy endings never existed. Not for him. His arrogance cost him his wife. His stupidity cost him his daughter. Would his foolishness cost him his sanity?
His Grace turned around and he saw not confusion nor anger, but happiness. He saw love.
She ran towards him and he knelt down, arms wide open to catch her. "Papa!" How long had it been since he'd heard those words? Heard that voice?
He held her for the first time in years, too many to count. Her hair beneath his fingers, her face buried in his neck.
It was real.
He was so happy.
And it was real.
"You found me, I knew you would."
She believed in him. He, who left her for years, who watched as another family raised her. And she still loved him.
He couldn't speak. There were no words which could ever do justice to what he was feeling, what he was thinking. His mind was exploding yet mending; dying yet growing; hurting yet healing.
He relived twenty-eight damned years under the curse.
Two lives forever at odds. Double the pain; double the suffering.
He recalled a love lost.
My daughter, my Grace...she's waiting for me.
He remembered a promise broken.
Just promise me you'll come back. You have you promise!
It was all over. The curse was broken.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn't deserve to be her father.
(But maybe he didn't care–
because he loved her anyway.)
note: i'd love to hear thoughts about this so please please review - and thanks very much for reading!
~dbt