A/N: I haven't written in a while and then this happened. It's rushed and it's weird and I get it if that's not your thing. It's kind of a deviation from a much longer, slightly less weird version of this idea. I may post that one day.
You thought, a long time ago, that you would never have to do this. You'd always been the doubter, the non-believer. Maybe that made you a bit ignorant.
Right now, you are clutching onto your son. This is all tangible and it is all happening and – and there is blood on your hands. It is seeping out of your son and onto the tiled floor and your hands aren't enough to staunch the flow.
Your son's hand is wrapped around your wrist and your mind is flooded with thoughts. There are others around – the proverbial 'bad guys', the ones who have made this mess – but you are done with them. If they come near you, you will not hesitate. You are past the point of remaining calm.
There isn't much time and you know this – it's like a ticking noise has taken over your body, each second leaves a physical reminder. But there isn't much you can do. The bad guys have the guns and you have your wit and blood on your hands.
"Dad," Shawn says to you, voice garbled. He is scared – terrified. He's trying so goddamn hard not to show it and you momentarily shut your eyes. Despite the moment, despite the pressure and the tension of everything around you, you are reverting back. You remember all the times you told your son to 'be a man', not to display emotions. It was an inconvenience, in the end, you reminded him.
Here he is, still trying, giving a legacy to those legends despite the bullet lodged in his chest.
"Goddamn it, Shawn," you push against him. Goddamn it, why him, why now. Christ.
"Dad, you need to…" Shawn's head lists to the side, distracted.
You press your hand against him, a reminder.
"You have to try to…get out…" Shawn's eyes close once, twice. Shit.
Not without you, you want to say. But it's never been easy – words fill up your mouth like cotton, you harvest them and never say a fucking thing. In response, you keep pressure on his chest.
The atmosphere in this place is thick and you crane your neck to see what is happening now; the men have lost interest in you. You have proven yourself to be a fallen victim. They are tormenting the other diners: sweeping arms across tabletops, sending plates and glasses to the floor. One man is circling a mother of two, a menace in his eyes that has you unsettled.
Despite everything, Shawn's eyes are still roaming, capturing everything. "Dad," he says, frantic. "Dad, you have to do something." His grip is slack on your arm and you know what this means but – you had never thought you would have to do this.
You know your son. He has the hero complex, even if he doesn't always display it quite so accurately. He won't forgive you if you don't at least try.
Leaving your son here is not an option. But you can't save him if you're dead. You heave yourself up – there aren't that many men here, not many to notice you – and your parting action is a squeeze around his wrist. It's as close as you will come to I'll be right back.
You make your move to the mother and her children. This isn't something you have full confidence in but you're doing it – you have to. There are four men in this restaurant. You have the power to disarm one now. The rest is a lot of variables, a lot of what ifs. It's definitely not a sound idea but really, what the hell.
The mother sees you coming and you signal for her to be quiet. The other three men are now occupied behind the front counter. No doubt the bullshit negotiations are being carried out – the SWAT team pretending to give them everything, money, a plane, enlightenment, whatever.
Despite you having retired years ago, you still have a few tricks left. You come up to the man from behind, obstructing his airway with your forearm. You make a grab for his gun, smacking him across the jaw with it. He stumbles and you give a kick to his midsection. He's only down momentarily.
You bring the mother and her children to a safer spot. The other men notice their fallen friend in moments and you scramble. You haven't physically fought someone in probably a decade. Fuck it.
Your body reacts on instinct. You have never felt this strong, this volatile. The men are foolish – they shoot blindly, their movements are slow. They are the worst kind of criminals; the most menacing they can get is through their expressions, their words. Your movements are swift, you are agile. In all the haze, you almost forget your son.
Almost.
He remains in your mind and as you deliver the final blow, as the rescue crew rushes in, SWAT team shouts musical to your ears, you double your way back to Shawn.
His eyes are partially open, arms and legs splayed, shockingly moving slightly. They always say that things like this make a person still – impending death has that effect. Shawn is still moving, still fighting. You are on your knees and at his side.
"Did you win? You won…right?" his movements are slowing. A team of paramedics are already approaching. You may just yet believe in God.
You are worried; he looks awfully pale and how much blood he has lost, you aren't sure of. He is in pain and you have no idea what it feels like, how to give it a remedy. You came here to get some damn pancakes, you did not bargain for this. "Yeah," you say lightly. "We kicked ass."
The paramedics are scurrying around you and you grip your son tightly. You never thought you'd have to do this. You almost can't believe you did.
You follow everyone; hand on the railing of your son's stretcher, into the ambulance. It's bright outside and the sun hits you. You are exuberant, you are devastated. We made it, no, you haven't yet. I made it, not without him, you didn't.
We'll get there.
The ambulance doors close behind you.