/So this is something of an out take from Milktooh, like how I originally wanted to fic to go, and then realized that I would have to rewrite the very basics of Charlie and Lucien's personalities. But I still wanted something to do with Blake coming home so :p Enjoy. Warnings for previous torture and past emaciation. Blake was a POW. They went through Hell, is the best I can do.
It is Charlie's birthday and he has been on the poarch for fifteen minutes. He rotates between standing and sitting, waiting for the black car to roll up the long driveway that would be delivering his father to him. They'd gotten a call from him at the airport saying he'd be home in a few hours and Charlie hadn't been able to stay sill ever since. His grandfather put his nerves to good use by having him type up some reports, and then paying him for them. But he's still waiting, waiting, waiting.
He sits down for the millionth time, the driveway is still empty but he's coming. He'll be here soon, Charlie thinks, leaning down to retye the laces on his nice shoes for seemingly the hundredth time. Grandfather had insisted he dress nicely to welcome his dad back home. He'd even gone out of his way to use wax to style his hair into fashionable waves. While Charlie maintained that his feet were made for comfortable shoes, he had to admit, he did look quite nice. He's also put on his best collared shirt, the dark orange one, hoping his father would appreciate the gesture. Then it's here.
The car makes it's way down the driveway, before coming to a stop in front of the house, and for one horrible second, Charlie is frozen in place, as Blake exits the car and pays the driver. His father looks half starved, thin bony wrists, extending from his sleeves, sharp angles on his face Charlie doesn't remember seeing before, and sure, he'd known what his father looked like as a prisioner of war but he hadn't been expecting to actually see him look like that. He didn't know how to respond. And then he did.
It slips out before he can stop it. "Daddy!" He is twelve and twelve year olds do not call their father daddy. It works. Blake whips around. Charlie is running, scuffing his shoes on the gravel is he runs. Runs, runs, runs. But he stops short. He doesn't want to hurt him. Doesn't want to break him because he has never seen his father so small before. Standing up close you could see it. Sunken eyes, stabbing bones. But he's here and he's real and Charlie doesn't care about any of that. He stops just short of reaching for him, hand frozen in mid air, unsure if it wants to go closer or come back.
His father doesn't need an answer, however. He just pulls Charlie tight and close and presses his face against the top of his face as if the answer to all of his problems can be found there. Charlie pressed his face tightly into Blake's chest, breathing in deep the smell of cologne and the detergent used to wash his shirt. They stand there, embracing for what feels like hours, neither wanting to move away, neither wanting to break away. As if this one perfect moment, man and child, father and son, could last for a lifetime.
But they have too, because his dad cannot stand up for so long. Thomas has been watching them embrace from the front of the house, a small smile on his face, as Charlie looks at his father with reverence. "I'll take your bags." Charlie says, picking up both suitcases, as the pair of them slowly made their way to the poarch. Lucien moves so slowly now, that Charlie is careful not to overtake him. He's out of breath when they reach the steps and Charlie wonders just what they did to him to hurt him so badly.
Lucien leans on him as they make their way into the house, unable to walk and talk. He just looks...sapped. Charlie's face creases in worry as he sets the bags inside the front door. "I baked you a cake." He said, as he led Blake to the living room. "It's got icing and everything." He said, helping him to the couch. "I can make tea, as well." he said, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, wanting equally to be as close to his father as he could but also away from him. It's a horrible feeling, and it feels wrong.
"I would love a cup of tea." Blake assured him, sitting back. Charlie went in a way that could only be described as scuttering, listening to the sounds of the two older Blake men greet one another like strangers, and the following conversation while he watched the kettle boil.
"...he couldn't wait to get away from me. Did you see the..."
"...just nervous, he missed you..."
"...frighten him..."
he makes tea on autopilot, brain working hard to squish everything into neat little boxes, to be opened when he was ready. One sugar no milk for his grandfather, white with no sugar for his father, glass of water for himself. He set everything on a tray, as well as three slices of the cake he'd baked on little china plates with flower pattens on them.
He took the tray to the living room, and set it carefully down on the table, before passing the tea around, and setting cake slices on the table.
"Thank you, Charlie." Lucien smiled. Charlie smiled back, and whisked things back to the kitchen, before returning to sit next to his father, just in time to watch him knock back two tablets of pain killers. He looked away, down to his glass, unsure what to say now. Seemingly none of them did, because they just sat for a while, Charlie unable to come up with something to say, and Blake snr not ready to say anything.
Eventually, Charlie excuses himself, claiming that he needs to do some homework. He accepts a pat on the arm from his father, and quietly make his way up the stairs to the room that he slept in. Lying on his bed, trying to make sense of the situation, quiet whispers of conversation make their way up to him.
"...couldn't stand looking at me…'
"...A shy boy…his hero...fall..."
"...love him..."
Charlie fell asleep before supper, doing his best to make sense of his feelings.
…
Lucien wakes at three thirty three am panting. Nightmares are something he's well gotten use to since his liberation, but that never means he's able to get through them with ease. He's lying there, sweaty and panting in the dark, unsure of what woke him for several minutes, just trying to get his breathing under control. Deep breath in, hold for a few moments, let it out.
Then he realizes. Tucked tightly up against his side is a medium sized lump. Upon further examination, the lump is revealed to be Charlie. He breathes out slowly, and pressed a hand through soft curls. Charlie smells like soap and toothpaste, he realized, as they lay there. Charlie hasn't said anything, just come and lay next to him, and he tries to piece together what happened, not trusting his voice, not yet.
Charlie probably heard, and then had not known what to do. It takes another few moments for him to find his footing and speak. "Charlie?" He's greeted by a very sleepy pair of eyes looking up at him.
"Hm?"
"Whats happened?"
"You were having a bad dream." he mumbled. "When I had bad dreams..You used to come sit with me..." He mumbled. Charlie's nightmares had been abut foxes living under his bed. Lucien remembers that he did, used to just wait until he fell back asleep, unbothered by the foxes. Charlie pressed his face up against his chest, not bothered by his protruding ribs, he's nearly fallen back asleep by now. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, but Lucien shakes his head.
"No, I don't think so. Go to sleep."
"M'kay." Charlie mumbled, and didn't need much more convincing then that. Lucien didn't fall back asleep, he just lay still, and watched Charlie. The small rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The flutter of his eyelashes as he dreamed, the occasional twitch of his leg and gentle sigh.
…
Lucien supposes that he was lucky to be back in time for this fathers day party. Charlie's class was having one to thank all the fathers for what they did for their children and it's the first time since that first day Charlie tried to speak with him, so he doesn't feel like he has the right to turn it down.
Watching Charlie fade into the masses of children and return with tiny sandwhiches and drinks, he's reminded of when he was a child, and he didn't want to play with the other kids.
"It's alright Charlie. You can stay with me." he'd said, lifting him up onto his hip and giving a gentle sigh as he pressed his face into his shoulder. As a child, Lucien had been outgoing and confident, making new friends all the time. He offered a weak smile to the boy's mother, a woman who's name he understands to be Jean. "I'm sorry. He's just shy." He smiled, as she smiled back, and led her boys away.
She's not here tonight, he thinks, as Charlie leads him to a seat, and passes him a cup half filled with punch and pieces of fruit. "Here." He murmurs, voice soft and serious, as per usual. Lucien took it, and then sat, the seat is too small for him and too big for Charlie. "Thank you for coming." He murmured. "You didn't have too."
Yes I did, Lucien thought, but he doesn't say it out loud.
"I wanted too." He smiled, and leaned forward to straighten Charlie's blazer. Charlie watches, no doubt thinking about how thin his fingers are. Charlie looked over at the people that were gathering, talking, enjoying themselves. He looks a little frightened. Lucien reaches out, and took his hand between both of his.
"It's alright, Charlie .You can stay with me." He murmured, watching small fingers twist in one another. Charlie offers a little hesitant smile.
"Will you tell me about Mei Lin?" He asked, softly. "And Lee?" Lucien nodded.
"Of course." He said, trying to bury the worry of Charlie being lonely.
…
Lucien Blake's house is very nice.
It's not his grandfather's house, not even half as grand, but it's fine as far as houses go. The house had been brought by his father in something of a rush to have his own space. The two bedroom house was clean and tidy and smelled like cleaning products. The front lawn wasn't mowed. Upon setting his box of possessions on his bed, his father informed him that this would be there home base from now on. Charlie hadn't been sure how that was going to work given that neither of them knew how to be in the space that the other filled.
But he's a good child so he just helps unpack boxes of things and never complains. Apparently, Lucien gets a military pension for the next little while, and he's going to look for work at a local doctors surgery. He grimaces when Charlie suggests working for Thomas so he doesn't bring that up again either.
But the house is nice, he thinks sitting on the chair, looking at their miniscule amount of possessions. He wonders if they will ever be able to afford to fill it properly.
…
"Are you going to send me back to Mother now?" Charlie asks, as they sit at their rather sad dining table, he's been picking at his food for fifteen minutes, but Lucien hasn't the energy to reprimand him.
"Why would you think that?" he asks, disguising his quiet horror. Firstly, he doubts that Charlie's mother would take him back. He certainly doesn't want to send him back, even if Charlie hates him forever he's far better off here in Ballarat then he ever would be in Melbourne.
"It's been six weeks…" Was Charlie's soft response. "I thought you might want me to go away while you get better."
"Do you want to leave?" He asks, careful to keep his tone neutral. He'd cry if he had to send Charlie away, but he wanted the child to be happy, as well.
"No!" He said, almost knocking over his glass. "No, no. I want to stay with you." He said, eyes wide and a little watery. "I just thought...You might not want to be with me." Lucien patted his knee, willing his body to be strong enough to support him. Charlie is nearly to big to be sitting in his lap, but he tries.
"Is there something I've said or done that might make you think that?"
"If you didn't have to look after me, then you could go look for Lee and Mei Lin." Lucien sucked in a breath and put one hand on Charlie's back.
"You're my son. It's my job to look after you." He said, softly. "And when they find Mei Lin and Lee, we'll go, together, to live as a family."
"But they aren't my family. They're your family." He mumbled.
"Why do you think that?"
"Because David isn't my family." Charlie's step father. Lucien hated him.
"Your mother and David are different." Charlie nodded, and then put his face on Lucien's shoulder like when he was a child and he was tired of talking.
"I just want to be where you are." He sounds so much younger then twelve in these moments, Lucien is so sad, a bone deep sadness about the years that were taken from him rears it's disgusting head.
"I know. I don't like leaving without you. I'll make you a deal." Charlie made a soft noise into his shoulder that he decides is some kind of 'okay'. "I won't leave without you if you don't leave without me." Charlie nods, but doesn't move.
"M'kay." He murmured. He sounds lethargic. He'd been a shy child, true, but an energetic one. Now all he wanted to do was sit and be sad.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "You seem sad lately."
"You're sick." Charlie said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought I was meant to be quiet when you're sick."
Lucien let out a long, slow breath. He wasn't sure how to tell Charlie he was going to be sick for a long time still.
"You're a good kid, Charlie." He murmured. "But you're allowed to be happy." Lucien said, softly.
"You aren't. I didn't...I don't want to upset you." Lucien kissed Charlie's hair, and waited for a long time.
"You being happy will never make me unhappy," He said, trying to say it with so much conviction that Charlie will never, ever doubt it.
…
"I want to be a police officer." They are sitting in the livingroom, on the new couch.
"Pardon?"
"I want to be a police officer." He said, biting down on his bottom lip. He'd never have said that to his grandfather, he'd be so upset with Charlie, for not wanting to carry on the family tradition.
"Blake men are doctors." Lucien said, but he sounds more amused then he does upset.
"I know that. But I don't want to be a doctor."
"Why not?" He bites his lip.
"I'm not any good at all those subjects that you need. Biology and stuff. I'm only good at Physical Education and maths. Anyway. I'm not...I'm not a Blake."
"Don't say that." Lucien shot back. "Of course you're a Blake." He doesn't sound amused anymore.
"I'm a Davis-Blake. Not really a Blake, not really a Davis."
"You are a Blake." He sounds almost dangerous and Charlie puts his hands in his lap, suddenly afraid. "You have always been a Blake and you will always be a Blake."
"Dad-"
"Don't you ever call yourself a Davis again, do you hear me?" Charlie nodded, going mute. He's never seen his father this upset before. He watches him go, and retreats to the safety of his bedroom before anything else happened.
An hour later there is someone knocking on his door. "Yes?"
"I'd like to speak with you."
"I don't think I'd like to do that right now."
"I'd like to apologize. I shouldn't have yelled at you." Charlie opens the door to his small room and takes his father in. Lucien wraps him in a tight, as tight as he can, hug. "I'm sorry." He says. Charlie pats his back with one hand, still awkward with affection but doing his best. "I was just, so mad, I don't...I don't know why. You didn't do anything wrong." Charlie nods silently. "I love you, Charlie. I really, really do. I was just...Upset you didn't want to be a Blake."
"I forgive you." Charlie mumbled. "But I'm still not going to be a doctor."
"That's fine." Lucien said, still holding on tight. Charlie lets him.
…
Charlie has never been to a hospital before. This is all Lucien can think, as he sits next to the bed, silent in though. Charlie has never seen the brightly lit rooms and sterile beds. Charlie's just a little boy, he's been mostly healthy. He's never been in hospital before. And yet here they are. Charlie is being kept in this little room, and there is so little Lucien can do to help him.
Influenza.
The flu.
It's the sort of thing he'd had nightmares about when Charlie was a baby. That he would be suffering, and Lucien would be unable to get to him and help. Because he couldn't then, he was in a whole other country. And now because Charlie is infectious and he has no doubts about Charlie's ability to survive the flu, but his own. He sighs quietly behind his surgical mask, and adjusts how he's sitting on this seat. He's been here for hours, waiting for some kind of change, something good. But all he's gotten are nonsensical murmurs of fever. A nurse is dressed similarly, carrying a battered metal cup, but offers it to Lucien. Carefully, he ensures that Charlie gets at least a couple of mouthfuls of water down before he turns his head away in a half awake complaint.
Smoothing a latex covered hand through sweaty hair, Lucien sat back, watching, watching. He's not sure what he's going to do. He presumes he'll just sit here and wait for him to be better. He carefully applies another damp towel to his forehead and watches his eyes flicker in sleep. He wishes he could just check himself into a hospital and get better. The nurse leaves. The vigil continues.
…
Things are getting easier. Lucien is easier to be around, now. Charlie is no longer worried like he was, more accepting and more understanding of the situation. Being with him, in spaces, is easier. The house feels less like a desperate grab for freedom and more like a house. Things, for possibly the first time in his life, seem to be looking up.
Their house had things in it, now, not just empty spaces and missing chairs. The sitting room had a couch. The dining room had a table. There were knick knacks around the place. They even had a TV, to the envy of some of his classmates. Things certainly did seem to be getting better.
This new outlook led to moments like these, he was sure, sitting on the couch, still worn out, head resting in his father's lap, comfortable and pleased, and ready to get on with their lives.