Fatherhood
"Don't cry for me." Jordan. Shawn. 500 words.

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Disclaimer: I own neither The 4400 nor ER. They belong to rich people. Make love, not litigation.
Note: This is my first 4400 fic, inspired by ER and Dr. Mark Green in particular. Be kind, I'm fragile. Grammar and spelling mistakes, intentional; plot holes, illusional.

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I was trying to figure out what I should have already told you, but I never have. Something important. Something every father should impart to his daughter. I finally got it. Generosity. Be generous. With your time...with your love...with your life.
—Mark Green (Anthony Edwards), ER, On the Beach

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"You could wait," said Shawn, suddenly, before they leave. Jordan regarded him coolly out of the corner of his eyes. Shawn stared at him: "You don't have to go out. You don't—you don't have to die!"

"Shawn," Jordan said evenly, but the younger man interrupted him.

"You can wait inside until they catch the guy."

"Maia is never wrong," Jordan informed him softly. Shawn shook his head.

"She can be wrong this time. You just have to wait!"

Shawn was pleading now, imploring Jordan. But Jordan knew. He knew it was time for him to go: Maia was never wrong, and wasn't there always a ripple effect? This was meant to be. Jordan was meant to start the Center, to bring Isabelle back, to be redeemed, and to die. Jordan was meant to die and Shawn was meant to lead them into the future. It was Shawn, always. Jordan accepted that. Shawn couldn't.

Jordan took a step foreword, about to go out.

"Please stay," whispered Shawn. "I don't want you to die."

Jordan turned back and reached a hand out, resting it on Shawn's shoulder. They had become close in their time together: Shawn trusted Jordan to make everything all right and Jordan trusted Shawn. Just—trusted him. Because a part of him recognized Shawn as something akin to family, something akin to a son.

"You'll be okay," said Jordan. He knew he should say something to Shawn, something that every father should say to a son, but it was lost to him. He couldn't find the words. He pulled Shawn into his arms, a brief hug, and let him go. And Jordan found the words

Shawn started: "Jordan?"

"Be generous," he ordered. "With—everything. Your time, your love, you life. Don't cry for me."

"I don't think I can," began Shawn.

"Don't cry for me," Jordan ordered again, his voice firm and unyielding. Shawn nodded.

"I won't," he said. Something in his throat was caught, something in his chest constricted. So this was what it was to lose. Shawn didn't like it; but he didn't say anything. This was, after all, Jordan's decision. So what if Shawn didn't agree: Jordan would do it anyway.

A father didn't take orders from a son—

Jordan left, walking out into the sun.

—even when he was about to die.

-

The funeral will take place three days later.

Jordan, Shawn will think as he sits in the front row, is a bastard for leaving me like this. And he will think other things, like how he doesn't know how to go on, how he doesn't know how to run things like this. How he doesn't know how to cope with this.

Because Maia will be never be wrong. Because Jordan will be right. Because everything else will be wrong. Because that will be what it will be to lose.

But Shawn will still sit in the front row and Shawn will not cry, because those were the things sons did for fathers.