49858
Firechild
Rating: T (angst, violence, one expression of profanity)
Spoilers: None. Don't worry that you don't recognize it—the events alluded to are just a dimension of this particular fic.
Disclaimers: Mmmm. Rolaids. I'm broke and not getting paid for this, but I'm minty in my broke-ness.
A/N: This is actually a response to a pan-fandom challenge to write a story based on a number—I don't think this was quite what the challenger had in mind, but okay…
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49858.
That's the number of times today that my heart threatened to pound out of my chest to get to you.
49858.
That's the number of times I was sure my heart would stop today when no one thought that yours would keep beating.
49858.
That's the number of times I prayed today to a God I'd ignored for years, making promises I don't even remember now, pleading with Him to see you through this.
49858.
That's the number of times today I swore to myself that if you survived this, I would never again hide behind my pride, never again let my arrogance get in the way of the truth, and that I would never again let you walk away from me in anger, with so much left unsaid.
49858.
That's the number of times I vowed today to stop denying the truth--there's something standing between you and me, something creating a rift between us that is only getting deeper, and it's not what you believe it to be.
49858.
You're a sharp observer, a keen investigator; I know you've noticed, I know you've picked up on it, I know you know it's there--you believe you know what it is, and you believe that there's no way to get past it, no way to do anything but live with it until it turns on you and tears you in half, and you are certain that it will. But that's not the truth.
49858.
I can hear that certainty in your voice every time you speak to me, in your breath every time you call and sit on the line but don't say anything, in your words every time you talk through your thoughts with a tone that's half defensive and half afraid that somewhere you will cross a line and that will be it, every time you stop speaking and wait for me to snap at you because you believe that I'm going to send you away to protect the rest of us from you. But that's not the truth.
49858.
I can see the certainty in your eyes every time we talk without talking, every time your work brings you to my door, every time our past crosses paths with your present, every time your eyes meet mine for a bare moment and then you look away, shut down, pull back, lock out that piece of yourself, the piece you think I resent, or maybe a piece you're afraid to risk sharing with me because it's not what you believe I wanted, what you believe I would love--because you're not what you believe I would love. But that's not the truth.
49858.
You believe that I resent you, or at least that part of you that isn't what I had hoped or planned for when you were small, the part that had wanted to be like me, that had wanted to be me. You think I resent you for what you aren't, for what you don't do. You think I'm angry with you for betraying what you have always thought was my dream for you. But that's not the truth.
49858.
You believe that I resent you, or at least that part of you that had to go your own way, the part that didn't choose a life as removed from ours as I'd expected but instead chose to become a representative of a system that had angered and humiliated me in the past. You think that I resent you for what you are, for what you do and what you uphold. But that's not the truth.
49858.
You believe that I resent you for the fact that your brother chooses to help you put lives back together--because I do know that it is a choice; you never force him. You think that I am angry with you because your brother, in helping you, finds himself in dangerous situations, and the part of me that has always sheltered him from the slightest bruise rails at you for letting him take those risks, for letting him chance injury or worse because he has a way of not paying attention to anything that doesn't figure in to his equation. You think that I don't trust you to know that about your brother, and to care enough about him to do whatever you have to do to keep him safe. You think I don't trust you to know when your brother is in over his head, and to care enough to fight for him when he is overwhelmed with fighting for everyone else. But that's not the truth.
49858.
You believe that I don't trust you simply because of who you are. You think that I hate the job you do, the life you chose, the badge you carry and the entity that writes your paycheck. You think that I could come to hate you. But that's not the truth.
49858.
You believe that you don't matter to us, to me. You think I could live through a day like today without my heart slamming against my ribs, screaming, fighting, burning to escape its cage and find you and be with you. You think I could leave this place without knowing, you think I could leave this place without you by my side. But that's not the truth.
49858.
They say time heals all wounds. They're wrong. Time itself heals nothing--it only provides chances for us to make choices that heal or that hurt. All too often, a choice made for one does both. I'm afraid that this will be one of those choices, and I am more sorry than you can imagine to know that this will most probably cause you even more pain, but I know of no other way to clear the air between us, to heal this wound, than to begin by telling the truth.
49858.
First I need to tell you that you were right about one thing--I am angry with you. I have been angry with you for years, since the day you came to the home we'd made for you, to the safe haven we'd built around you all your life, to tell us that you were walking away from your second destiny--from the life you'd chosen for yourself after, hiding your heartbreak, you buried the remains of your first real dream--and you were preparing to go down a path that would lead you to danger, to destruction, to disillusionment and death, very possibly your death. You said you had not made this decision impulsively, that you had thought it through over time, but when? In the car on the way to the test? On the mound the night before? How long did you think about this before making up your mind? Hours? Days? Months? You never told us, never told me; we had no warning. I knew we hadn't been close for a long time, but I hadn't realized just how distant we'd become. I was proud of you--I've always been proud of you--despite my reservations about your career choice, but I was hurt, hurt that you hadn't confided in me, that you hadn't wanted my opinion. All of that hurt, yes, but even that's not really why I've been angry.
49858.
Here is the truth: I've been angry with you for so long, not because of your job or my wounded pride; I've been angry with you for so long because, as much as I hate harboring any bad feeling toward you, I haven't been ready to let go of it. You see, anger is easy--it's familiar, it's almost comfortable in a twisted way, and it's really easy to convince yourself that you can't help feeling it and reacting to it even when you know very well that you're making a choice. Because it is a choice. So much of the time I feel so helpless, so useless to you, and no matter what you think about my relationship with your brother or your place in this family, you are still every inch my son, as I am still every inch your father, and as proud as I am of the man you are, a part of me still needs you to need me. A part of me hates the life you lead simply for the fact that I am not in most of it, and if I am not there, then I can't protect you, can't keep you safe, can't keep you coming back to me for dinner and debates and even this awkward tension that may one day be all we have left. If I'm not there, I can't keep days like this from happening to you, can't keep you safe from bombs or bullets, can't keep your heart beating or your blood moving or that fantastic mind of yours working. If I'm not there, I can't control what's around, what comes at you, what falls on you, weighs on you, holds you down or lifts you up. If I'm not there, I can't control any of it. I just… can't.
49858.
The truth is that anger is easy, not because it feels good, but because it's something I can control, something I can master and muster and manipulate and manage. And even though it gets just a little harder to work up and hold on to the anger every time I look at you, every time I see this marvel who is my son, the truth is that I've been angry, stayed angry, made sure to keep myself angry with you because the anger is a h--- of a lot easier than the fear that's hidden behind it.
49858.
Yes, that's right--fear. Horrifying, sickening, gut-wrenching, hands-shaking, heart-tripping, world-shattering fear. It's the fear of losing you, to a bullet, to a bomb...fear of losing you to something like the car key that the surgeons extracted from your chest a few hours ago...fear of losing you to my own stubbornness and stupidity. It's the fear of losing you to what I said, to what I didn't say, just a precious few hours ago, before you walked away from me and into a war zone.
49858.
There it is. I'm afraid for you, my son, I'm terrified for you. I'm bone-deep terrified. Body, mind, soul, and heart.
49858.
Heart. A muscle the size of your fist, a muscle that has to be stronger than any other muscle in your body because as long as it continues to do its job, you can continue to do yours. And you have to do your job--without that, I'm afraid you don't know what you would be. You think it's all your responsibility, you think this city would fall apart without you at work. But I remember when your fist was smaller than my finger, when I knew for sure that, without you, I would fall apart, when your mother looked down into your inexplicably gray eyes and what she saw there was heart.
49858.
Heart. Yours is damaged, wounded by the fear and arrogance of a punk who didn't have the good sense to know when he was caught or to appreciate the luxury of living through the day. His weapon was a thick length of dull, rusty metal and polymer, and he could have used it to drive away, but he let his anger and fear get the better of him, and he turned and plunged that key into your chest, to your heart, as you ran. So for most of today he sat in a chair somewhere, being processed by someone who, no doubt, would just as soon kill him as look at him, while your heart, once so strong, lay broken and bleeding. Do you know that my heart is bleeding, too? Can you feel how my heart is breaking with each beat?
49858.
Heart. Yours is damaged, wounded by the fear and arrogance of a man who hasn't had the good sense to know when he's crossed a line or to appreciate the luxury of a little time with you. His weapon was a thin veneer of anger over a large ball of terror, and he could have used it to make the most of what he had with you, but he let his anger and fear get the better of him, and he turned and shoved it at your chest, at your heart, as you stood. So now he sits in a chair in a waiting room, thanking God for doctors with quick hands, while your heart, once so secure, lies broken and bleeding. Do you know that my heart is bleeding, too? Can you feel how my heart is breaking with each beat?
49858.
They tell me that you are stable now. They tell me that in a few hours I can see you, just for a minute. Just for sixty seconds. It isn't enough. It will have to be. I will see you, I will touch the glass that separates me from you, I will touch the chasm that separates us from each other, and, slowly, one heartbeat at a time, I will start to find some way to fill in that chasm, to dress that wound, so that this can never happen this way again. So that we never miss so much of a day, waiting for news. So that we never again have to count the hours, minutes, seconds while your life is in someone else's hands. So that we never miss so many beats. So that our lives never again hang on how long you lay open on a table, fighting for each of those beats.
49858.
So that I am never again at the mercy of a clock and my own mocking, screaming, racing heart.
49858.
Eight hours, thirty-four minutes.
49858.
Ninety-seven beats per minute.
49858.
The numbers hold no refuge for me.
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