So this is just a little one shot I'm doing to loosen up right now before I write my last few chapters of Redemption and Revenge. This chapter may end up being a prequel to a longer story, depending on whether or not I have time for it. I can't say much because I'm still in the mapping stage, but it may be an AU where I diverge from the story right after Jason leaves the militia, which BTW is about when this story takes place. Anyway, it'll have a few of my own characters (none like Blair or SJ), but ultimately it'll be a Charlie/Jason fic. Not a huge fan of Jason as a character, but I want to give him a fair chance, and see if I can put some deeper moral meaning into his actions.
I watch as the last candle goes out through the window of my parent's home, my old home. The flame is smothered by the heavy metal candle snuffer, wielded by our live-in maid. I used to love to play with those stupid things, taunting the tiny fire as it toiled and twisted, desperately searching for the oxygen it needed to burn brightly. I'd always liked playing with fire, the heat, the danger, the entrancing glow. Mother always said I'd pay for it… and she wasn't wrong. I played around with Charlie; defied militia orders, and let her get to my head, instead of just treating her as a target in the mission. In the end, my desire to protect her had me fighting fires, not just playing with them. I fought with my commanding officer, with the militia itself, and I even ended up fighting my father.
That's how I wound up here, crouched in the bushes of my old neighbor's backyard, watching for any signs of stirring life. My father isn't home, or at least I don't think he is. Usually if he is home, he checks all of the doors and windows before bed. Unless he is floundering around in complete darkness trying to secure the locks, I'm pretty sure he is gone. Probably on his next kill mission for Monroe. What would they do next? I've heard through the grape vine that Danny Matheson destroyed Monroe's amplifier… but it's too late. The choppers hit four large rebel camps before Charlie's brother blew them to bits. The rebels didn't have the numbers anymore, even if Monroe didn't have any power. After such a hard blow, slaughtering the rest of the resistance will be a walk in the park for the militia.
A sharp cramp shoots up my calf, and I wince in pain. After checking for any signs of danger one last time, I allow myself to stand and stretch. The dark, iron rod fencing around my parent's house is old. Little flecks of black paint and rust rub into my hands as I grip the bars and hoist myself up and over with as much speed and stealth as I can muster. The feeling of my muscles pulling and straining against one another in motion is a huge relief, after hiding in that damn bush for hours. Another quick glance left to right, then left again. Still no people. My old militia-uniform boots only make a muffled thumping noise as I make my way across the lawn, but in the silence of the night, I hear them like the hoof beats of a galloping horse on the pavement. I hope I'm over reacting. I'm not really that loud am I?
I shake my head and focus on the task at hand, taking hold of the ivy woven lattice on the side of the house. The upstairs window would be locked, and as a rule of thumb, flimsy plywood lattice wasn't really safe for climbing, but it was the best bet of going straight to my mother's room without being seen. As horrifying and fierce as she can be, not even she can stop the gossip of house maids, which gets around Philadelphia at an alarmingly fast rate. If I want to make it out of here, and not be tracked down by militia, it's imperative that I'm not seen by anyone but mom. Mom would never betray me.
The old bricks scrape against my knuckles as I climb further and further up the lattice. It wiggles and wobbles, threatening to break at any moment, but somehow it manages to support my weight until I reach the large pale windowsill. The hallways are pitch-black, and only the light of the moon behind me illuminates the small space. I can see shadows, a few obscure outlines of larger furniture objects, but for the most part, I'll be doing this from memory, which shouldn't be too hard. I've lived in this house for years, ever since my father's promotion to captain. The upstairs hallway is narrow and long. It has two doors on the left hand side and one on the right, but my parent's door is all the way at the end, embedded into the back wall of the hallway. There is an old, well cared for floor rug that covers the hardwood; it's a dark red, and trimmed in straw yellow tassels. I can see about midway down the hall. There is a large oak chest pressed tightly against the wall, decorated with as many pre-blackout family photos and trinkets that my mother had managed to hold onto. That's another sign that dad isn't home. He always drags that out into the middle of the hall, hoping that an intruder will trip over it and give themselves away, should anyone be stupid enough to break into the home of Captain Tom Neville and his family.
Well, it's now or never. I rest one foot against the trembling lattice and leave the other dangling in the air as I cram as much of my ass as possible on the windowsill, freeing my hands up to pull the crowbar from the quiver I carry my arrows in. With a deep breath I force the metal into the small wooden crevice at the base. I push in, and then down; wincing when the wood splinters and the lock snaps loudly. No one comes to investigate though, and I don't plan on giving them any time to get to me. I make a break for my mother's room, as quickly and quietly as possible. For the love of God mother, please don't stab a letter opener through my throat as soon as I get this damn door open. I reach out and jiggle the knob, it isn't locked. She's being awfully careless tonight, especially with dad gone.
I crack the door and peek inside. This room isn't visible from the side of the house I was watching, and I'm not sure what I'm walking into. For all I know my father is waiting with a gun to shoot me, or my mother is hiding in the shadows ready to slit an intruder clean open. But as I open the door the rest of the way, I can see neither is the case. In the corner of the room, a low burning oil lamp sits on a small table next to the loveseat. Slumped over in a limp heap, is the crumpled form of my mother. I can see her golden hair gleam in the firelight, and I can hear her sniffling softly. The room reeks of alcohol. Maybe the smell isn't all that strong, but my mother doesn't drink, and if she does it is only a glass of wine with dinner. This is strong stuff though, and even the slightest sniff of it makes my nostril's burn.
"Just go to bed Tom." She says with a wave of her hand. She doesn't bother to straighten herself up in the loveseat as she speaks. Her voice is gravely and a bit slurred; she's been crying. I don't have to think too hard about what did this to her. This is my fault, and my father's. What did dad tell her about me? That I was a traitor? That I was dead? Who knows. The only thing I know for certain is that my father said whatever he thought would make him look better.
I make my way across the room, and walk into the light of the lamp. Immediately I see mother's eyes grow wide, and she sits forward on the couch. Her arms reach out to me like I'm some sort of savior, and wrap around my neck as I kneel down in front of her wordlessly. Warm tears trickle down the crook of my neck as mother presses her cheek against mine. Her nails are long and sharp, digging into my shoulders as she holds me as tight as she can, as if she thinks I'll slip between her fingers any second.
I put my arms around her and smile. I've missed her these past few weeks, and I don't know what I'll do without her once I leave. For so long she's been my rock, my best friend, my shoulder to cry on. Mother has always been proud of me. She's never once rejected me like my father has time and time again. Before the blackout she'd held my hand on the first day of kindergarten, she'd kiss my knee when I fell off of my bike and tell me it would all be ok. After the blackout, she was as strong and steady as a bolder. She never wavered or flinched in the face of danger, but remained every bit as poised and beautiful as she'd ever been. She'd taught me more about strength than his father's "tough love" ever had.
One of her hands reaches up to stroke my head lovingly. "Jason." She breathes out, like a prayer of thanks, "Oh Jason!"
"It's me mother… I've missed you so much." I tell her truthfully. Finally she pulls back and puts her hands beneath my chin, lifting it so that she can look into my eyes.
"I've been so worried about you. Gosh I've been… scanning faces in every crowd, hoping just to catch a glimpse of you, just to know you were really alive and well." She proclaims with a big smile of relief on her face. Suddenly that smile fades away, and her back gets tense, "No… no Jason you can't be here your father will… why would you come back?! Do you know what they'll do to you?"
"I do, but I had to see you mother. I had to tell you myself that I was alive. I can't stay long, but I can get out of the city… don't worry." I tell her gently, trying to muster up a smile once more.
She presses her lips together tightly, "So it's true… what your father said. You betrayed the militia? For what? Some skank with a pretty face?! How could you do this?"
I give her one last hug and stand to my feet. It is time to go. If we get into all of this, we'll talk all night and I'll be strung up in the town square by tomorrow afternoon. "Goodbye mother." I say, turning on my heel and heading back towards the door.
Her hand wraps around my wrist from behind. "Wait!" She pleads desperately, "At least tell me Jason. Tell me why you did it. There are a million other pretty girls that would have thrown themselves at your feet… and you choose to throw everything away, to leave the militia, to abandon your family, for this one. After all I've done for you, young man; I deserve an answer, at least."
I snort and shake my head, "Because she showed me the truth mother…" I pause and turn around to look her in the eye. She doesn't understand. I can see that all over her face. "When I first met her, I won't lie, she was pretty; I liked her. But under that tough girl act, I could tell she was inexperienced. She had no idea what the world was really like… and I don't know, I guess that got to me. She needed watching over, protecting, and yeah, sure that was part of the job. It was all about the job until…" My voice trails off, and a run hand over my hair.
"Until what!" Mother demands, scowling furiously, "What? Did you screw her and then everything changed?"
"No!" I snap, a little too loudly, "No, it wasn't like that. We never even kissed." That time I manage to force myself to stay calm, and keep my voice level. I take a deep breath and sigh, "When we were in Lowell, when I was their 'prisoner', we got holed up in a diner. Some whack-job had stabbed this woman named Maggie. I think she was Ben's new wife… anyway, there was this guy. Miles went off with Nora, and I was left with the chubby dude, Charlie, and the injured woman. I was the strongest out of all of them, I should have been able to help, but he just took her, took Charlie, right out the back door."
"Who took her?" Mother asked, trying to keep up with my fast paced story.
"The guy that stabbed Maggie. He took Charlie. She was screaming and fighting, and all of my training told me to do something." I snarl, jabbing my finger against my own chest. The anger and helplessness I felt in that moment is still very real to me right now, "That is what the militia is supposed to be about isn't it?! Protecting people. But I was tied up, and I couldn't get to her. By the time Miles came back, and we found Charlie… there was no saving the woman that had been stabbed. You should have seen it mother… you should have seen Charlie's face."
Mother shook her head in disgust, "You let her get to you. She was supposed to be a target, a means to an end Jason!"
"She was a person! Is a person. And she was broken and crying; begging for someone to be there for her… but Maggie was too far gone. They were a family, just like us and because of the militia, because of something I stood for, one of them was dead. These weren't terrorists mother, they were people. The only thing they wanted was to get Danny back. So yeah, she got to me. How could she not? And every time I tried to push her out of my head and slip back into my old ways, she popped up. She was there on the train before I headed back to Philly; she was there before the choppers attacked that rebel base. She made me realize that what we were doing was wrong… I don't want to be the person I was before I met her mother… I'm sorry, but I have to go." I said softly, pulling my arm out of her grasp and scurrying out of the room. I practically slide down the lattice, wiping a few stray tears from my eyes. I've got to stay alert… I've got to get out of Philly. I've got to find out who the hell I am.
If I do carry this on, the story is going to take a turn. It'll be lighter, maybe even a bit comical, with some action and love scenes. Poor Jason is the most poorly written out character on this show, and even his fans can admit that (or at least they should). We see so little of what drives him. Why did he suddenly gain a moral compass? Was it really over Charlie? What is it about Charlie he likes so much? I mean really, besides the fact that she is pretty. We don't see them spending much time together. When they do they're bitching about their families (Jason has every right to bitch, Tom is a fucking beast and I hate him), or they're fighting together, but really, for Eric Kripke to talk so adamantly about these two characters having a spark and things 'heating up' we see very little of it. I've never felt sexual tension between those to characters, and they don't have any deep emotional bonds so what draws Jason to Charlie? Idk. If this story continues I hope to improve of that. There is a biiiiig chance that there will be sex scenes in this story, so you've been warned.