More than anything
Summary: No matter how many people he calls son, he only has one. OneShot – Horatio Caine. Reflections.
Warning: Add this to my collection of one shots for fandoms I love but probably won't write more about.
Set: Around Season 8, I guess.
Disclaimer: Standards apply.
Take care, son.
"Oh my God! The blood – blood everywhere! Her hair, her face – she smiled at me this morning, we wanted to go to the beach in the afternoon, we wanted to spend our holidays on the beach and swim and relax and she smiled and told me she'd be right back and then she left and I- I-"
How do you console the inconsolable? How do you explain the inexplicable? There are no words for grief that reaches as deep as the deepest oceans, for pain as painful as slowly bleeding out on the inside. There is no way to make things undone.
"And she laughed and said she had a lunch prepared for us and then she left to get some chocolate almonds – she knew I loved them – and I told her I didn't need sweets but she laughed and went and I didn't even say good bye, just called after her to not be late and now she'll never come back, she'll never come back, I'll never see her again! Oh God, what should I do? This can't be happening, this isn't happening, this…"
No words.
"I know, son. I know."
I'll always be there.
"He said he was going to be with me forever and then he left and never came back. He left me for this other woman, I saw them. Walking down the street as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't left me with his daughter and his debts, as if there was no history we had. None at all."
Worlds aren't enough to experience the hurt mankind inflicts onto each other day by day. He has seen so much – so many dead and abandoned; so many lost. Killed, died, disappeared, and by nature, the water he washes his hands with every day should run red from the blood he has had on his hands. Motivation is something he cannot claim for himself. He moves forward because there is no other option. There have been innocent that have died and guilty that have walked, and there have been innocent who have been arrested because innocence turned against them. The world is a cruel place. There is nothing to gain from this knowledge, and yet he carries on.
"You must have loved him very much."
"It wasn't enough. It never is."
Come back, no matter what happens.
"He killed my son! He killed my son and you let him walk free! How can you – he is a murderer, a monster, how could you let him go! Don't question me, question him, accuse him – ask him what he has done that night, ask him how I found him there, how he was still cleaning away blood from his hands – murderer! You bastard! You killed my son!"
There are many people he calls son, but despite the name, he only has one. It is Kyle he thinks of when he looks at those children – the boys who never had a childhood, never had a family. Who learned to live the hard way. And then, the children who had everything and still were missing something. Who never understood that love is never earned, never bought, only ever given freely and unconditionally. Which is the way Kyle has made Horatio love him: with everything he has, everything he is. Wherever he goes. Whatever he does.
"Give him back! Give him back! Give me back my son!"
Give us back our children.
It is a horrible thing, really, the love parents have for their children. Cruel in its absolutism, painful in its essence. Nothing near perfection. Always poised for the final blow that shatters the trust. But why love in the first place, if mistrust is already there from the beginning? It cannot be helped – nature is that way. Children leave their parents. Children disobey their parents. Children take what parents have to give without giving back what they are expected to. Instead, they wander off into the world, get hurt and return bleeding and bruised for a lecture, a treatment and another boost of stubbornness. Whichever mother – whichever father – expects more than children can give is bound to be disappointed. It is strange, Horatio reflects, because children never do what is expected of them. But oh! The ways they have of making their parents fear for them. The ways they have for making their parents understand, even if they don't agree. Of making their parents agree, even if they don't understand. It is their own, unique power, this I love you more than anything and the I want you to be happy. Two years. Horatio has had a son now for two years and even though he desperately misses not having seen him growing up, going to school, falling in love, the entireness of his feelings scares him. Two years shouldn't be enough to develop this feeling of protectiveness, of trust in a boy who struggles to rise up to his expectations and does so in the strangest ways. Two years shouldn't be enough to feel like he loves him so much he does not want to let go, even though he knows that is exactly what a father must do.
You come back no matter what. I'll be there.
Words are not enough to describe the pride he feels when looking at Kyle. Words are not enough to describe the fear he feels, the sacred, terrifying knowledge that fathers cannot forever – perhaps never can and could – protect their children from all the terrors the world holds ready for them. Since he has a son, he is aware of every time he uses the term. Consoling young boys, calming angry teenagers, reminding adults that they, too, have an authority they have to answer to. But no matter how many times Horatio calls other people son, he only has one.
He calls him Kyle.