Clear Air
CONTENT:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Drama
Language: no
Violence: none
Nudity: none
Sex: none
Other: none
Author's Note:
Things get a little emotional in this chapter. Perhaps even fluffy?
Clear Air
===#===
Merlyn Global Building
"So I've been thinking," Malcolm said to Tommy one afternoon, when things were slowing down a bit. "I think I know a sport even more boring than golf."
Tommy paused the stuffing of his briefcase. "Naah," he said after a moment. "Not possible."
"Oh yes; it involves just sitting around for hours on end." Malcolm tightened his lips around a grin as Tommy's brow furrowed. "It's fishing."
Now those brows shot up and his eyes sparked with interest. "Fishing? Ah, but I think you forgot one importantly crucial point about fishing."
"What's that?"
Tommy grinned. "The sport of fishing requires the drinking of copious amounts of beer."
Malcolm chuckled. "Of course. So... are you interested? We could go this weekend."
"Dad, it's Fourth of July weekend. Everywhere is going to be packed."
"Well, we could go to Vancouver."
Tommy laughed and shook his head. "It's a national holiday, and you want to leave the country?"
"Hey, you were the one complaining about the crowds."
"I know, but... it seems so unpatriotic." He finished putting the last papers in his briefcase and snapped it closed.
"We can go up to Alaska." Malcolm thought back. "How long has it been since you've been up to the cabin?" Had he ever taken Tommy there after Rebecca was killed? He couldn't remember.
"Like, forever," Tommy answered him. "Is that place still standing?"
"We could find out. If you don't mind being without phones, internet, and cable TV for a day and a half."
Tommy took a slow, deep breath, looking around at the conference room and beyond its walls. "You know, since I started working here, I think I finally understand the phrase 'getting away from it all.'"
"Do you want to go there?" Malcolm asked, suddenly worried he'd made another mistake. "We can go somewhere else, if you want. Or if you already have plans this weekend-"
"No, Dad. It sounds perfect. Let's do it."
===#===
King Lake, Private Lands, Alaska
The cabin would probably withstand another century or two, but it could have stood to have been aired out a week before Malcolm and Tommy had arrived. The caretaker brought up some supplies when he flew them in; enough wood for the stove, fuel for the generator, cans of soup and the like. They had to chase a family of marmots out from under the porch themselves - they were real wildmen and rugged pioneers. At least it hadn't been a bear, Malcolm reassured Tommy. Tommy didn't look so reassured.
The next day they'd gone down to the boathouse and packed the sturdy aluminum rowboat with their coolers and fishing gear. They didn't bother getting up with the sun, because that was before 4 AM at this time in the summer. No, the best part of having a day off was sleeping in.
The sun was bright in a cerulean sky, painted with a few wisps of mare's tails towards the south. Malcolm brought the boat to his favorite fishing spot in the shadow of a twisted black spruce. The forest had grown up so much around the lake shore, he almost didn't recognize it.
They dropped the anchor and put their lines out. They spent several hours fishing, just relaxing and letting the calmness of the water and air infuse them. They didn't need to talk; they could just enjoy each other's company. The silence was only occasionally broken by the warble of a loon. Malcolm looked for the waterbird, but he didn't spot it.
===#===
The tree shadow crept away, allowing the sun to warm the water and the boat. The fish grew too lazy to bite, and more beer was consumed than anything. Tommy was lying back against the gunwale, one foot up on the opposite side of the stern, the other resting on the floor by his bench. He had his hat slouched low over his eyes, and the only sign indicating he wasn't asleep was the way he slowly pulled his line against the drift and then let the breeze draw it out again.
Malcolm left his rod in the holder affixed to the side of the boat. He wasn't too concerned about losing any fish; he'd already landed three to Tommy's one. Well, one and a half, Tommy insisted.
Malcolm relaxed and let the quiet lapping of the water against the hull ease him into a meditative state. He took a long, slow drink, tipping his head back to drain the bottle. He held it dangling between his knees, watching the dregs of foam and bubbles trace the glass.
He leaned forward and tucked the bottle in with the rest of the empties. "You know, Tommy?"
"Hm?"
"What I said that one day... about knowing I haven't been a very good father... We didn't really get a chance to talk about that."
Tommy sat up, putting both feet on the floor. The rod sat across his lap, and he fiddled with the handle of the reel. "We don't need to talk about that," he said, his head down, his hat obscuring his face.
"No, Son, I think we do." Malcolm swallowed and looked around. Perhaps the rowboat wasn't the best choice of venue for this conversation - Tommy couldn't duck out of it and escape, but then again, neither could he. "I should have... been there, for you, more often. I should have made time, and... not been so obsessed with my own agendas, and..." He trailed off, unable to explain the shadow life he lived, his secrets, his plans. Even now, he was unable to share them with his son, and that hurt.
That wall, that division between what he could say and what he must conceal - if only he could tear it down. But once he started, where could he stop? He could never admit his guilt to Tommy. He'd suffered for years under his son's distance and animosity, his anger, his bitter disappointment. He'd suffered Tommy's hatred of him and weathered through it. But if he confessed the part he'd played in Rebecca's death, Tommy would despise him and never forgive him. His son was his last connection to Rebecca; their son. He couldn't lose that.
He took a breath "I'm sorry for all my shortcomings, my failures. I tried the best I could, but... You're right. I suck as a father."
"No you don't," Tommy mumbled. Malcolm wasn't sure he meant it or was just trying to make his old man feel better.
"I kinda do," he said. "I... never had a child before, and... I was on my own, and just lost without your mother." He sighed. "I know that's no excuse. And I know nothing can change the past, but if there is anything I missed; one huge, important thing I did wrong or screwed up or just plain didn't do... If there is anything I can do now to make it all up to you - just name it."
Tommy exhaled slowly, a long, silent sigh. Malcolm's heart sank. Why couldn't he have done this sooner? When Tommy was a boy, and he could have made a difference in his son's life? Malcolm looked down at his hands, unable to meet Tommy's eyes. Tommy still wasn't looking at him, though. He toyed with the swivel handle on the reel, and Malcolm thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "It's not just one thing, Dad." He sighed again and looked off across the water. "It's... a lot of little things. Over the years..." He shrugged. "It wasn't all bad."
"I should have shown you better, how much I cared. I'm sorry."
Tommy ducked his head, his shoulders slumping, making him look like that sulky teenager again. "I could have been... a little more receptive," he mumbled.
"I could have tried harder," Malcolm admitted. That's what you get, he thought, with stubborn Merlyn men.
Tommy wound the reel a few times, taking up the slack in the line. He kept looking out at the water when he said, almost inaudibly, "Why did you leave?"
And there it was. Malcolm Merlyn's greatest sin. Oliver had told him that Tommy felt abandoned all those years ago. It was the last brick in his wall, the question he could never answer fully. "When your mother was killed...," he started slowly, "my world was suddenly destroyed. I know you went through the same thing, and I should have been stronger. But I was so lost. I was so caught up in my own pain. I was..." Weak, he thought. He'd been so weak back then.
"You never talk about her."
Rebecca? His brow creased. "Tommy, I think about her every day."
"Every time you talk about her," Tommy said, finally looking up, "it's always about how she was killed, about the man who murdered her." His eyes were dark, like deep water. "You never talk about her when she was alive."
Malcolm was stunned. Was that true? He'd never noticed.
"I remember how she loved the beach," Tommy said. "And playing frisbee. Those crazy theme parties she liked to hold." He chucked fondly. "I loved those as a kid. And at Christmas time, she'd bake those cookies. Man, she loved to bake. But you remember that time she tried to bake a pie?"
Malcolm searched back, to a time when he was younger. When he was happy. It all seemed so distant, another life. "She always made those chocolate mousse pies."
"That was after the Great Apple Pie Disaster. She tried to make the crust from scratch. It was, ah, 'unique' I think was the word that was used." Tommy smiled. "It was pre-made pie crusts from there on out. I think the house cleaner kept finding flour in every crack and crevice of the kitchen for weeks!"
Malcolm struggled to remember, but the picture just wouldn't form. How could he have forgotten? What else had disappeared from his memory? Was his love for her strangled by the hatred he felt for her murderer?
His eyes burned, and instinctively he tried to pull away from the flames of these thoughts and memories before they melted his icy demeanor. He clung to the wall around his heart that kept him calm and able to function in society instead of screaming out his rage.
There was a clatter as Tommy set his rod aside, and then his hand was on Malcolm's wrist. "Dad, it's okay." His son's face blurred, turned watery, until he blinked and felt the wetness on his cheeks. "There's no one here but us loons, right?" Tommy assured him. He half stood, wobbling a bit as the boat shifted, and moved to embrace his father.
Malcolm leaned on him. "You're right," he said, his voice choked as even now, he wrestled for control. "You're right, Tommy. I let that bastard erase everything good about your mother."
"It's okay." Tommy let him get it out of his system. Then he sat back on his heels. "It's been nearly twenty years, Dad. You should let it go."
Malcolm drew back and took a shaking breath. "I can't." Sadness filled Tommy's eyes. "Everything I've done - to fight against crime," the clandestine group, "the charities, the good works," the Undertaking, "- to make Starling City a better place, a safe place... I've done it all in memory of your mother."
Tommy nodded slowly. "And you expect me to get over Laurel?" he asked in dark humor.
"You never forget your first love," Malcolm mused. Then he turned his thoughts aside from that line of thinking. "As long as Laurel is alive, there is always hope."
Tommy grimaced. "Not if I do something she'll hate." But he forestalled any further discussion of that topic. "Grab the anchor while I pull in the lines. We should be heading back."
Malcolm wiped his face with his sleeve and moved carefully around Tommy, steadying him with a hand on his elbow. "Bend your knees," he advised. "Let your legs go with the motion of the boat."
"Easy for you to say."
They got the gear and anchor stowed, and when Malcolm turned around, Tommy was sitting on the center bench between the oars. "What are you doing?"
"You rowed us out here, so I'll row us back."
Malcolm sat on the stern bench, eager to see this. "Do you even know how to row?"
"Hey, what is this note of doubt and disbelief I hear? How hard could it be?" Tommy leaned forward, plunked the oars into the water, and heaved back. The boat didn't move too far. "Urgh! What did you do, park us in a patch of seaweed?"
Malcolm puckered his lips in an attempt not to reveal any expression.
"Are you snickering at me?"
"I - No! No, not me."
"You are, I can tell." Tommy worked ineffectually at the oars.
Malcolm knew he was playing it up, clearing the air with contentious banter. He appreciated it. "Would now be a good time to mention we need to turn around?" Tommy looked up. "You know, since the landing is that way?" Malcolm pointed back over his shoulder.
"Oh come on! Now you're just messing with me."
He laughed and motioned for Tommy to move over. He swiveled around and wedged in beside his son, taking the port side oar. "Hold your oar steady in the water." Malcolm sculled with his, turning the boat by degrees. "Okay, ready? Feather your oar." He demonstrated as he instructed Tommy. "Lean, dip down... and pull."
The boat moved forward in a smooth arc towards the right. Tommy grumbled. "Now you're just showing off."
"Sorry." Malcolm chuckled. "I'll adjust."
"You should row with one hand tied behind your back," Tommy groused. He made a greater effort at pulling while Malcolm eased off.
"You'll get it," he assured his son. They pulled again, shoulder to shoulder, eventually developing a rhythm and straightening out.
"That does it," Tommy grated as they worked. "Shown up by an old man. When we get back to civilization, I'm gonna start going to the gym."
"Sounds like a good idea."
"Is there a gym at Merlyn Global?"
"No." There was an exercise area, but it wasn't for general use. "That's a good idea, though. We should see if there's somewhere we can put one in."
"It'd be a great present for the company Christmas party. 'We work you all day, now you can sweat for us, too.'"
Malcolm chuckled. "We could probably fit laptop docking stations to the stationary bikes. Then they can work and work out at the same time."
"Geeze, Dad, you're such a slave-driver."
"You're so lucky you're the boss' kid."
"Don't I know it!"
They got to the landing and angled the boat alongside the pier. Tommy unloaded the coolers and buckets while Malcolm hooked up the winch to crank the boat up the skids and into the boathouse.
"Are you really going to kill these fish?" Tommy looked down into the bucket where their catch was stored.
"You want dinner, don't you?" Malcolm locked the winch and Tommy came over to help him flip the boat onto its stand.
"It just seems so cruel."
"More cruel than hooking them, dragging them out of the lake, half suffocating them, and then throwing them back, just for our own amusement?"
"Uh... I don't know." Tommy grabbed up the cooler and rods, leaving the bucket on the pier. "But I'm not having anything to do with fish guts! You clean them." He escaped towards the cabin.
Malcolm watched in bemusement. "Well you're not getting out of washing the dishes so easily!"
===#===
Tommy sipped a drink from the private jet's bar and melted back in the cushioned seat. He felt pleasantly weary right now, but boy was he going to be stiff tomorrow. He gazed out the small window, idly watching the golden clouds slip by. He was glad he'd had a chance to talk with his father, away from the strain and distractions of the city and the company. He'd said things he never thought he could say to that man. It had cleared the air between them, at least a bit.
Nothing could make up for his father's virtual abandonment of him. But he was no longer that lonely little boy; he was an adult now. If there was nothing his father could do to set things right, then it was up to Tommy to just forgive him. Forgive him and get on with his life.
It wasn't easy, letting go. It still hurt that his father's pain had overshadowed his love for Tommy. As a boy, he'd wanted his father to be perfect. As a man, he realized how impossible that was. And, truth be told, he began to realize his own part that he'd played in they decay and eventual downfall of their relationship.
He still didn't fully understand his father, and what he'd been through, but it was becoming clearer. He squinted as the sun broke through the cloud layer, throwing shards of light into his eyes. His mind was made up. He would give his father the benefit of the doubt, and learn more about him. If they wanted a relationship going forward, then they were both going to have to work at it. The past was the past. Let it rest.
===X===
End Notes:
if you're wondering about that chocolate pie that keeps cropping up... my aunt used to make those. omg, they were soooooooooo good.
