Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to CBS/Viacom and other associated copyright holders. I'm just borrowing them for a little fictional mayhem.

Rating: G - no language, nothing graphic, just a bit of angst

Status: Complete

Author's Note: Admittedly, there is some confusion created by the timeline as presented on the series. Years were mentioned on the series that are difficult to fit with other years and events also mentioned. So, I've used a little creative license. In doing so, this story, though occurring the night after Steve returns home from Viet Nam, takes place at the beach house. The subject of why they are living in the beach house at this time will be covered in a later story. Meanwhile, please bear with me.

Also, obviously, this is story 2 of the Book of Days series. The first story is also available on this site, under the title Book of Days 1 (original, no?). The stories flow better if read in order, but should, hopefully, stand alone.

B O O K - O F - D A Y S :
First Night

Mark opened his eyes and blinked into the darkness. It was a moment before he registered the shadowy outline of his bedroom furniture. Quiet reigned. And then, he caught a flash of light from beneath the closed bedroom door. Shifting beneath the covers, he glanced back over his shoulder and noted the placid features of his wife as she slept soundly.

Turning back toward the door, he noted that the light had extinguished, but he thought he caught a hint of a familiar sound. His wife stirred, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Mark . . . ." She murmured his name softly.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Go back to sleep." Though he had a feeling about what that light and the noise was about, he didn't want to awaken her. They had both had a very exhausting few days, and then she had spent a good bit of time dealing with Carol earlier in the evening when the girl had become upset.

Mark waited several moments after she sighed and settled back beneath the covers. Moving carefully, he began to extricate himself from beneath the bedclothes. Slipping his feet into his slippers, and his arms into his robe, he headed out of the room.

He made his way along the corridor from the bedroom to the den in the darkness. Instinct told him where to go, and essentially, what he would find. He was not wrong. There, through the French door, he saw his son standing out on the deck, faced out toward the ocean.

The wind whipped at the thin cotton pajamas he wore as he half huddled against the crutches in the night. Though Steve had been wiry growing up, Mark tried not to note how thin the frame was beneath the billowing fabric.

Grabbing up an afghan from the back of one of the chairs, he opened the French door and stepped out into a night filled with cool winds and ocean sounds. The door made a barely audible click when he closed it behind himself.

Steve started at the small noise, his entire body seeming to jerk with fright. The crutches wavered precariously as his balance was upset.

Mark rushed forward, quickly maneuvering around a chair to get to Steve's side. "I'm sorry, Son. I didn't mean to startle you." He reached a hand out to help steady him, but Steve's reflexes quickly kicked in and he caught himself before he could fall over.

"It's okay," Steve assured him as he carefully readjusted the crutches to a more comfortable position. "I'm probably a little jumpy. I hope I didn't wake you." His eyes skittered back out toward the ocean.

Mark contemplated him uncertainly for several moments before he reached up and draped the afghan about his broad shoulders. "You want to sit, take some strain off of that leg?"

Steve hadn't wanted to talk much about the injury, sharing only the briefest of details during one of their short telephone conversations while he was at the medical facility in Hawaii. But Mark had been a doctor long enough that he could read between the lines. He knew that though the injury was healing, it would be painful and remain weak for some time. Steve was due for a visit to a physical therapist the day after next.

Mark had also managed to speak with one of the doctors who had cared for Steve, as he had known him during his own time in the medical corps. When Steve had been injured, he had been within two months of his separation date. By the time he had been transferred from the war zone to the hospital at Hawaii, overcome the infection that had set in, and was able to be released, he'd had enough saved vacation time to cover the days of active duty he had remaining. Rather than spending it in a military rehabilitation center or behind a desk, he had chosen to come home. For which Mark was eternally grateful. He had sensed that Steve had been torn between worry for the men he had served with who still fought and coming home. He would never have told him what to do, but he had feared that Steve would sign on for an additional tour. It had been Mark's greatest worry that if that had taken place, he would never see his son again.

But now Steve stood before him, tall and shadowy in the nighttime darkness. The young man remained upright a few moments after Mark's suggestion that he sit, before silently allowing his dad to help him settle into one of the chairs. Mark sat in one of the chairs alongside him.

Steve glanced over having noticed Mark's motion. "You don't have to wait out here with me, Dad. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"Do you want to be alone?" Mark asked. He truly didn't want to intrude on Steve's privacy, but he didn't want him to feel that he was alone, either. This, his first night home from Viet Nam had not gone as smoothly as Mark would have liked, what with the long silences that stretched during dinner and over the course of the afternoon, and then Carol's becoming upset when she had not been able to attend an impromptu sleepover with one of her girlfriends.

Kathryn had been the one to calm Carol's ruffled feathers. He knew that she probably didn't completely understand the tension that was in the house, and saw an outing with her friends as a release, but he'd felt that on Steve's first night, the entire family should be there for him. He simply didn't get that across to her very well. Kathryn had always been much better at soothing raging hormones and calming their children. He almost envied her ability to draw their secrets from them much more easily than he ever could.

Throughout Carol's upset, Steve had lapsed into a reserved quiet. When Carol and Kathryn had taken the discussion to Carol's room, Steve had looked across at him and the look that Mark had noticed in the airport was back. The look that made Mark wonder if his son felt that he truly belonged here. It tore at his heart.

"I'm so happy that you're back home, Son," Mark had told him, hoping desperately that the words would reassure him.

Steve had smiled a smile that didn't quite blot out the sadness in his eyes. "I'm happy to be home, Dad."

Mark had returned the smile with one that was infused with as much warmth and love as he could muster. He hoped that it would give Steve the emotional support that he needed, and that it would hide the fact that he was at a loss as to how to reach his son. He had made a joke about the dessert that Kathryn had made for dinner and Steve's legendary appetite.

Steve obligingly laughed and accepted more, then cleaned his plate of every morsel. Mark had a sinking feeling that he hadn't really wanted it, and that added to his own insecurity. He thought frantically of something he could do to ease his son's sadness. Though he knew, logically, that the things that Steve had gone through could not be whisked away with a simple word or a look, or a hug, it didn't stop his parental sensibilities from wanting to try, from needing to try.

Before Mark could come up with anything else to extend the conversation, Steve began to make his way up out of the chair, declaring that he was tired and really wanted to go to bed. Mark hadn't argued with him on it, the fatigue was easily visible in his demeanor. He'd simply asked Steve's permission to check over his wounds. Steve had given it somewhat reluctantly and Mark had satisfied himself that his son was at least outwardly healing. Kathryn had gone in to say good night to Steve as well, and then the door to his room had been closed to them and he had gone to bed.

And now, Mark awaited the answer to the question as to whether or not his son wanted to sit alone on the deck in the cool winter air. The apologetic look in Steve's eyes was all the answer he needed, despite the words that made it official.

"If you wouldn't mind, Dad."

Mark paused for a beat before he answered. "Actually I do mind, Steve." He lifted a calming hand when Steve gave him a sharp look. "You've been through a very difficult experience, and you're home now. You need to know that you're not alone. We're all here to help you in anyway that we can."

Steve looked across at him, his eyes shadowed. "I know that, Dad. I just . . . I just need to think for a little bit. I need to decide what to do with the rest of my life." He jerked his head out toward the ocean. "This helps."

Mark nodded. He didn't push. He was happy that he had gotten an actual response that he didn't feel was designed to tell him what Steve thought he wanted to hear. "Have you thought about going back to college? I seem to recall that you were doing pretty well before . . . . " he trailed off, not sure how Steve would feel about the reminder of the televised lottery that had taken place which had sealed his fate as a potential inductee into the military based solely on his date of birth.

"I don't regret it," Steve said, seeming to sense Mark's uncertainty. "I did what was asked of me to the best of my ability."

"And that's very admirable, Steve," Mark assured him. "I'm very proud of you and the way that you've grown into a man."

"Thank you." A wry half-smile accompanied the words, and Steve's gaze strayed back out to the ocean once again, but he glanced back, including Mark this time. "I've missed this," he said. "Being out here, just looking at the water, hearing it, smelling it . . . It makes me feel like everything is going to be okay."

Mark rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Everything is going to be okay." The real smile he received in return warmed him. He sat for long moments watching his son watching the ocean. His young features really did seem at peace. It relaxed something deep within Mark's heart, because knowing that even that measure of peace was possible gave him hope that in time some of the wounds that were less visible could be healed.

With that thought, some of the anxieties of the past few hours caught up to him and he was forced to stifle a powerful yawn. "Well, I'll leave you to it," he told Steve as he moved to his feet, adding another reassuring pat to the shoulder nearest him. "Night, Son."

"Night, Dad." Steve spoke without turning. "I love you."

Mark paused and smiled at the sweet sound of those words. He had come out here hoping to help to reassure and calm his troubled son, but instead it was Steve who had reassured and calmed a troubled father.

He turned back to adjust the afghan more firmly around his son's shoulders, more for the contact than an actual need to rearrange the covering. Softly, just so Steve could hear it above the waves, he responded in kind. "I love you, too."

The End

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Stories so far:

Book of Days 1 Coming Home
Book of Days 2 First Night