Heart-to-Hearts

A/N: Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you! Each and every reviewer! I was so surprised to get so many on the last chap, but they're really appreciated. This story's looking like it's gonna be LONG, and I hope you're all willing to stick with me. More on the case next chap!

            "Do you need anything else?" Fenton asked, a bit awkwardly, unsure how to treat this fragile boy that was his youngest son. Their conversations had been so brief, as if there was nothing to be said. Fenton longed to release the storm of emotion inside of him, an outpouring of grief and love, fear and hope.

            We just want to help you, baby. We never wanted to make the hurt worse. Please, can't you try to understand that?

            "I'm fine, Dad," Joe mumbled, shoving clothes back into his drawers in his single dorm room. Fenton, Laura and Gertrude had all pushed for a double, so someone would be around to keep an eye on their recently released and still vulnerable family member, but Joe wouldn't hear of it. He was determined to have his own space. 

            "I won't do it again. Not now."

            "Joseph, this 'not now' business just makes us more and more worried!"

            "You want worry? Keep me home. Being here is what makes me crazy."

            As much as those words had hurt, Fenton knew they were true. Being back in his room had had the opposite effect that his parents had wanted for him. They'd been hoping to calm him down, bring him back to sanity, not drive him in the opposite direction to suicide.

            He was on the crash course anyway. You just filled the gas tank for him.

            "Mom and Aunt Gertrude…they weren't too hurt…were they?"

            Fenton put down the hangers he'd been slipping into Joe's closet and glanced at his youngest son. But Joe avoided his eyes.

            "They would have liked to see you off."

            "They smother me." The boy turned to stare into his father's eyes. "Dad…you understand…don't you?"

            There was a look of desperation, of pleading for understanding that the Detective had seen on cornered victim's faces; never on his son's.

            "You don't have to feel trapped," he said softly, longing to erase the panic and replace it with the smiles he'd been so used to seeing before all this. "Joe, please, we just want—"

            "…to help, Dad, I know, please, no more heart-to-hearts, I can't stand them."

            Fenton sighed and went back to unloading suitcases.

            Why oh why did my sons have to be partners? Why did they have to investigate together? I once envied the bond they had; wished I had a brother to share it with, wished my sons would come to me instead of each other once and awhile. They'd always protected and defended each other, no matter what—comfort, help, advice—even when they were little.

            There never was any sibling rivalry. They both were smart, both athletic, but both excelled in separate areas. And they needed each other oh so badly.

            If only they hadn't.

Fenton sighed to himself, watching his ghost-like younger son drift almost mechanically through his dorm room.       

            They always faced us together, Mom and Dad; the bad guys. They love us and they know we love them. But it always was each other first. That's why Joe can't come to us now, he thought, gazing at his silent younger son. We're here too, Joe. We love you too. Your life was never Frank alone.

            "I think we're done," Joe said. Fenton turned to find his son across the room, allowing distance. Fenton nodded and reluctantly stepped toward the door, then stopped and glanced back. The youngest Hardy was gazing out the window over the football field, not offering any type of goodbye.

            "You know how much this scares us," the words burst from his mouth before he could sensor them.

Joe turned back, nodded slowly. "I know, Dad."

 "Do you even care?" it sounded harsher than he'd meant it to.

"Of course I care, Dad. I just…please, I need to be alone."

Fenton slowly opened the door, thought, and shut it again. "Joe, I can not take another phone call telling me one of my sons has been hurt. I can't bury you. Do you understand that? Everything I'm saying? Your mother and Aunt and I…we wouldn't survive either."

Joe's eyes widened as he turned to stare at his father. "You'd pull through…"

"No we wouldn't."

Father and son stared at each other for a moment. Joe slowly nodded.

"I'm not gonna do it again. I promise. I won't try to hurt myself."

Directly you won't. But I've seen what else you've done; drinking, drugs, drag-racing, starvation, smoking. I wish I had done more to stop it.

"We love you," he said softly. "I love you."

With that he slowly left the room, closing the door on his youngest son.

He still hadn't moved.

***

            Joe waited until his father had shut the door before pulling the last item from his knapsack; Frank's ankle-length black winter coat he'd slipped from his older brother's room.

            Why'd I bring it? Do I even know? Was Frank popping ideas in my head?

            Joe slumped onto the bed, unnerved by the sudden silence he'd been longing for these past few days. He gazed at the jacket, then rose and opened the window to overlooking the football field.

            Haven't played sports in ages. Window too small to fit through.

            I won't let you jump.

            Sighing, the younger Hardy fell across his bed, giving himself into exhaustion although he felt the flutter of fear that always accompanied him before he dropped off to sleep.