Disclaimer: see chapter 1.
Thanks to Mariel3, dreamofshadows, Nina-Maree, dolphinology, Yury (x2), pari106, Teresa and Diena for their kind reviews.
This one's set a fair long while after the end of season 3.
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Still Fighting It
Good morning son, I am a bird
Wearing a brown polyester shirt.
You want a coke?
Maybe some fries?
The roast beef combo's only nine ninety-five.
It's OK,
You don't have to pay,
I've got all the change.
Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up,
And everybody does,
So weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what,
The years go on and
We're still fighting,
And we're still fighting it.
And you're so much like me
I'm sorry.
The formica was peeling from one corner of the table, and Tony picked at it listlessly. He was aware of his dad watching him from the other side of the booth, but he didn't look up. He heard the squeaking of the fake red leather seats as his dad shifted uncomfortably.
"How's school?"
Tony shrugged. "It's school." He wasn't interested in talking about it. Nothing interesting ever happened there, and he wasn't about to tell his dad he hadn't been for a week.
"Your mother says you've been cutting class."
Tony looked up, meeting the older man's eyes. "It's boring."
His father smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "That's what I told your mother," he said, with almost childish glee. "I never used to go to class when I was your age either, and it never did me any harm. Don't let her get on your case about it, OK? I know how she nags."
Tony nodded woodenly. "OK Dad." But inside he swore to himself that next week he would go to school.
"Dad? Earth to Dad?"
Piccolo jerked back to the present, the smell of grease and plastic upholstery still in his nostrils. Mark was staring at him, one eyebrow raised, lip curled in a faintly sarcastic way. Piccolo shifted uncomfortably on the expensive leather seat.
"Sorry kid, I was miles away. What did you ask me?"
Mark shook his head. "It doesn't matter now," he said, in that exasperated tone that only teenagers can truly manage. Piccolo stared at him, seeing himself in every line of his body, in his closed expression and defensive slump. He wanted to reach out and touch the boy, but somehow he didn't. Instead, he opened the menu.
"What are you gonna order?"
Mark looked down at his own menu indifferently. "I don't care. Burger and fries?"
Piccolo frowned, reading the words and taking great care not to move his lips. "I don't think they have that here. This is a classy joint, ya know."
Mark shrugged. "Whatever."
Tony had never liked the diner his dad always took him to when he visited. He didn't understand why they always had to go to the same one. The waitress was friendly towards him, and especially to his dad, but he didn't like her false smile and the way she smelled of cheap make-up. When he had kids, he decided, he would take them to the best restaurants in town. By that time he would be rich and famous, of course.
Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment against the swirl of memories. They gave their orders to a waitress whose smile didn't reach her eyes, and then he knew it was time to do the dirty deed. "How's school?" he asked, innocently.
Mark shrugged, not looking up from where he was playing with a loose thread on the linen tablecloth. Piccolo waited for a moment, but it was clear that nothing else was forthcoming, so he drew a breath and plunged onwards.
"Your mother says you've been cutting class."
At this, Mark looked up, but his expression was blank. "So?"
Piccolo leaned forward intently. "Listen, Mark, school is real important. Ya gotta go to school."
Mark looked unimpressed. "Why?"
"Cuz you're a smart kid," Piccolo said. "You could go to college one day. Why would you wanna waste that?"
Mark shook his head. "You never went to college," he pointed out.
Piccolo laughed. "Oh, so now ya wanna be like me?"
"What do you care, anyway?" Mark muttered, and Piccolo's grin faded. He stared at the young man sitting opposite him and wondered how on earth they had got to where they were. You always wanted to say that to him, but you never did. Do you think this is how he felt, too?
He leaned forward. "Look, kid, of course I care. I'm your father, I care about you. Ya got that?"
Mark met his eyes, but his expression was mutinous. Piccolo frowned. "Ya got that?" he said again, and this time Mark nodded. "OK," Piccolo said. "And you better stop cutting class, too."
"So, do you have enough money?"
Tony wondered why he asked. He never had any money to spare anyway, unless it was to thrust a crumpled twenty into Tony's hand and tell him to spent it on candy. But that wasn't the sort of money they needed. They needed money to pay the phone bill, and to buy him new shoes. But in the end, Tony reflected, even if his dad gave him all the money in the world, nothing would have changed. He knew the visit was nearly over, and he felt the same curious mixture of emotions he did every time. He wanted to leave, to get out into the fresh air and away from this heavy atmosphere of unspoken accusation. And he wanted to stay, he wanted his father to hug him and play baseball with him and be waiting for him when he came home from school. But he knew that would never happen, and so he had to settle for just getting away. And, as always, as he shut the car door and trudged up the drive, he swore to himself that one day he would be the best dad that anyone ever had.
Mark clambered out of the passenger seat and closed the door. Piccolo got out too, stepping around the car, surprised when he noticed how much the boy had grown in the time since his last shore leave. He stepped forward, feeling a sudden urge to hug him tight and tell him how much he loved him; but the words stuck in his throat, and he extended his hand instead. Mark shook it, his face expressionless.
"So, I'll see you next time I get leave, OK?" Piccolo said.
"OK," Mark replied, and turned to trudge up to the house. Piccolo caught sight of Miranda watching out of the window, but she didn't wave. Walking back round to the driver's side, he sat down heavily and covered his face in his hands. You didn't do it. You didn't keep your promise. Leaning back in the seat, he adjusted the mirror, and saw his father's face staring back at him.
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Good morning son, I am a bird
Wearing a brown polyester shirt.
You want a coke?
Maybe some fries?
The roast beef combo's only nine ninety-five.
It's OK,
You don't have to pay,
I've got all the change.
Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up,
And everybody does,
So weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what,
The years go on and
We're still fighting,
And we're still fighting it.
And you're so much like me
I'm sorry.
Good morning son.
Twenty years from now
Maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers;
And I can tell you about today,
And how I picked you up and everything changed.
It was pain,
Sunny days and rain,
I knew you'd feel the same thing.
Everybody knows
It sucks to grow up.
And everybody does,
So weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what,
The years go on and
We're still fighting,
And we're still fighting it.
I'll try and try,
And one day you'll fly
Away from me.
Good morning son.
I am a bird.
It was pain,
Sunny days and rain,
I knew you'd feel the same thing.
Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up.
And everybody does,
So weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what,
The years go on and
We're still fighting,
And we're still fighting it,
And we're still fighting,
And we're still fighting it.
And you're so much like me,
I'm sorry.