A/N: I decided to put this in to clear up any misunderstandings. In the Allergic Reaction section, it's not anaphalactic shock. One of my reviewers made mention of how what I described was nothing like AS, and she is right. Thanks!
Six Kinds of Tears
by Pointeboots
Sorrow
He held the photo gently, reverently. It was the most precious of all his belongings, and the one thing that he would never part with. It was all he had left.
The house had burned down not long after his seventeenth birthday. He'd been out, everyone else at home, asleep.
Alan had been in John's bed, where he usually went after a nightmare. Virgil had also been asleep, in front of his computer. Gordon had been with Grandma, in the second floor 'lounge'. Father had been in his study, working late, as he frequently had.
He'd had his own family since that night. He had a lovely wife and two beautiful children. He'd made General, and was a well-respected figure in military politics. He celebrated the holidays, visiting his numerous friends and colleagues.
And he still held the picture. It was all he had left.
Regret
It was the only one that wouldn't leave him alone. Years later, and he still wished…
So many if only-s. So many what ifs.
They had had hundreds of successful rescues. And hundreds of failures. He couldn't recall a single one that hadn't been mixed. In the rescue business, there wasn't such a thing as a one hundred percent success. That one had been a mostly success though.
Except for Gordon.
He'd stopped painting after that rescue. He wasn't sure why. Gordon had never really been enthused by his painting before; it was just something that his quirky older brother had done.
Maybe more than just Gordon's sight had been lost that day.
Joy
In all his life, he'd never been this happy before. There was something just so…
He knew that he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care. Let the world stop and stare, he didn't care. He was so happy it hurt. His heart felt so full, like it would burst with all his joy.
The blond had brought the letter to his mother, nearly crowing out the news.
She cried, and hugged him. He was crying too, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes, clutching his mother harder.
"Your father would be so proud." She whispered.
Fear
Heart stopping. That was the phrase, wasn't it? Heart stopping fear.
He watched the gun swing towards him, and despite it all, felt a little better. He wasn't lying injured, helpless, on the ground. He could take this guy. He could.
He was still afraid.
The gun swung back, and he couldn't breathe.
No, please…
He looked up as the shot rang out. Virgil's cry was lost, as was he. Suddenly, all he could see were those… horrible eyes…
So afraid.
Allergic Reaction
Who knew? After all, it wasn't exactly normal. Then again, was anything? Ever? What exactly was normal, after all?
There were voices buzzing around him, loud and soft, in and out. He swatted at them vaguely. He wanted to sleep.
Someone was shaking him. Hovering over him.
Don't go to sleep.
He closed his eyes.
Pain
It hurt, it hurt so very badly. She'd been through this before, but it had never been quite like this.
Never like this.
Jeff was beside her, holding her hand. She was crushing his, and she knew it. She also didn't care.
Another wave of pain, and she thought that she might just pass out. Holding on to consciousness with metaphorical teeth and nails, she held out, until the wave slowly faded. Panting, she lay limply, and waited.
It wasn't long before the next wave coursed through her, and then another.
She was gasping, her body soaking in sweat. Her husband held with her, crooning encouragements at her. She wasn't really paying attention, that would have required energy. And she had none to spare as the next spasm hit.
And then it was over.
Suddenly, it was over, and she was so tired, and so achy, and so happy.
As the doctor brought the newborn to the exhausted mother's arms, Jeff hugged his wife, and they looked down at the child together.
"Anna." He said proudly. "She looks just like you."