Trigger warnings for alcohol and punching.
His hands shook.
They shook a lot. He clenched his fists hard enough to draw crescents of blood. He needed to stop this. The nails dug in a little deeper.
He reached for what he needed but paused halfway. He needed to stop this. But he reached for it nonetheless. And knocked it back.
And poured another. And knocked it back.
There was a time, he vaguely remembered, when he didn't need – had never needed – a drink to get out of bed, let alone two.
Today, he needed three.
He became the robot he needed to be to get through the day.
Wash.
Dress.
Leave.
Work.
Home.
Home was the problem. The memories he had just sitting in his car in the driveway overwhelmed him. And that was before he walked into the house. He took the hip flask out and drained it.
Home was dark. It was the wrong side of midnight. And still, he didn't want to get out of the car. Didn't want to face home, face the emptiness. Face the loss.
Even now, almost a year later, the loss was fresh. And yeah, he was crying. He swiped angrily at his face.
God. He needed a drink.
He got out of the car and quietly closed the door. Last thing he wanted was to wake up the boys. No way he wanted to…to burden them, to see them. He wasn't aware of entering the house, nor of walking into his study.
But when he reached for the bottle, it wasn't there.
Panic tore at him, and he opened the cupboard where there was a stash. But there were none.
He'd never admit it, but he ran into the kitchen. He pulled open all the cupboards, he charged down to the cellar where they kept the overflow food and drink.
Nothing.
He made his way back into the kitchen and sat down heavily on one of the stools, burying his head in his hands.
The light flicked on and he jumped up, the stool crashing back down as he rubbed the flash from his sight.
'What the hell, Dad?'
His voice dried in his throat. When was the last time he had spoken to one of his boys, actually seen them in the flesh instead of a blue-tinged hologram?
'Scott?'
His eldest was frowning, scowling even, arms folded and staring at him. Unconsciously he straightened, surprised that Scott was practically as tall as he was. When did that happen?
'Go to bed, Scott.'
His son snorted and spun on his heel and left. Jeff scrubbed his eyes and went out the back, perching on the rocking chair. He didn't stay for long, memories assailing him, and he was in his car and driving before he even realised.
Pulling into the nearest open shop he bought four bottles of Scotch, then, instead of heading home, he went to his office.
He'd drunk a bottle before his secretary arrived.
He'd downed another before he decided to go home.
This time Scott was waiting for him. His scowl was probably as deep as the one on his own face.
'This has to stop, Dad.'
He felt his scowl deepen.
'I don't know what you mean, son.'
He inwardly winced at the emphasis, but he needed to stay in control of the conversation. Losing control meant facing things he just wasn't ready to face.
'This, Dad!' Scott was almost yelling, gesturing at all of his father. Jeff was suddenly acutely aware that he was still wearing yesterday's clothes. That Scott had seen him wearing these clothes.
Jeff pushed past him. Or rather, he tried to push past him, but Scott stood his ground. So Jeff pushed harder, only feeling slightly guilty when this time he succeeded. But Scott followed him.
He took a bottle from the bag and opened it, pouring a glass and slamming the bottle down. He took a mouthful, but he wasn't quick enough to stop Scott snatching the bottle and upending it in the sink.
Jeff shot up after Scott, and there was a brief jostle at the sink. But he wasn't able to stop his son from emptying the bottle.
Nor did he have enough control to stop himself punching his fifteen-year-old son. What surprised him was when his son hit him back. Hard enough to knock him back on his backside.
He sat there, staring up at his son in shock. His son was shaking. And crying.
And suddenly he was up and folding him in a hug and holding him, closing his eyes at the realisation that he hadn't held his son, any of his sons, since the funeral.
Eventually Scott pulled away, and surprised Jeff by reaching up and wiping his face. He had no idea he had been crying too. Scott shuffled around and sat next to him, shoulders touching.
'I'm sorry, Scott. I'm so sorry.' His voice was hoarse. Scott dropped his head onto his shoulder.
'It's ok, Dad. I understand. But you can't – we can't – go on like this.'
Jeff nodded. For once, he had a clear head and a newfound sense of purpose. They sat there until the light began to show, and Scott got up and began to clean the kitchen. Jeff got up to help him.
His hands were shaking. But this time, he was shaking with anger. At himself. Lucy would be so disappointed. He had some things to arrange.
Scott got on, organising everything as usual. Only this time, his heart was lighter, even if his jaw hurt.
By the time Scott and his brothers got home that evening, Grandma was there. The boys were delighted to see her, and Sally sat down to explain that she was going to be living with them from now on. Their dad was going to be away for a few days, but when he got back they were all going to go away for a couple of weeks.
When the others were in bed Scott sat down with his Grandmother. She looked critically at his jaw and the bruise darkening there, but she didn't say anything.
'Where's Dad?'
'He's put himself in rehab for a few weeks.'
'Oh.'
'You did good, Scotty. Both with your brothers and your father. I'm really proud of you.'
'Will he be alright?'
'He will be, now.'
Sure enough, three weeks later Jeff came home. A completely different man. The first thing he did was to hug all his boys.
Scott grinned at his dad.
He was back.