summary: In which Connor's plane is broken and he is not pleased.
inspired by the airplane incident the murphys mention in the show
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The plane splashed underwater before turning upside down and floating back up.
And then the tense silence was broken by Connor's scream.
"You broke it!" he cried, turning to Larry and hitting him as hard as he could with his little fists. "You broke my plane! I hate you! I hate you!"
Startled by the sudden commotion, Cynthia raced over and was momentarily stunned by the sight before her. "No, Con, you can't do that," she exclaimed, rushing to wrestle him away from his father. "Stop it!"
"He broke my plane!" Connor half-screamed and half-sobbed, struggling wildly against her firm grip. "It was my birthday present and now it's broken!"
Zoe was rooted to the spot, face pale and staring at her brother.
"Connor, I'm so sorry…" Larry said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and unsure of what to say, but then he tried to crack a smile. "I guess the plane had to make an emergency landing."
"That's not funny!" Connor howled, his tear-streaked face turning red. "Go away!"
Larry swallowed and looked apologetically at Cynthia. "I… I think I'll give him some space," he mumbled, leading Zoe and Skywalker away.
"Connor Murphy, I want you to calm down, now." Cynthia ordered.
Connor simply threw himself down on the grass and wept.
He didn't care if the ground was cold, or if he was getting his new knit scarf stained with mud. All he cared about was that his favorite thing in the world, his birthday present from his best and only friend, was lying in the lake, broken and never going to fly again.
The lake.
It was still in the lake.
He had to get it out of there.
He pulled himself up, dashing towards the lake.
The water was cold enough that it gave him a start as it soaked through his shoes and socks. He almost lost his footing just as Cynthia grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him out of the lake.
"Connor, what are you doing!" she scolded, her face pale. "You know you can't swim!"
"I want my plane!" He began to cry again.
He knew he was being ridiculous and childish, he was nine years old, too old to be crying over a stupid remote-controlled airplane, but he just couldn't help it, he was so, so angry. And his shoes and his socks were now wet and cold and he was just downright miserable.
"Daddy will get your plane for you," Cynthia said firmly. "Now go to the car and take off your shoes and socks; we're going home."
He sniffled and stormed towards the car, yanking the door open. He tore his soggy shoes and socks off, slammed the door shut behind him, and just lay down in the middle row.
What was supposed to be a good day was now completely ruined and he wanted to scream or throw something to show them how angry he felt, but at the same time he just wanted up curl up in a ball on his bed, under all the covers, and have a good long cry.
He could hear his family talking to each other, and put his hands over his ears.
He was mad at them. Mad mad mad.
This wasn't just Larry's fault. It was Zoe's fault, too.
She'd been the one who had asked Larry to fly the plane higher, and that had been what caused him to lose control.
A familiar face appeared in the car window and Skywalker whined to be let in. He opened the door for her, and she stepped in, nuzzling the palm of his hand and begging for pats. He stroked her soft fur as he tried to catch his breath. His nose was running and his eyes felt swollen from crying too hard.
A few moments later, Cynthia got into the car, followed by Zoe and Larry.
Connor slumped back in his seat in a sullen silence, Skywalker draping herself comfortably over his lap.
"Connor, do you want to go to A La Mode?" Cynthia asked in a chirpy voice, evidently trying to cheer him up.
"I want to go home," he muttered crossly.
"We can go for some ice-cream first! Do you want to get two scoops?" They were never allowed so much ice-cream, and Zoe looked in surprise over at Connor.
If it had been any other day, he would have jumped at such a rare opportunity. But today he just didn't feel like it. He didn't feel like anything, he didn't know what he wanted.
He was just angry.
Larry glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry about the plane, Connor."
Connor simply glared back at him. Larry uncomfortably looked away, turning back to the road.
They went straight home, and Connor stomped up to his room, slamming the door shut as hard as he could.
A few minutes later, there came a tentative knock at the door.
"Go away."
"Connor, it's me." It was Zoe.
"I said to go away!" he yelled, throwing his pillow towards the door as hard as he could. Why couldn't they just leave him alone!
He heard her bedroom door click shut.
The house was warm, and he was feeling stifled, and it was just making him even more irritated. He dumped his jacket and scarf in the middle of the room, then crawled into bed, just lying on top of his covers and staring blankly at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
"Connor, can I come in?" Larry asked, knocking on his door.
Connor growled in frustration, crossing the room and yanking open the door. "What do you want," he demanded, his tone clipped.
Larry shifted awkwardly, saying, "Con, I'm just. I'm really sorry about your plane." Connor didn't respond and he continued, "I… if you want, I'll buy you another one just like it."
"I don't want another plane!" Connor exploded. "This one was special and you broke it! You ruined everything!"
"Connor, what do you want, I'll make it up to you—"
"Go away!" Connor shouted. "Just go away! I don't want to talk to you ever again!"
Ignoring the hurt expression on his father's face, he slammed the door shut and locked it, then threw himself on his bed and had another fit of crying. In the end, he was so exhausted from his outbursts that he simply fell asleep.
It was a few hours later when he was awakened by Cynthia knocking on the door.
"Connor, unlock this door."
"Go away," he said, his voice still groggy.
"Connor, either you unlock the door yourself or I'm going to my room and getting the master key."
He knew that when she said something in that tone of voice, she would do as she said, so he sullenly got up and yanked the door open, before going back to sit on his bed.
Cynthia shut the door behind her and took a seat next to him. "Honey, the way you spoke to your dad just now was unacceptable, do you understand?" she said, her voice quiet but carrying a firmness to it that meant she wasn't pleased with him at all.
"He broke my plane," Connor replied, his voice equally low and clearly laced with anger. He was just so, so tired.
"I know you're upset, but you need to think about how your words have consequences," she paused for a moment. "Your dad… he's been hurt by what you said to him just now, you know."
That made Connor feel bad, because he knew what it felt like to be hurt by the mean things that people said. But at the same time, he was still angry. So instead of showing that he felt sorry, he turned away from her and muttered, "Serve him right, he hurt me too."
"Connor, you know that's not how it works."
He didn't respond.
She sighed. "Well, it's dinnertime. Why don't you wash your face and come downstairs? And I want you to apologize to your dad. You're nine years old, I don't want any more temper tantrums, understood?"
He really, really didn't want to apologize to Larry, but he could tell that she wasn't going to back down. And honestly, he was too tired to argue by now. He went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and changed out of his muddy and grass-stained clothes. He could hear the rest of his family talking downstairs, and the clink of metal as Cynthia finished setting the cutlery.
He slowly shuffled over to the dining table, pausing halfway down the staircase.
Larry turned and Connor mumbled a quiet, "I'm sorry for what I said to you just now, Daddy."
Larry held out his arms, and Connor went in for a hug. "And I'm sorry for breaking your plane, Connor."
Connor was too tired to protest, and as Larry held him tightly in his strong arms, he suddenly realized he couldn't find it in him to be angry anymore.
"It's okay… I guess."
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