I totally meant to post this yesterday because it was Father's Day where I am but I forgot. Well, better late than never, even for a tiny little one shot.

Silence, Seven-Thirty AM:

Joseph awoke in silence. He rolled over to check the time: seven-thirty AM. That was unusual. Both the time and the silence. Every day for the past three weeks, he'd been woken around six by Steve's morning coughing fit. He'd always had to clear more junk in the mornings, but it had progressively gotten worse as he got older. In the months since his collapsed lung, the fits had been so forceful it hurt Joseph to watch. Half the time it sounded more like vomiting than coughing. Just a few days ago, he coughed so hard he did throw up, and spent the rest of the day hooked up to feeds to try and replace what he'd lost.

The fact that Joseph slept in until seven-thirty today meant one of two things. Either Steve had a good morning, or Joseph was about to have a really bad one. He swung out of bed and got dressed, then headed into the kitchen for breakfast. Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, staring miserably at a half-eaten piece of peanut butter toast. "Morning," Joseph greeted.

"Good morning," Steve sighed, resting his head on his hand.

"Orders just came in from on high," he said in his best 'soldier voice.' "You're to finish that toast and report back to base."

Joseph didn't get the smile he'd been hoping for with that little joke. When Steve was little, that had been Joseph's go-to strategy to get him to eat. It was markedly more successful than anything else he'd ever tried. But Steve wasn't a little kid anymore, as much as Joseph wished he still was. Everyday life wasn't quite this hard for him when he was little.

"I didn't hear you get up this morning," Joseph said. "Was the buildup not as bad?"

"No, it was the same as usual." Steve curled his hand into a fist and took a bite of the toast. He grimaced the entire time he spent chewing it. Joseph sat down at the table beside him, because he thought he might fall over if he didn't. He hadn't slept in because Steve didn't spend half an hour coughing up mucus. Steve spent half an hour coughing, and Joseph slept through it. Because the sound of his son hacking and spluttering and gasping for breath no longer constituted a situation worth waking up for.

"Dad? You okay?" Steve asked. His toast was gone now.

"Yeah," he snapped. "I'm fine."

"You zoned out for a while there." He paused to cough. "You look…distressed."

"I'm fine."

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. "If you say so." Steve put his plate in the dishwasher and went back to his room. Joseph didn't move from the table and continued his existential crisis for the next forty-five minutes.