The day hadn't started off like any other in Chris's recent history.
First of all, he hadn't woken up to Lennox. That, in and of itself, was unsettling (even though he had a vague memory of Lennox telling Chris he was going out for a walk), but what was more unsettling was that he'd woken up to Neil of all people
( ... )
Gordon spilled half his cup of coffee over his hand at the sudden racket, and he cursed, sucking on the side of his fingers.
"What?" he demanded, his face becoming a wall, all frowns and lines at his son. He was, as always, immediately on the defensive, pulling up to his full height with only the slightest wince. "I will do no such thing, Christopher. I'm due at the barn any moment. Whatever it is, it can wait."
"No," Chris shot back, stalking across toward his father and stepping carefully onto the ice. It was hard to walk over the slick surface with purpose, but he did his best, his jaw tensed and eyes cold.
He couldn't really stop the way his hands shook, though.
The look on his son's face is enough to quell Gordon's bluster, just for a moment. He looked up stormily at him before placing his mug down on a bench and wincing his way to his feet.
He glanced at the tremor visible in his son's hands and then back up to his face, his mouth pressed into a thin, solemn line.
"Well?" he demanded, the ever-present thread of defensiveness present in his tone.
More than a little surprised by the way his father was actually not arguing for a change, Chris was momentarily unsure of what to do, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Of course, Chris knew it wasn't going to last long.
Giving a short nod, he motioned over his shoulder back toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, his voice a little quieter, more subdued. "Don't make me fucking carry you, Dad, I'm really not in the mood."
"I am not an invalid," Gordon said darkly, stalking along after his son. He did not feel good about this, and the sense of wrongness that had plauged him since the previous night seemed to only grow stronger as he trailed after him. It gathered at the base of his skull like a swarm, sending jittery, nervous pulses through him.
Finally, he snapped as they drew close to his own home.
Chris stalked out of the rink, his head down, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, the sounds of people and wind and things he couldn't quite identify all around him. It was strangely noisy, but Chris thought maybe he was hearing things or maybe it was everything he was feeling inside manifesting into the air around him somehow.
His father's gruff voice barely registered and he glanced back quickly, almost like he was surprised to find him still there.
"You'll see when we get there," he replied, turning again. Chris knew that he if he actually told him what it was about that his father would either not believe him or stop immediately. The only way to get him to the hut was to get him there blindly.
There was nothing so horrible as being led along like an idiot child. Gordon stomped after his son and was more or less oblivious to the goings on around him. There were odd noises and crashes, but this was hardly new. He couldn't think of a thing he'd done in recent memory to arouse his son's anger to such an extent.
Perhaps the Beaver had chewed through the molding. Although, that failed to explain the depth of emotion in his son's voice, or the increasing discomfort that was spreading through his nerves.
He followed with a bruised pride and a childish grimmace on his face.
"Fine then, Christopher. Have your dramatics and high theater. In your own time."
He replied only with a grunt, seeing no reason why his father's bitching should warrant anything else. The conversation -- for lack of a better term -- died into silence then and Chris couldn't help being grateful.
As they approached the Hamlet, Chris felt as though each step was harder than the last and he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder more frequently to make sure his father was still there, still following. That he hadn't already run off. He slowed a little when they got closer to the hut, falling into step beside his father.
"You're not leaving this time," he said, his voice a low murmur, close to threatening as he guided his father toward the front door.
Gordon cut his eyes over to his son at the unmistakable note of threat in his voice. He bristled, he blustered, he drew himself up straight. And just as he came upon the flap to his hut, he turned to speak to his son as he stepped through the doorway.
"Christopher, for godsake, pull yourself..."
And then he turned as he spoke, stepped down into the common room and stopped. Down to his molecules and his atoms, he stopped. He stumbled backwards, almost tripping. In his chest, his heart did some unnatural stuttering that almost made him light in the head.
He didn't cross himself, but for a moment, it occurred to him. When he spoke, it came out as a wheeze.
"No. No, gods preserve us..." He backed up and back peddled, trying to get out the door. The last time he'd seen his wife, she was in a casket in Bucyk's funeral parlor. The time before that, she'd been in their bed at home and wishing him good bye and good luck.
Chris had positioned himself just behind his father. It hadn't been planned, but it was certainly proving necessary as he reached up with one hand, easily keeping him from backing up any further, the grip firm.
"She's been here since this morning," Chris told him, voice quieter, subdued, like they were actually in a hospital room. The hospital room. "Neil found her." And there was something almost, but not quite, bitter in that. Neil had found her because, once again, his father hadn't been around. He'd been at the rink. How fucking appropriate.
Nudging slightly, Chris attempted to push his father closer to the hospital bed, to the machines and tubes in the middle of room. If not for the wooden halls and the dirtied floor, Chris could almost have mistaken it for the room he'd shared with her those last few weeks. The bed was the same, down to the dull, monochromatic bed linens and the clunky, outdated machines. And, of course, the woman surrounded by it all.
It wasn't familiar to Gordon. Oh, sure, yeah. The bitterness in his son's voice and Peggy's sunken cheeks. She'd been so beautiful in her youth, all life and laughter and soft kisses. She'd been so beautiful, so perfect, and the cancer had taken so much. From all of them, it had taken so much.
Gordon didn't move from the doorway. There was a throbbing ache just below his sternum and his throat felt caked and dry.
"This is insanity," he coughed, his eyes on her face, unmoving. "This is...this isn't right, Christopher."
"No, it's not," Chris agreed, but there was a quiet tone to his voice. Resigned, that was it. "But, it's her."
Somehow he knew his father wouldn't move forward from that spot unless forced and he took a deep breath, his hand sliding to the center of his father's back and gently, but definitely firmly, pushed him toward the bed.
There were times when Chris's memories of his mother were nothing but happy. When he'd been small and she'd sing to him, play games with him and tell him all about how great a curler he'd grow up to be. Other times, Chris could only remember her how she looked in that moment. Small and frail and absolutely breakable.
"C'mon," he said, voice still quiet. "'Bout time you really saw what it was like."
Gordon didn't say anything to that - he couldn't. The night that Peggy passed, he'd been at the hotel bar with Foley and the rest of them, drinking on the house after the big win. He hadn't been there and he hadn't known. It was a guilt he lived with without really understanding it.
He understood now. Or almost.
He let the push on his back propel him forward. At the foot of the bed he dug in his heels and just stood there, looking.
"...Peggy," he managed hoarsely, after a long, aching pause. Years and decades had passed since the last time he'd seen his wife, and he'd envisioned their reunion being somewhat more etheral. Perhaps with harps. Not like this, not with her half ruined in a bed.
After a moment, he reached up and crushed the heel of his hand into his eye. With the other, he reached out and pressed a hand against her shin and make a rough, choking noise in the back of his throat.
For his part, Chris suddenly felt like he was peering in something hugely personal. Maybe he should've anticipated that, but somehow he hadn't and he took a slow step back, his head lowered almost reverently as his father seemed to pay his respects.
Chris had seen his father cry before, but not often. For the life of him, he couldn't remember if he had at the funeral or not. Likely, Chris had already been too bitter even then to notice, buried six feet under his own grief to give two shits what his father had felt. A large part of his thirteen year old self had blamed his father for her death; he wasn't sure if that'd ever really gone away.
"I think it'll be soon," he said after a long, long moment of silence, his eyes barely lifting and locking on the immobile figure of her mother. "I remember this part. Maybe a couple hours. Less than a day, anyway."
Gordon nodded mutely, not speaking. In his throat, his voice box was a heavy, painful thing. He covered her ankle with his palm, staring down at her.
"I...Christopher..." He didn't, couldn't, look up at his son. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shaking his head. In his voice, there's something like an apology.
First of all, he hadn't woken up to Lennox. That, in and of itself, was unsettling (even though he had a vague memory of Lennox telling Chris he was going out for a walk), but what was more unsettling was that he'd woken up to Neil of all people ( ... )
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"What?" he demanded, his face becoming a wall, all frowns and lines at his son. He was, as always, immediately on the defensive, pulling up to his full height with only the slightest wince. "I will do no such thing, Christopher. I'm due at the barn any moment. Whatever it is, it can wait."
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He couldn't really stop the way his hands shook, though.
"It can't wait. Come on."
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He glanced at the tremor visible in his son's hands and then back up to his face, his mouth pressed into a thin, solemn line.
"Well?" he demanded, the ever-present thread of defensiveness present in his tone.
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Of course, Chris knew it wasn't going to last long.
Giving a short nod, he motioned over his shoulder back toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, his voice a little quieter, more subdued. "Don't make me fucking carry you, Dad, I'm really not in the mood."
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Finally, he snapped as they drew close to his own home.
"What the hell is this about, Christopher?"
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His father's gruff voice barely registered and he glanced back quickly, almost like he was surprised to find him still there.
"You'll see when we get there," he replied, turning again. Chris knew that he if he actually told him what it was about that his father would either not believe him or stop immediately. The only way to get him to the hut was to get him there blindly.
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Perhaps the Beaver had chewed through the molding. Although, that failed to explain the depth of emotion in his son's voice, or the increasing discomfort that was spreading through his nerves.
He followed with a bruised pride and a childish grimmace on his face.
"Fine then, Christopher. Have your dramatics and high theater. In your own time."
Reply
As they approached the Hamlet, Chris felt as though each step was harder than the last and he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder more frequently to make sure his father was still there, still following. That he hadn't already run off. He slowed a little when they got closer to the hut, falling into step beside his father.
"You're not leaving this time," he said, his voice a low murmur, close to threatening as he guided his father toward the front door.
Reply
"Christopher, for godsake, pull yourself..."
And then he turned as he spoke, stepped down into the common room and stopped. Down to his molecules and his atoms, he stopped. He stumbled backwards, almost tripping. In his chest, his heart did some unnatural stuttering that almost made him light in the head.
He didn't cross himself, but for a moment, it occurred to him. When he spoke, it came out as a wheeze.
"No. No, gods preserve us..." He backed up and back peddled, trying to get out the door. The last time he'd seen his wife, she was in a casket in Bucyk's funeral parlor. The time before that, she'd been in their bed at home and wishing him good bye and good luck.
"...what maddness is this?"
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"She's been here since this morning," Chris told him, voice quieter, subdued, like they were actually in a hospital room. The hospital room. "Neil found her." And there was something almost, but not quite, bitter in that. Neil had found her because, once again, his father hadn't been around. He'd been at the rink. How fucking appropriate.
Nudging slightly, Chris attempted to push his father closer to the hospital bed, to the machines and tubes in the middle of room. If not for the wooden halls and the dirtied floor, Chris could almost have mistaken it for the room he'd shared with her those last few weeks. The bed was the same, down to the dull, monochromatic bed linens and the clunky, outdated machines. And, of course, the woman surrounded by it all.
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Gordon didn't move from the doorway. There was a throbbing ache just below his sternum and his throat felt caked and dry.
"This is insanity," he coughed, his eyes on her face, unmoving. "This is...this isn't right, Christopher."
Reply
Somehow he knew his father wouldn't move forward from that spot unless forced and he took a deep breath, his hand sliding to the center of his father's back and gently, but definitely firmly, pushed him toward the bed.
There were times when Chris's memories of his mother were nothing but happy. When he'd been small and she'd sing to him, play games with him and tell him all about how great a curler he'd grow up to be. Other times, Chris could only remember her how she looked in that moment. Small and frail and absolutely breakable.
"C'mon," he said, voice still quiet. "'Bout time you really saw what it was like."
Reply
He understood now. Or almost.
He let the push on his back propel him forward. At the foot of the bed he dug in his heels and just stood there, looking.
"...Peggy," he managed hoarsely, after a long, aching pause. Years and decades had passed since the last time he'd seen his wife, and he'd envisioned their reunion being somewhat more etheral. Perhaps with harps. Not like this, not with her half ruined in a bed.
After a moment, he reached up and crushed the heel of his hand into his eye. With the other, he reached out and pressed a hand against her shin and make a rough, choking noise in the back of his throat.
For a while, that's all that happens.
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Chris had seen his father cry before, but not often. For the life of him, he couldn't remember if he had at the funeral or not. Likely, Chris had already been too bitter even then to notice, buried six feet under his own grief to give two shits what his father had felt. A large part of his thirteen year old self had blamed his father for her death; he wasn't sure if that'd ever really gone away.
"I think it'll be soon," he said after a long, long moment of silence, his eyes barely lifting and locking on the immobile figure of her mother. "I remember this part. Maybe a couple hours. Less than a day, anyway."
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"I...Christopher..." He didn't, couldn't, look up at his son. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shaking his head. In his voice, there's something like an apology.
"Are you sure?"
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