Fic: Unfold
Title: Unfold
Author: kaitmaree77
Rating: PG
Summary: “Oh.” She looks at the glass, and Chase does the same. “Is - did your father come home?”
A/N: A short, but hopefully successful, exploration of Chase’s past - specifically his relationship with his mother. I tend to focus on his relationship with his father, a revelation I made yesterday, and have sought to fix. I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think. Thank you to the lovely enigma731 for beta. <3
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Chase lets his memory drift backwards, sifting through moments passed and lives lost. Filtered for fact, arguments muffled by the protective weight of water. He shuts his eyes, apparitions of the past teasing at the edges of his mind.
He can hear her crying, shouts faded into his father grabbing the keys from the table and leaving. Chase can’t see his mother, but he imagines her face pressed into the arm of the couch as it always is - the result of every loveless fight.
He pokes his head cautiously around the corner, the way a young child might, after hours of silence have passed. He knows what this means, and the image doesn’t surprise him. Lying unconscious, glass haphazardly upturned on the coffee table, he sees his mother. Grey, he thinks, the colour of the day long gone - it’s all grey nowadays.
“Mum,” he whispers, not expecting or necessarily wanting a response, “are you awake?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, but when she does open them, Chase finds himself very lost in her eyes. In the lines of her face. Physical representations of the damage worn by a lifetime of expectations, he ponders, and settling for misery. Or maybe the physical manifestation of giving up. “Robert? When did you get home?”
“I - I’ve been here this whole time, Mum.” He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know why. It’s his father that terrifies him; his mother just makes him ache inside.
“Oh.” She looks at the glass, and Chase does the same. “Is - did your father come home?”
He shakes his head, and she merely nods. Neither have expectations of Chase’s father anymore. Priorities shifted what feels like immediately following Chase’s birth. “Mum?”
“What is it?” She shifts and reaches for the glass, semi-stumbling to the kitchen where she places it among countless unwashed dishes beside the sink. Chase follows her and leans against the doorway.
“I - nothing. Never mind.”
She turns around and looks at him. Initial annoyance, he notes, but quickly there’s that look he knows oh too well now. Utter ache, desperation - maybe even pleading. And yet everything about her takes a stance for refusing help. Imagine someone begging you to save them but never letting down defenses.
He turns on the kettle, because this is what they do. Denial in the form of tea, of holding his mother’s hand when the person supposed to love her the most refuses to acknowledge his family. Of pretending that everything is okay when, in fact, normality hasn’t been present in years.
They sit beside each other on the couch; she even rests her head on his shoulder as the daily news flashes across the television screen.
And then she starts to cry, and Chase finds himself wondering whether this is the most heartbreaking sound in the world, or if the silence typically echoing off the walls in fact is.
Chase wakes up to find himself crying. His cheeks are wet and his chest is raw from heart filled sobs. Cameron is holding him, arms wrapped around him in an envelope of protection. She’s whispering soothing words, rubbing his back in an attempt to get him to stop shaking.
“Tell me,” she murmurs, “tell me.” Over and over, against his skin, words of utter desperation to save him.
“I can’t,” Chase sobs, still shaking, “I’m sorry, I just can’t…”
Cameron presses her hand against his cheek, turning him to face her. “You can. I know you can, Chase.”
He inhales sharply, possibilities and consequences tumbling threateningly in his mind. “My parents…” He chokes, and finally starts to let himself unfold.