Fic: And I'll Put Up Mine
Title: And I'll Put Up Mine
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Ben Anderson, Jacob Anderson (kind of), Blaine mentioned.
Warnings/Spoilers: For those of you who remember the Ben!Verse (which is apparently a lot more of you than I would have thought it was), this is about Ben and his father. Which is probably all the warning you need. For the rest of you -- the verse as a whole deals with fathers and aging and dementia and grief and loss and adultery and suicide and is just very angsty and weird.
Summary: It has taken Ben forty-six years to be able to finally say this out loud.
Author’s Note:
Here's the thing: I don't always do Father's Day well. For a very long time, I didn't do it all, but now my brother has a child, and a lot of my male friends are parents, so I have to sort of give it this glancing acknowledgement that's a lot more complicated and awkward than just pretending the whole holiday doesn't exist (which, oddly enough, is the same thing I try to do with my actual father, so). And for whatever reason, this year I needed to write out those complicated, weird, awkward feelings in some sideways fashion.
All of which is to say that this is not really a Father's Day fic. Please don't expect it to be.
(That being said, at least this is Ben!verse Ben, and not LOST!verse Ben. That would be a very, very different sort of a fic.)
Title comes from "Dinner at Eight" by Rufus Wainwright.
"I lied," he says, and feels the first hot flush of guilt and shame twisting at his stomach even as tears start to sting his eyes. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides and resists the urge to look back over his shoulder. Blaine promised to wait at the car, and Blaine is the sort of boy who keeps his promises. And even if he wasn't, even if he's listening right now...
It has taken Ben forty-six years to be able to even consider saying this out loud. He needs to get it out once. Just once.
"When I said I never hated you? That was a lie, Dad." He chokes on the words, forces them out anyway. Tears pool in the thick lenses of his glasses, so he takes them off, wiping furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Although I suppose you knew that all along. You were never the sort to --" He shakes his head. "Honestly, I suppose it wouldn't have mattered even if it had been the truth, would it? You would've assumed. That I hated you. Still. I suppose there's a certain satisfaction in being right. Or, at least, there always was for you. So I'll admit it, just this once.
"You were right. I hated you."
He stares down at his father's headstone for a little bit. They'd offered him several options, of course, but he'd opted for granite. Simple. Classic. And no flowers, of course; his father hated flowers.
His father hated a lot of things.
"I always thought that it was me," he continues, wiping at a few stray tears. He's calming now, now that the worst of it is out in the open. It's easier now, at least a little. "That you loved Mom, and John, and Katie, and that it was just... It was just me. But that's not true, is it? It was never just me. It was all of us. You just couldn't... Sometimes I wonder if you even knew how. Maybe you didn't.
"And I'm sorry for that, Dad. Whether or not you'd appreciate it -- and you wouldn't; of course you wouldn't -- I'm sorry. That you missed so much."
Ben takes a deep breath. The ground doesn't open up to swallow him, and lightning doesn't come from the sky to strike him down. Two down. One to go.
"So I realize that you didn't know what you were doing, when you told me about... About your friend. Roger." The tears come back, just when Ben thought he had them pushed away for good; he takes his glasses off again, folds them up carefully and tucks them in the pocket of his shirt. "When you said... When you said that I wasn't yours. That was the last thing you said to me, Dad. Do you realize that? The very last conversation you and I ever had, you said I wasn't yours. That I never had been. Do you realize what that --" And it's too much to continue, too much to get it out, and he bows his head, breathes in and out, shaky. Thinks about Blaine waiting for him at the car, and keeps breathing. "But I suppose you meant it as a compliment, in your own way. Because you didn't -- you couldn't understand.
"But you were my father. You were the only father I had ever had. And even if I hated you, I could never...
"I hated you."
He takes a deep breath, swallows hard.
"I also loved you. Because you were my father. And you still are, no matter who says differently. You always were, and you always will be."
Above him, the leaves of the trees rustle gently. There's a gentle murmuring from a family a few graves down from him, and the sun is warm and gentle on his shoulders, and Ben pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and hides his face until the worst of it is over.
And when it is, he puts his handkerchief away, and stares down at the green grass of his father's grave, and catches his breath for a few moments.
"For what it's worth," he says, quietly. "And while I'm in a confessional mood. You weren't totally wrong about Miranda. Yes, she cheated. Once. After Blaine. It was... It was a difficult time for her, and I suppose I wasn't as attentive as I could have been, and -- But that was after Blaine, and not before.
"And even if it hadn't been, or if there had been another time..." He shrugs and takes his glasses back out of his pocket. The lenses are a little splotchy from his tears, a little smeared, and he cleans them off on his shirt before putting them back on. "Well. You know as well as I do that it wouldn't make a difference. I can't disown him any more than I can disown you.
"To be honest, I don't even really care to try."
Ben looks at his father's headstone a little longer. He knows, of course, that Blaine will see that he's been crying. That even if he stood there long enough that his eyes weren't puffy and his nose wasn't red and his hands had stopped shaking -- Blaine would know. Blaine would always know.
He doesn't really mind, of course, if Blaine knows. But he'd like to spare his son the worst of it if he can.
"I used to wonder, you know," he says, and steps close enough to rest his hand on his father's headstone, feel the polished granite cool under his palm. It's a strange thing, to be this close and not get pushed away. He's not sure how to feel about it. "If he would hate me, the way I hated you. But I don't think there's any danger of that, not anymore. It's better than it was, Blaine and I.
"So that's the one thing you were wrong about, Dad. Blaine and I. You were wrong about us.
"And that's really the only thing that matters anymore, isn't it?"
He runs the tips of his fingers over the letters of his father's name.
Dr. Jacob Anderson
Physician, Husband, and Father
"Happy Father's Day, Dad," Ben says, softly, and turns away, and starts making his way back to his son.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Ben Anderson, Jacob Anderson (kind of), Blaine mentioned.
Warnings/Spoilers: For those of you who remember the Ben!Verse (which is apparently a lot more of you than I would have thought it was), this is about Ben and his father. Which is probably all the warning you need. For the rest of you -- the verse as a whole deals with fathers and aging and dementia and grief and loss and adultery and suicide and is just very angsty and weird.
Summary: It has taken Ben forty-six years to be able to finally say this out loud.
Author’s Note:
Here's the thing: I don't always do Father's Day well. For a very long time, I didn't do it all, but now my brother has a child, and a lot of my male friends are parents, so I have to sort of give it this glancing acknowledgement that's a lot more complicated and awkward than just pretending the whole holiday doesn't exist (which, oddly enough, is the same thing I try to do with my actual father, so). And for whatever reason, this year I needed to write out those complicated, weird, awkward feelings in some sideways fashion.
All of which is to say that this is not really a Father's Day fic. Please don't expect it to be.
(That being said, at least this is Ben!verse Ben, and not LOST!verse Ben. That would be a very, very different sort of a fic.)
Title comes from "Dinner at Eight" by Rufus Wainwright.
"I lied," he says, and feels the first hot flush of guilt and shame twisting at his stomach even as tears start to sting his eyes. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides and resists the urge to look back over his shoulder. Blaine promised to wait at the car, and Blaine is the sort of boy who keeps his promises. And even if he wasn't, even if he's listening right now...
It has taken Ben forty-six years to be able to even consider saying this out loud. He needs to get it out once. Just once.
"When I said I never hated you? That was a lie, Dad." He chokes on the words, forces them out anyway. Tears pool in the thick lenses of his glasses, so he takes them off, wiping furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Although I suppose you knew that all along. You were never the sort to --" He shakes his head. "Honestly, I suppose it wouldn't have mattered even if it had been the truth, would it? You would've assumed. That I hated you. Still. I suppose there's a certain satisfaction in being right. Or, at least, there always was for you. So I'll admit it, just this once.
"You were right. I hated you."
He stares down at his father's headstone for a little bit. They'd offered him several options, of course, but he'd opted for granite. Simple. Classic. And no flowers, of course; his father hated flowers.
His father hated a lot of things.
"I always thought that it was me," he continues, wiping at a few stray tears. He's calming now, now that the worst of it is out in the open. It's easier now, at least a little. "That you loved Mom, and John, and Katie, and that it was just... It was just me. But that's not true, is it? It was never just me. It was all of us. You just couldn't... Sometimes I wonder if you even knew how. Maybe you didn't.
"And I'm sorry for that, Dad. Whether or not you'd appreciate it -- and you wouldn't; of course you wouldn't -- I'm sorry. That you missed so much."
Ben takes a deep breath. The ground doesn't open up to swallow him, and lightning doesn't come from the sky to strike him down. Two down. One to go.
"So I realize that you didn't know what you were doing, when you told me about... About your friend. Roger." The tears come back, just when Ben thought he had them pushed away for good; he takes his glasses off again, folds them up carefully and tucks them in the pocket of his shirt. "When you said... When you said that I wasn't yours. That was the last thing you said to me, Dad. Do you realize that? The very last conversation you and I ever had, you said I wasn't yours. That I never had been. Do you realize what that --" And it's too much to continue, too much to get it out, and he bows his head, breathes in and out, shaky. Thinks about Blaine waiting for him at the car, and keeps breathing. "But I suppose you meant it as a compliment, in your own way. Because you didn't -- you couldn't understand.
"But you were my father. You were the only father I had ever had. And even if I hated you, I could never...
"I hated you."
He takes a deep breath, swallows hard.
"I also loved you. Because you were my father. And you still are, no matter who says differently. You always were, and you always will be."
Above him, the leaves of the trees rustle gently. There's a gentle murmuring from a family a few graves down from him, and the sun is warm and gentle on his shoulders, and Ben pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and hides his face until the worst of it is over.
And when it is, he puts his handkerchief away, and stares down at the green grass of his father's grave, and catches his breath for a few moments.
"For what it's worth," he says, quietly. "And while I'm in a confessional mood. You weren't totally wrong about Miranda. Yes, she cheated. Once. After Blaine. It was... It was a difficult time for her, and I suppose I wasn't as attentive as I could have been, and -- But that was after Blaine, and not before.
"And even if it hadn't been, or if there had been another time..." He shrugs and takes his glasses back out of his pocket. The lenses are a little splotchy from his tears, a little smeared, and he cleans them off on his shirt before putting them back on. "Well. You know as well as I do that it wouldn't make a difference. I can't disown him any more than I can disown you.
"To be honest, I don't even really care to try."
Ben looks at his father's headstone a little longer. He knows, of course, that Blaine will see that he's been crying. That even if he stood there long enough that his eyes weren't puffy and his nose wasn't red and his hands had stopped shaking -- Blaine would know. Blaine would always know.
He doesn't really mind, of course, if Blaine knows. But he'd like to spare his son the worst of it if he can.
"I used to wonder, you know," he says, and steps close enough to rest his hand on his father's headstone, feel the polished granite cool under his palm. It's a strange thing, to be this close and not get pushed away. He's not sure how to feel about it. "If he would hate me, the way I hated you. But I don't think there's any danger of that, not anymore. It's better than it was, Blaine and I.
"So that's the one thing you were wrong about, Dad. Blaine and I. You were wrong about us.
"And that's really the only thing that matters anymore, isn't it?"
He runs the tips of his fingers over the letters of his father's name.
Dr. Jacob Anderson
Physician, Husband, and Father
"Happy Father's Day, Dad," Ben says, softly, and turns away, and starts making his way back to his son.