(Stolen from Pyro - 5 Backstory Memories Meme)
1. He's always been far too good a liar for his own good. Although, times like this, that talent for manufacturing nonchalance somewhere inside and forcing it to the surface, putting up something-that-isn't-heartbreak like curtains and plastic sheeting, is the only thing that keeps him or the church from spontaneously combusting.
He resists the urge to clench his fists at the white sheets of fabric and lace and the way her smile is so much wider when she's with him. Instead, he smiles. He's good at that. Better than burning the whole damn place down, better than slapping them both, better than walking out the door now and leaving the whole mess behind.
She's happy. He should be too. He's not. They think he is.
So as they kiss, the knot in him, the one that keeps tightening and twisting and crushing his breath, the knot just blossoms into a smile and a pat on the back.
2. "Good morning, uncle." She greets him with the customary kiss on the cheek before running over to the kitchen counter to collect breakfast and call up a good morning to Eamon.
"Good morning to you too." Tom smiles, folding the newspaper.
She eats ravenously, directly opposing his leisure. She has school to go to, after all. After finishing devouring her eggs, she looks up at him. "Uncle, can ye put my hair up in a ponytail today?"
"Any specific reason?"
"We'll be painting today in class, and ye must remember the last time we had to wash paint out of this tangle." She pulls at a mass of red waves, smiling.
"Come here. And wipe your mouth, ye've got a bit of egg left. Have ye got a hairtie?" She passes him a blue one and wipes her mouth on a napkin. He ties her hair up, even adding a little twist to it for decor.
"Uncle, am I old enough to drink coffee? I'm almost twelve."
"We'll see in a few years. Ye shouldn't grow up too soon."
She pouts, but changes to grinning as a slender hand feels the twist. "Will ye be there for the football game?"
"Of course. Now run off to school. Don't forget your books this time."
A few moments after she leaves, he stares at one of the papers on the table, a pamphlet for a boarding school, and sighs.
3. Another day passes in the hospital without any contact from the outside world. He thinks they're taking whatever mail he might be getting. He knows Cain would have responded. He doesn't know if Theresa even knows he's here.
He thinks it's funny how vanity has taken the passenger seat to survival. He's only just starting to resent the scars. He still wouldn't trade them for what the alternative was.
He knows he'll never forget falling down that shaft with the blood spiralling after him, trying to grab onto the cable before he broke every bone he knew the name of and a few more, searching for the other half of his face with one twisted, crushed hand because the other couldn't move. Living with that memory is still better than dying.
4. His ear isn't even pressed to the door and he can hear it, each muffled sob from the other side somehow making him feel hollow and brittle. He's never heard a sound this broken before.
He wonders if he'd never told Cain it was just a bit of an extended flu, if he'd have never had to hear this sound. For a few months now he's been feeling ill, and in the last few weeks he hasn't been able to hide it. He'd lied about it just to keep Cain from worrying too much. Then the lying became thinner, and with all that was happening, Cain had finally twigged into what might be true. And of course, Cain never was sure about anything until someone smarter told him it was right.
Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone? Why arrange a meeting with Kelvin, with Proudstar, and set up appointments for Tom with Theresa and a S.H.I.E.L.D. jail? Why listen to things he couldn't stand to hear?
Dammit, Cain. Please stop crying. It doesn't suit you. It's unnerving.
He puts on his jacket and leaves the house. The birds outside can drown out the echoes.
5. "Mr. Cassidy, can you tell me what day it is?"
"Where am I?"
"St. Mary's Hospital of Chicago."
"How long was I out?"
"That's what we're trying to determine. What day is it, Mr. Cassidy?"
"March twenty...twenty-third."
"Mr. Cassidy, it's August fourth."
Well, he thought it seemed a bit warm for March.
He resists the urge to clench his fists at the white sheets of fabric and lace and the way her smile is so much wider when she's with him. Instead, he smiles. He's good at that. Better than burning the whole damn place down, better than slapping them both, better than walking out the door now and leaving the whole mess behind.
She's happy. He should be too. He's not. They think he is.
So as they kiss, the knot in him, the one that keeps tightening and twisting and crushing his breath, the knot just blossoms into a smile and a pat on the back.
2. "Good morning, uncle." She greets him with the customary kiss on the cheek before running over to the kitchen counter to collect breakfast and call up a good morning to Eamon.
"Good morning to you too." Tom smiles, folding the newspaper.
She eats ravenously, directly opposing his leisure. She has school to go to, after all. After finishing devouring her eggs, she looks up at him. "Uncle, can ye put my hair up in a ponytail today?"
"Any specific reason?"
"We'll be painting today in class, and ye must remember the last time we had to wash paint out of this tangle." She pulls at a mass of red waves, smiling.
"Come here. And wipe your mouth, ye've got a bit of egg left. Have ye got a hairtie?" She passes him a blue one and wipes her mouth on a napkin. He ties her hair up, even adding a little twist to it for decor.
"Uncle, am I old enough to drink coffee? I'm almost twelve."
"We'll see in a few years. Ye shouldn't grow up too soon."
She pouts, but changes to grinning as a slender hand feels the twist. "Will ye be there for the football game?"
"Of course. Now run off to school. Don't forget your books this time."
A few moments after she leaves, he stares at one of the papers on the table, a pamphlet for a boarding school, and sighs.
3. Another day passes in the hospital without any contact from the outside world. He thinks they're taking whatever mail he might be getting. He knows Cain would have responded. He doesn't know if Theresa even knows he's here.
He thinks it's funny how vanity has taken the passenger seat to survival. He's only just starting to resent the scars. He still wouldn't trade them for what the alternative was.
He knows he'll never forget falling down that shaft with the blood spiralling after him, trying to grab onto the cable before he broke every bone he knew the name of and a few more, searching for the other half of his face with one twisted, crushed hand because the other couldn't move. Living with that memory is still better than dying.
4. His ear isn't even pressed to the door and he can hear it, each muffled sob from the other side somehow making him feel hollow and brittle. He's never heard a sound this broken before.
He wonders if he'd never told Cain it was just a bit of an extended flu, if he'd have never had to hear this sound. For a few months now he's been feeling ill, and in the last few weeks he hasn't been able to hide it. He'd lied about it just to keep Cain from worrying too much. Then the lying became thinner, and with all that was happening, Cain had finally twigged into what might be true. And of course, Cain never was sure about anything until someone smarter told him it was right.
Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone? Why arrange a meeting with Kelvin, with Proudstar, and set up appointments for Tom with Theresa and a S.H.I.E.L.D. jail? Why listen to things he couldn't stand to hear?
Dammit, Cain. Please stop crying. It doesn't suit you. It's unnerving.
He puts on his jacket and leaves the house. The birds outside can drown out the echoes.
5. "Mr. Cassidy, can you tell me what day it is?"
"Where am I?"
"St. Mary's Hospital of Chicago."
"How long was I out?"
"That's what we're trying to determine. What day is it, Mr. Cassidy?"
"March twenty...twenty-third."
"Mr. Cassidy, it's August fourth."
Well, he thought it seemed a bit warm for March.