Duty Bound
Title: Duty Bound
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Paul Kellerman, Kristine Kellerman; Sara Tancredi, Frank Tancredi; Caroline Reynolds, Terrence Steadman
Word Count: 1300
Rating: PG-13 for some implied incest
Spoilers: slight references to the first 3 seasons
Summary: A patriot makes duty to country the number one priority of his or her life.
Author's Note: Three one-shots, written for the Remember When challenge at pbhiatus_fic. (Shameless plug: this is a fun challenge, and there are so many possiblities. Go write one!) Also, for the Americans on my flist, I thought this might be a good theme for the 4th of July weekend, as well. Have a great holiday! No beta, so bear with me.
He sat at his desk, gripping the pen in his hand a bit too tightly, reaching up every few seconds to anxiously tug at his baseball cap, straightening it habitually, ensuring that the plane of the bill paralleled his forehead at a perfect 90 degree angle. He was all about clean lines. Precision. Uniformity. He looked down at the paper before him so hard his vision blurred, until the words at the top, The United States Military Academy at West Point, wavered before him. They were all about precision as well, of course. They weren’t likely to accept anyone but the best, and as he stared, transfixed, at the bold font, the gallant W emblazed upon the tissue-thin paper, he pulled back slightly, suddenly fearful a drop of sweat would fall from his temple onto the entrance exam. He touched his cap again--it was perfect--and swallowed tightly. Painfully. If he ever hoped to wear a real uniform, if he ever hoped to get out of this house and away from this life, he’d have to get this essay perfect as well.
“Paul?”
He whipped his head up and around. He hadn’t even noticed her in the doorway. “What is it, Kristine?” He knew he was wearing a preoccupied frown, but instead of curbing it, he tapped his pen to his paper impatiently.
Rather than answer him, she sidled into the room, drawing up beside him at his desk. He almost kicked her out; his mouth opened to deliver a biting dismissal, but her small hand on his arm, her expression soft and warm, so unlike his own, stopped him. She’s ten, he reminded himself. She’s only ten, and if things went the way he wanted them to, he wouldn‘t be here at home much longer. Her brown eyes fell upon his carefully penned essay, and he didn’t whisk it away, as he would from anyone else. From any other prying eyes.
He let her read. Eventually, she looked back up to his face. “What’s a patriot?” she asked.
He straightened. He couldn’t help himself. “A patriot makes duty to country the number one priority of his or her life,” he said, and this time, his words were sharp. They were unilateral. They were unwavering and uncompromising. “A patriot is unerring, steady, and consistent. He follows orders no matter what the personal cost.”
“Like a soldier?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m a pacifist,” she said importantly, and he blinked at her in surprise.
His mouth curved into an amused, indulgent smile. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“Yes, I do. It means I don’t like guns and wars. It means I don’t think people need to hurt each other to get what they want.”
Paul scoffed before returning his attention to his essay. This time, it was easier to dismiss her. “That’s because you’re ten,” he told her, his eyes already back on his paper, but even after she’d left, it was a long time before he was able to successfully banish the look of pained yet unrelenting idealism that had remained on her face as she’d closed the door quietly behind her, leaving him to his own thoughts. To his own passions. Maybe, he thought, studying his essay almost fiercely, his little sister was as unyielding as he.
*****
She lay her head in her hands, blocking out the half-finished homework assignment before her as she sighed dramatically for the third time in as many minutes. Apparently, the third time was a charm, because it finally seemed enough to rouse her father’s attention from across the study.
He sighed himself, setting aside his own work to regard her. When he spoke, it was with an air of thinly-veiled annoyance. “What’s it supposed to be about?” he relented.
“Patriotism,” Sara answered, the single word sounding like a confession muffled behind the crook of her elbow.
Frank rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, honey. Certainly you can manage that?”
Sara felt the need, as usual, to defend herself. “I don‘t think,” she began slowly, albeit, cautiously, “I have any idea what patriotism is.” Across the room, she saw her father bring one hand up to his eyes to rub them wearily, but this time, unlike so many others, she had no intention of injuring him. She wasn‘t trying for shock value. “Maybe,” she ventured, still watching him from the partially obscured vantage point of her propped arm against the desktop, “I’m too close to it. Like how when you stand too near something, right up against it, you can no longer see it clearly.”
He tilted his head slightly in a rare instance of mild amusement. “You’re unable to see the forest for the trees,” he agreed dryly.
“Yes.”
“Well, write that, then.”
She lifted her head off her arm to stare at her father hopefully. “Really?”
He only shrugged before turning back to his own work. “God knows it’s true.”
*****
She watched him fill in the bubbled letters of the campaign poster with painfully careful strokes until she couldn‘t stand it anymore. He had only gotten as far as the “n” in Caroline and it wasn’t as though they had all damn day. She yanked it from him, flinching more at his startled, cowering expression than at the single rogue mark of red ink that slashed across the poster board as a result of her haste.
“Let me finish this, Terrence.”
He retreated, but not far. “I still think you’d be fine with just three posters. One for the cafeteria, one for the auditorium, and one for the main hallway.”
“And risk losing? Is that what you want?” He shook his head quickly, but she didn’t relent, her words clipped and angry across the space of the kitchen table. “If I’m not elected school treasurer this year, as a sophomore, how can I expect to be president next year? It’s unprecedented, Terrence. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Well, but you would still have the next year to try for pres--”
“So that makes it ok to lose this time around? Honestly, if you’re not trying to win, I don’t understand why you’d play,” Caroline said coldly, and across the table from her, Terrence’s face fell.
“Sorry,“ he mumbled, and she had to turn away from him completely, rising from her seat to stare out at the freshly mowed lawn and the manicured rose bushes lining the front walkway. She hated it when he did that. She hated it when he was sniveling and weak and pathetic, which was most of the time.
She didn’t realize he’d left the table, the poster abandoned, until she felt his hand on her shoulder, his breath at her ear. “Can’t we just take a break?” he asked softly. “Do something else for a while?”
She tensed anew, and almost as though in response, she felt his hands begin to rub her shoulders, his fingers massaging the tightly corded muscles that never seemed to relax. Or, she admitted silently, almost never seemed to relax. Suddenly, despite the win that hovered just around the corner, just days away, despite the brightly scripted, Caroline Steadman, Patriot for a New Tomorrow shining up at her from the table, she felt inexplicably defeated.
“Yeah,” she answered flatly, reminding herself fiercely that every politician worth anything had a skeleton in his or her closet. Every patriot willing to give up everything had a secret or two or three. “Sure, Terrence.” She felt his lips on her neck, and then his hands leave her shoulders as he moved to pick up the scattered markers on the floor before leading the way down the hallway toward his bedroom. “I’ll be right there.”
She was weak, too, just as weak as he, and she knew he’d never understand that that was why she hated him, and hated herself far more. Weakness was for losers.
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Paul Kellerman, Kristine Kellerman; Sara Tancredi, Frank Tancredi; Caroline Reynolds, Terrence Steadman
Word Count: 1300
Rating: PG-13 for some implied incest
Spoilers: slight references to the first 3 seasons
Summary: A patriot makes duty to country the number one priority of his or her life.
Author's Note: Three one-shots, written for the Remember When challenge at pbhiatus_fic. (Shameless plug: this is a fun challenge, and there are so many possiblities. Go write one!) Also, for the Americans on my flist, I thought this might be a good theme for the 4th of July weekend, as well. Have a great holiday! No beta, so bear with me.
He sat at his desk, gripping the pen in his hand a bit too tightly, reaching up every few seconds to anxiously tug at his baseball cap, straightening it habitually, ensuring that the plane of the bill paralleled his forehead at a perfect 90 degree angle. He was all about clean lines. Precision. Uniformity. He looked down at the paper before him so hard his vision blurred, until the words at the top, The United States Military Academy at West Point, wavered before him. They were all about precision as well, of course. They weren’t likely to accept anyone but the best, and as he stared, transfixed, at the bold font, the gallant W emblazed upon the tissue-thin paper, he pulled back slightly, suddenly fearful a drop of sweat would fall from his temple onto the entrance exam. He touched his cap again--it was perfect--and swallowed tightly. Painfully. If he ever hoped to wear a real uniform, if he ever hoped to get out of this house and away from this life, he’d have to get this essay perfect as well.
“Paul?”
He whipped his head up and around. He hadn’t even noticed her in the doorway. “What is it, Kristine?” He knew he was wearing a preoccupied frown, but instead of curbing it, he tapped his pen to his paper impatiently.
Rather than answer him, she sidled into the room, drawing up beside him at his desk. He almost kicked her out; his mouth opened to deliver a biting dismissal, but her small hand on his arm, her expression soft and warm, so unlike his own, stopped him. She’s ten, he reminded himself. She’s only ten, and if things went the way he wanted them to, he wouldn‘t be here at home much longer. Her brown eyes fell upon his carefully penned essay, and he didn’t whisk it away, as he would from anyone else. From any other prying eyes.
He let her read. Eventually, she looked back up to his face. “What’s a patriot?” she asked.
He straightened. He couldn’t help himself. “A patriot makes duty to country the number one priority of his or her life,” he said, and this time, his words were sharp. They were unilateral. They were unwavering and uncompromising. “A patriot is unerring, steady, and consistent. He follows orders no matter what the personal cost.”
“Like a soldier?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m a pacifist,” she said importantly, and he blinked at her in surprise.
His mouth curved into an amused, indulgent smile. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“Yes, I do. It means I don’t like guns and wars. It means I don’t think people need to hurt each other to get what they want.”
Paul scoffed before returning his attention to his essay. This time, it was easier to dismiss her. “That’s because you’re ten,” he told her, his eyes already back on his paper, but even after she’d left, it was a long time before he was able to successfully banish the look of pained yet unrelenting idealism that had remained on her face as she’d closed the door quietly behind her, leaving him to his own thoughts. To his own passions. Maybe, he thought, studying his essay almost fiercely, his little sister was as unyielding as he.
*****
She lay her head in her hands, blocking out the half-finished homework assignment before her as she sighed dramatically for the third time in as many minutes. Apparently, the third time was a charm, because it finally seemed enough to rouse her father’s attention from across the study.
He sighed himself, setting aside his own work to regard her. When he spoke, it was with an air of thinly-veiled annoyance. “What’s it supposed to be about?” he relented.
“Patriotism,” Sara answered, the single word sounding like a confession muffled behind the crook of her elbow.
Frank rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, honey. Certainly you can manage that?”
Sara felt the need, as usual, to defend herself. “I don‘t think,” she began slowly, albeit, cautiously, “I have any idea what patriotism is.” Across the room, she saw her father bring one hand up to his eyes to rub them wearily, but this time, unlike so many others, she had no intention of injuring him. She wasn‘t trying for shock value. “Maybe,” she ventured, still watching him from the partially obscured vantage point of her propped arm against the desktop, “I’m too close to it. Like how when you stand too near something, right up against it, you can no longer see it clearly.”
He tilted his head slightly in a rare instance of mild amusement. “You’re unable to see the forest for the trees,” he agreed dryly.
“Yes.”
“Well, write that, then.”
She lifted her head off her arm to stare at her father hopefully. “Really?”
He only shrugged before turning back to his own work. “God knows it’s true.”
*****
She watched him fill in the bubbled letters of the campaign poster with painfully careful strokes until she couldn‘t stand it anymore. He had only gotten as far as the “n” in Caroline and it wasn’t as though they had all damn day. She yanked it from him, flinching more at his startled, cowering expression than at the single rogue mark of red ink that slashed across the poster board as a result of her haste.
“Let me finish this, Terrence.”
He retreated, but not far. “I still think you’d be fine with just three posters. One for the cafeteria, one for the auditorium, and one for the main hallway.”
“And risk losing? Is that what you want?” He shook his head quickly, but she didn’t relent, her words clipped and angry across the space of the kitchen table. “If I’m not elected school treasurer this year, as a sophomore, how can I expect to be president next year? It’s unprecedented, Terrence. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Well, but you would still have the next year to try for pres--”
“So that makes it ok to lose this time around? Honestly, if you’re not trying to win, I don’t understand why you’d play,” Caroline said coldly, and across the table from her, Terrence’s face fell.
“Sorry,“ he mumbled, and she had to turn away from him completely, rising from her seat to stare out at the freshly mowed lawn and the manicured rose bushes lining the front walkway. She hated it when he did that. She hated it when he was sniveling and weak and pathetic, which was most of the time.
She didn’t realize he’d left the table, the poster abandoned, until she felt his hand on her shoulder, his breath at her ear. “Can’t we just take a break?” he asked softly. “Do something else for a while?”
She tensed anew, and almost as though in response, she felt his hands begin to rub her shoulders, his fingers massaging the tightly corded muscles that never seemed to relax. Or, she admitted silently, almost never seemed to relax. Suddenly, despite the win that hovered just around the corner, just days away, despite the brightly scripted, Caroline Steadman, Patriot for a New Tomorrow shining up at her from the table, she felt inexplicably defeated.
“Yeah,” she answered flatly, reminding herself fiercely that every politician worth anything had a skeleton in his or her closet. Every patriot willing to give up everything had a secret or two or three. “Sure, Terrence.” She felt his lips on her neck, and then his hands leave her shoulders as he moved to pick up the scattered markers on the floor before leading the way down the hallway toward his bedroom. “I’ll be right there.”
She was weak, too, just as weak as he, and she knew he’d never understand that that was why she hated him, and hated herself far more. Weakness was for losers.