Chapter Text
Jeremy remembered fire.
Booming thunder, roaring flames, then the great groaning of walls collapsing under immense pressure. He had jumped from his bed, thinking at first of an earthquake, but the floor had swiftly stopped moving. A centralised blast, it seemed, meant to do damage but mostly to create panic and confusion, and the realisation made his heart drop.
His father had long grown past keeping secrets from his only son, and Jeremy knew things that governments would spend millions trying to cover up.
He grabbed his bat out of the closet—the only weapon he had at hand, a remnant of his days competing in the local baseball tournament, and he cursed his thoughtless decision to leave his knife in his father’s office—and crept towards the door. He could’ve slipped out through the balcony, but there was too much open space between him and the Conagher estate and he didn’t know if there was a sniper posted outside. That and Jeremy wasn’t about to abandon his father to deal with assassins on his own.
There were footsteps down the hall and unfamiliar voices yelling orders, and the moment the door to his bedroom slammed open Jeremy swung his bat down in a low arc. There was a sickening crunch as the man’s kneecap shattered and his leg bent backwards, and he barely had time to gasp before Jeremy bashed his head in so hard he heard his neck snap. Jeremy didn’t recognise his uniform, but he did swipe the man’s glock and saluted his lifeless body before making his way into the hallway.
Jeremy was innately good at two things: being fast and being sneaky, the former of which he had learned on his own and the latter of which he had learned from his Pa, who was, in Jeremy’s unbiased opinion, a master of stealth.
Neither of those things would help him get past a narrow hall full of armed killers without a scratch.
Good thing Uncle Dell had taught him how to shoot.
The first two men he caught off guard, but the fire had spread and smoke had begun to fill the hallway, and unlike his opponents Jeremy was not equipped with an oxygen mask. The moment his gun ran out of bullets, in the split second it took the men to reload their own glocks, he dashed past them, knocking one of them into the wall with his bat on the way.
The stairs gave under him and he nearly mangled his feet trying to stick the landing. The wood splintered and snapped against the crackling fire, and Jeremy brought his shirt over his nose to minimise the amount of smoke he’d inhale, ignoring the throbbing in his legs which were definitely bleeding. He stumbled his way in the direction of his father’s office, trying to sidestep the flames, and ducked under a beam just before it crumbled behind him.
There was no point in checking the bedroom, which just so happened to be upstairs either way; Pa had told him the evening before that he would be up late falsifying documents.
His foot caught on something and he nearly fell over, and when he bent down to see what he’d almost tripped on, the sounds of the fire seemed to fade away.
The body of one of the assailants blocked his way, very much dead, but that was hardly worth Jeremy’s attention. The thing that caught his eye was the knife sunk into the man’s back at precisely the right angle to sever his spinal cord—a familiar, polished butterfly knife. The weapon his father carried with him at all times and retrieved after every kill without fail.
A gunshot rang out over the burning and Jeremy snapped back to reality. He snatched the knife, not bothering to clean the blood, and made a mad dash for the office. He passed several more bodies on the way, each kill a little less clean than the last, until he burst through the doorway of Pa’s office, whose door had been kicked in.
His entrance grabbed the attention of the only two living people in the room, and Jeremy didn’t even think before he lunged. The man holding up his father dropped him and stepped back, but Jeremy was innately good at being fast. The bat connected with the intruder’s face with a satisfying ‘crunch’, and the man dropped dead, his face unrecognisable.
Jeremy whirled around and fell to his knees.
Papa, he tried to say, but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth. He watched his father mouth his name back, but nothing but blood came out when he coughed—there was so much blood, so much blood that Jeremy couldn’t tell how many wounds there were, let alone their nature, and a treacherous part of his mind whispered that not even Dad can fix this.
He silenced the voice and hauled his father to his feet, who leaned into him with his entire body. Dead weight, the voice hissed, and Jeremy grit his teeth and hobbled towards the back door and onto the lawn, all precautions in case of a sniper thrown away. His legs gave out halfway across the grass and he yelped as he and his father both stumbled on the ground.
Jeremy spluttered, spitting out the mouthful of earth he’d inhaled, and immediately scanned over his father’s face, hoping desperately to find him still awake.
Pa was awake, awake and staring at Jeremy with gleaming eyes and a knowing sorrow, and Jeremy instinctively rejected it, making to stand again.
No.
Pa grabbed weakly at his wrist and Jeremy froze, and when he looked down he saw the unmistakeable model of Pa’s watch around his skin, the one he had given to Jeremy all those years ago which made the wearer invisible. Jeremy looked up, at the clarity in his father’s face, and his eyes burned.
No, another voice in him rebelled, No, no, no no no—
Pa smiled at him, a weak twitch of the lips that Jeremy would’ve missed had he not been watching for the slightest movement. I love you, his eyes said, blindingly bright in the shadow of the night. I’m proud of you, his grip on Jeremy’s wrist said, thumb brushing gently over his skin. Run, his mouth mimed, just as a crash sounded from the house and voices began to approach.
Jeremy shook his head vehemently, blinking away the tears that just wouldn’t stop coming.
He thought of an old piano in a rented apartment, dull mahogany and yellowed keys. He thought of a warm summer day, his knees on the wet sand and an ice cream in hand. He thought of a fancy violin and an angelic voice, of crayons on paper and the soft crooning of a dove. He thought of a late dinner, of laughter and smiles at a familiar table.
He thought of home, and his heart broke.
And when the hand on his fell away and the eyes watching him unfocused, and he felt a breath like a sigh on his face, something in him fractured. The animal clawed and howled and wailed, seeking to maim, to kill, to avenge, to cry and scream and follow in its father’s footsteps like it always did. Jeremy clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut and rested his head against a cold chest.
And just like that, he was numb.
Jeremy remembered every step he’d taken. He had closed his father’s eyes, fastened the watch around his wrist as he stood and pressed the button that was slightly larger than the others, then broken into a dead sprint in the opposite direction from the Conagher estate. His Dad’s house was further away and would be safer.
He remembered, most nights, when the stars shone too brightly and sleep evaded him. Remembered the following months, then the following years, and pulled on the thread of memories until it led him to the present. I love you. I’m proud of you. Run.
Jeremy missed being happy. Jeremy longed for bygone days, ached for safety, yearned for home. Jeremy was no longer a child—he couldn’t play the piano or the violin or the guitar, but he loved to dance and to draw. He was fast and sneaky and deadly, could wield a knife and a gun with the same ease he used to wield a baseball bat.
And on sleepless nights he laid awake, pushed away thoughts of tomorrow and let the memories wash him off into the past.
I love you too, Papa.