Chapter Text
[ Cooper's Point of View ]
Growing up, my dad was absent from my life far more than he was apart of it. The memories I have of him in my childhood are few, but yet he was my hero growing up.
When I was really young, and my mom was pregnant with Lila at the time, I didn’t understand why my dad always left us. We’d be overjoyed the one or two times he came home a month, but he’d often leave just as soon as getting back. My mom tried to explain that my dad what he did because he loved us, and because he was a hero.
I came to the conclusion that life with my dad home was better than when he was gone. And so, I didn’t understand why he couldn’t love us, or be a hero to us, while staying here.
The few longer times he stayed home when I was so young, I remember being some of the happiest memories of my childhood. He took me fishing, gave me his old spy gear or small souvenirs from missions, and taught me what archery was and how to hold a bow. He kept telling me that when I got older, he’d let me fire an arrow. And so every time he came home I would ask him if I could finally shoot.
I didn’t understand why my mom was so devastated when he left. We both cried when he left, but I would simply go out into the barn and practice pulling back bowstrings, or play with what my dad had brought home from me. But my mom’s eyes would remain bloodshot for days after he left. She’d clutch to her phone as if it were her lifeline when he was gone.
She’d cry at random times, and at first it would scare me, but eventually I accepted that my mom was always sad without my dad. I had no idea that she cried not because she missed him, but because she lived in constant fear that he would never return.
In my mind, he was always coming back home eventually. I had no reason to believe anything bad could ever happen to him. And so when I heard my mom crying at night, unable to sleep because of the terrible thoughts she was burdened with, I would climb in bed with her, and fill the empty side of the bed where my dad would sleep.
I would hear her pray every night, hear her say with her head bow and hands clasped tight, “keep him safe.” But yet I would never understand why she did it, until the first time I saw my dad in the hospital.
After that, I learned to pray with my mom every night. And I found myself crying along with her when he left.
After Lila was born, he came home a little more frequently, often with Aunt Nat as well. Me and Lila came to the conclusion that the few times dad was home, especially when he brought Aunt Nat, were the happiest times of our childhood.
Conventional holidays like Halloween, Christmas, even our birthdays, lost meaning. Instead it were those surprise weekends when my dad would show up that we celebrated with good meals, tales of his adventures, and of course he’d spend every free moment playing with us in the yard or around the house.
Most Christmases my dad was never home, especially the older I got. He would usually call, and he’d always leave several presents under the tree, but still it wasn’t Christmas without me. I can only remember maybe two times he was home for Christmas, and one time where he came home Christmas evening and It was the best present Lila or I could have asked for. My mom always made sure we celebrated it every year anyway, she always did so much for us to make up for dad always being gone. But truly, the only Christmases I consider to have had in my childhood, were those when my dad was home to celebrate them with us.
The same goes for my birthday, though my dad almost spoiled me with the presents he’d leave as compensation for not actually being there. Looking back on it, though I was too young or naive to even consider it at the time, half of what he got from SHIELD or work and gave to me was likely illegal. My mom would sometimes scold him for the old tech or even weapons he’d give me, but he always trained me carefully on how to use them. It’s what I remember bonding with my dad most over, having the chance to be somewhat like him.
On my 10th birthday he managed to be there, and he let me shoot my first arrow. I didn’t hit a bullseye, but the arrow didn’t fly over the target either. I can still remember the pride I had when he told me it was better than the first time he shot an arrow, and that I’d make a fine marksman one day.
He wasn’t home on my 12th birthday, but he made for me my own bow, set of arrows, and quiver. I would never use them without him, but instead whenever he came home, he would always set aside time to teach me to shoot. He would grab his old half broken bow that stayed out in the barn when we shot together, because it gave me the upper hand, and he liked to let me hit more bullseyes than him sometimes. He taught me everything he knew, and when he was gone, I would practice every day out back, so I could show my dad the progress I had made while he was gone, and make him proud when he came home.
On my 18th birthday, my mom gave me his bow and quiver, telling me that he would have wanted me to have them when I was older. Aunt Nat gave me his pistol that year as well. She taught me how to shoot a gun, though was impressed and remarked that my dad had already taught me good aim.
On my 19th birthday, I enlisted in the Army, and would end up using both of my dad’s weapons to serve my duty as a marksman. My mom cried when I deployed, and I knew she would continue to cry and pray every night, and for that part I felt guilty. But I found comfort in knowing that like my dad, I was using my skills to save others and be a hero. And for as much as it hurt my mom, little sister, and little brother, I hoped it would have made him proud.