Work Text:
The problem with Simba’s dad is that he’s not like other dads. Other kids, when their parents get mad, there’s some hollering, someone gets a whooping, and then everything’s done. Simba’s dad, though, he’s different.
Dad has never been a loud person. He barely ever raises his voice. Even when he’s preaching, he doesn’t shout so much as his voice just seems to expand to fill whatever space he’s in, resonating through the floor and up into the rafters. So when he gets mad, he doesn't yell. He gets quiet.
You'd think it'd be better not to be yelled at, but you'd be wrong. Waiting on the steps after school, Simba had been wrapping a protective haze of righteous anger around himself, fists clenched tight. If his dad had showed up and started howling at him, he'd have been ready to fight back.
But Dad didn't do that. He had showed up and just looked at Simba in that way of his, and all of Simba's fight had flown right out of Simba’s head. A murmured, “Not now, son. We’ll talk when we get home.” somehow had more power to silence Simba than any amount of cussing.
Now, they're walking home side by side, but they might as well have been walking on opposite sides of the street. Even with his broad hand firmly gripping Simba’s shoulder to keep him from making a break for it, there’s a wall up around his father that Simba can’t break through, one built by the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face. His frown is so deep and foreboding that even old Missus Parker had hesitated to call out when they’d passed her on the street. Simba can feel the storm clouds coming, churning closer and closer with every step they take towards home.
Now that they’re almost back at their flat, Simba’s anger has melted into jittery fear. He knows that he’s in trouble, that he broke the rules, but if he could just explain...
“You don’t get it, Dad!” He snaps as soon as the door shuts behind the two of them.
“Oh? What don’t I get?” His dad hangs his hat and his coat, deliberately not looking at Simba. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
He turns and folds his arms over his chest, laying the full force of his gaze upon his son. Simba falters for a moment under the weight of his father’s attention, but he’s just turned eight years old, almost all grown up now, and he’s no coward. He’s brave.
“It’s just not fair!”
Of course, boy or man, being brave doesn’t make you eloquent.
“Sneaking out of class when you’re supposed to be in school isn’t an act of justice, Simba,” Dad says, and when his eyes narrow, Simba swears that he can feel the sunlight dim.
“I had to, though!”
“And why is that?”
“The kids from the white school dared us! No one else was gonna go, so I had to! They said--!” And then Simba stops, because even though he’s boiling inside, he knows that this is a touchy topic.
“They said a whole bunch of garbage. Said coloured folk are naturally inferior. That we oughta know our place...” He squeezes his fists tight and stares at the floor, willing the stubborn tears itching his eyes to go away. “I had to prove them wrong.”
His dad pauses, and there’s something weird going on with his voice when he says, “You could have gotten an adult instead of running into a dangerous situation like that. I’m disappointed that you-”
“I was just trying to be brave like you!” Simba blurts, because he’s just so mad that Dad doesn’t get it. He regrets it immediately, and half a sniffle escapes him before he stops it, but he’s started so he may as well say the rest. “I know what you do at the protests. People talk. If you can be out there with Ma even though everyone’s trying to stop you, I … I’m your son, right? I gotta be at least brave enough to sneak out of school for a day.”
“Simba…”
Simba doesn’t look up, too focussed on squaring his shoulders and breathing slow, because he’s not a baby. He’s not gonna cry. Not even when Dad crouches down and puts his hands on Simba’s shoulders.
“I’m only brave when I have to be, and being brave doesn’t mean I don’t ask for help.”
“From who? You’re always up on the podium alone when you make your speeches.”
“And it’s your mother who helps me practice before I make them.” Dad’s hands tighten on Simba’s shoulders. “More than that…”
His dad sighs heavily. “There’s a lot of things I haven’t talked to you about, aren’t there?”
Then Dad stands up with a groan.
“Come here. I want to show you something.”
Simba follows him through their flat, until they’re at the windows overlooking the alley.
“Don’t tell your mother that we’re doing this,” Dad says, eyes glinting as he levers himself out onto the fire escape.
“Really?” Simba breathes, frustration forgotten in the face of his excitement as he scrambles out behind his father.
“Watch your step,” Dad says as he helps Simba climb behind him. Up, up, up they go. Simba almost slips as he clambers onto the roof, but then his dad catches him.
“Woah there!”
He pulls Simba into his chest, and they collapse backwards onto the roof. After a moment of shock, Simba looks up and catches his dad’s eye, and then they start laughing and laughing and they don't stop. Simba buries his face in his dad’s chest, sneakily leaving streaks of wet behind when he wipes his tears with his shirt. If Dad notices, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes Simba by the shoulder and leads him to the other side of the building.
“Look.”
The building isn’t the tallest in the city (how could it be, it's in the coloured part of town), but it’s plenty tall enough for Simba to get a good view of their surroundings. The sun is just starting to set, sending golden beams glinting over the shiny windows of the skyscrapers. The cars and the people below are a constantly moving tide, the hustle and bustle muted by how high up Simba and his dad are.
“Wow…”
“This is why I do what I do, Simba,” his dad says, squeezing his shoulder.
“Because of the city?”
“Not quite." He sounds happy and sad all at once, and it makes Simba frown.
“I don’t get it.”
“Look out there." Dad spreads his hand across the horizon. “Everything the light touches, everything in this city… one day it’ll be yours, Simba.”
His father looks out across the city. In the warm light of the sunset, the deep wrinkles that normally crag his brow seem to have smoothed away. He looks almost like one of the statues of the saints in church, the ones cast in bronze that Simba's not allowed to touch. Simba has a feeling that Dad's seeing something different than what Simba sees, something brighter and bigger, just out of reach.
“A man's time rises and falls like the sun. One day, Simba, the sun will set on my time here and will rise with you. But before that day, your mother and I, and the rest of the protestors, we’re fighting for change. When the sun rises on you, it’ll be to a city that doesn’t see you and think ‘less than’ or ‘coloured’. It will see you as ‘Simba’. That’s why we’re brave.”
His dad turns his head, and his smile is like a second sun, shining warm over Simba’s heart.
“It’s all … for me?”
“Yes. Everything I do is for you.” His dad cradles Simba's face in his big hands and bends his head to kiss Simba’s crown. “You are the most precious thing in my life, my son. Anything and everything I am is devoted to raising you up.”
Big boys don't cry, but here in his father’s arms, Simba thinks that maybe he’s allowed to be small. Just for a little. He clings to him as hard as he can, whispering fiercely, “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Simba,” Dad says, rubbing Simba’s back and tucking his head under his chin. “I love you so very much.”
As they clamber back down the fire escape later, hurrying to get down before Simba’s mother gets home, Simba says, “Hey Dad?”
“Yes, Simba?”
“We’re pals, right?”
Mufasa laughs as he helps his son back into their flat.
“Right.”
“And we’ll always be together, right?”
“Simba…”
There is a part of Mufasa that regrets the path he has walked. He wishes that he could tell Simba “yes” without hesitation. He wishes that he didn’t have to think about the increasing police presence at the protests, about his brother’s growing discontent with the state of affairs, about the ever looming threat of violence that casts shadows over every facet of his life.
But the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
Mufasa can’t hide from the injustice that is woven tightly through the America that they live in, that oppresses his brothers and sisters, that will strangle the bright light of the next generation if it grows unchecked. His people deserve better. His son deserves better.
So Mufasa looks Simba in the eye, and he rubs his hand over the short, tight curls adorning Simba's head, and he demurs.
“Let me tell you something that my father told me." Mufasa gestures to the darkened sky outside the windows. "Never forget to look at the stars. All of our ancestors, the Africans and the Americans, the slaves and the free, they’re up in heaven looking down on us from those stars. So whenever you feel alone, just remember that they will always be there to guide you… And so will I.”
Before they can say more, Sarabi’s voice calls from the entrance.
“Mufasa! What’s this I hear about your son getting in trouble at school?”
And then there are welcome home kisses to give and scoldings to weather and dinner to heat. The conversation is forgotten (for now) as life moves on.