Chapter Text
“You’re my son.” Phil whispers, tears trailing down his face as he holds a crying baby in his arms. “My son, my baby.”
The baby wasn’t supposed to survive. He wasn’t supposed to ever leave this room, he was meant to be still in his parent’s arms. There was supposed to be mourning, a suffocating grief clogging Phil’s lungs.
Instead, he stands in the hospital room, cradling a child in his arms. His lungs are clear as he draws in breath after stuttering breath, the only thing threatening suffocation is the amount of joy he feels.
Kristin, laying on the hospital bed, grins exhaustedly with a hand resting lightly on Phil’s arm.
It’s a blessing, he thinks as his baby grabs at him, and he only pulls him closer.
“Tommy.” Kristin murmurs. His name. The two of them had given up on the name passing their lips laced with affection, never dreamt of the name being anything more than a treasured memory tainted with loss.
“I love you,” Phil whispers to his son as he holds him. “I love you.”
…
Tommy was seven when Kristin died. Phil did everything he could to help him work through it.
He thought they had more time.
The doctors said a few more years, yet all they got were a few months. And Phil has to pull himself together for his son, his son , who will never get another hug from his mother, another lullaby.
But he’s a grieving father who has lost his wife. He’s afraid he’s not good enough.
His fears are assuaged when Tommy, just as clever and compassionate as his mother was, crawls into his bed one night, snuggling up against him, and whispers, “I know you miss Mom. I miss her too. It’s okay to be sad.”
Phil won’t admit it, but a few tears were shed that night after scooping his son into his arms, holding him through their cries.
…
Tommy is 15 when he begins to grow distant. Phil frets, and he tries to figure out what he’s doing wrong.
He’s being too affectionate. He stops initiating touch, letting Tommy do that.
He’s around too much. Tommy stops asking him for homework help, so he stops trying to help.
Tommy doesn’t leave his room as much when he’s home. Which is rare.
Phil doesn’t know what to do, but he tries his best.
…
Tommy is 16 when Phil has a bullet in his chest. When Tommy faces him down, gun in hand, and pulls the trigger.
Phil watches his son’s hands shake, watches the twinge of fear and panic in his gaze.
He isn’t angry, strangely, as Tommy drops the gun and falls to his knees next to Phil.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry- he-” he’s crying now, his son is crying as he lifts Phil’s head and nearly cradles him in his arms. As much as he can, at least, with such a lanky frame. “He made me, he said- said if I didn’t, he’d kill me.”
Phil shushes him, lifting a hand to wipe his tears. His son protected himself. He chose himself over his father, he chose to live . “‘M so proud of you, so proud-” and there’s blood leaking out of his chest, dribbling from his mouth. He’s choking on it.
Tommy leans over him, and Phil opens his mouth, vision beginning to fade.
“I love you,” Phil whispers to his son as he holds him, “I love you.”