Work Text:
2017
It smelled cold.
Not like winter – which tasted metallic and fresh at the same time, no. No, this cold had the aroma that was patently October. Black cats and scudding cloud and ripened pumpkins. It was the earthy snap of fallen leaves and the far off sound of hunter's rifles and the call of geese and ducks headed for warmer lands. For many people, Autumn was their favorite time of year. Maybe... once, when he was younger, Stephen could have said the same.
Now it... it just felt...
The heels of his boots made a soft clomp on the road. He kicked at a loose stone, as he passed the hand painted sign welcoming visitors into town; watching it bounce and roll into the ditch.
Nothing had changed.
That was both startling and expected... in a way. But mostly it was comforting. Years... decades... centuries had passed him by and yet the same post office sat on the corner. The same family-owned general store was across the street – windows still painted with specials that had been special since he was a child. The same local theater with its peeling marquee – the same bakery filled with overpriced and over-baked pastries – the same department store stocked with garments a good decade out of fashion. Still dark but there was no lack of traffic as owners and employees made their way to shops and businesses. One older man – Stephen thought his name was Danny... no, Donald, waved and smiled before unlocking the front door to a carpet and flooring shop.
He could lift any day from his childhood and it would look just like this.
His exhale carried visibly through the air – the chill setting off a shiver and making him miss his robes – the cloak in particular. This wasn't the sort of adventure where a cloak was needed, however, beyond warmth of course. In fact the only arcane item he'd brought with was his sling ring. He could be anywhere in the world in seconds, if needed. So why was he walking? Certainly Wong had been the small voice in his head asking the question for the last five minutes. But, truthfully, he needed this time. He wasn't certain what sort of welcome he'd find, at the end of his walk, and if he took enough time, there was always a chance he'd be summoned back to the Sanctum well before he arrived.
He wasn't sure if that wouldn't be better, overall...
Stephen was half an hour beyond the town, sticking to the verge and surrounded primarily by fields, when he revisited the wisdom of his choices. He was vibrantly aware that a slip of the ring could have him at the end of his journey. He should have left later in the day. To be fair, it was easy enough to forget when the sun rose in Nebraska. It was easy to forget a lot of things – even with an eidetic memory.
Why was he doing this?
The watch on his wrist was a far cheaper model than the one sitting on his bedside table, back at the Sanctum. However, it had the benefit of actually functioning. Nearly 6:15, now; the sun would be up in a little over an hour. His destination, however, was at the end of the driveway just ahead. Stephen blew on his hands before starting down the gravel path.
Carefully cultivated red pines lined either side of the narrow road. They'd begun to go a bit wild, though, in the decade since his last visit. Outside lights, ahead, gave him glimpses of the two-story structure that had changed color ever four or five years when he was young. First white, then an unfortunate yellow, then ultimately red. One last turn and he could finally take in the entirety of the property.
The apple trees had grown thick and gnarled. That shouldn't have surprised him and yet... Each branch was heavy with ripe fruit – many already scattered on the ground. God, he could still taste Mom's pies. He could remember the tradition of canning them every Autumn... right around this time, actually. Steam adding a weighty humidity to the kitchen – his mother's arms red from the heat that rose around glass jars suspended in the hot water. The smell of fruit and spice. Stephen plucked an apple – brushing it against his coat before biting into the flesh. Juice dribbled down his chin and he squinted at the tart twist of flavor – cool sweetness following and he wiped at the stickiness caught in his goatee. He chewed as he walked – bypassing the house for the barn near the back woods.
Once upon a time, cattle had moved through the pastureland, set just beyond the fencing that separated it from the trimmed lawn. But cattle hadn't roamed the hills since before he'd achieved his doctorate. Too much income lost between disease and predation. Tossing his core towards the treeline, Stephen was lifting his hand to the massive sliding door when sudden barking made him hesitate. There had always been dogs on the farm but he was a stranger, here, and he felt that realization cut sharp through his belly. A muffled voice quieted the dog. Work boots clumping across concrete carried through the thick wood and, moments later, the smaller side door creaked on hinges that likely hadn't been oiled since Stephen was a child.
An enormous black dog darted out onto the packed dirt surrounding the barn. Stephen couldn't help smiling – recognizing the breed as Newfoundland. Typical of the breed, the big animal approached amicably – tongue lolling out with no trace of aggression.
“Hey, boy...” Kneeling, Stephen twisted his face away from the tongue that swiped towards his cheek – though it managed to lap across his ear. A few rubs on the shaggy head and he pushed up again – aware of the silent form watching him. Finally he returned the look.
“Hi, Dad.”
Eugene Melvin Strange looked at the son whom he hadn't spoken to, face to face, in nearly a decade. Seventy-one that summer but one wouldn't know it from his features. Only his hair gave it away – almost pure white save for some lead grey streaks near the temples. Well after the moment between them had become awkward, he gestured towards the house.
“I could use a cup of coffee. You planning to stay a while?”
Stephen nodded – one hand still stroking across the large dog's head. “Yeah. I was, uh, hoping we could...”
“Great. Lock up the barn, would you? I'll go put the pot on.” And with that, Eugene whistled the dog to his side and the two of them headed towards the house.
Well that could have gone worse. Rather than simply lock the door, Stephen allowed curiosity to lead him inside. Gone were the smells of animals – the wild mix of warm fur, hay, and oats that had always been so appealing. He used to nibble at raw oats – the taste like seeds and fresh grass. In its place was the powerful sharp tang of varnish and furniture stain; enough to trigger an involuntary sneeze. Rubbing his nose, Stephen pressed forward – back towards the stalls that used to house the cattle as well as one disgruntled boar. Now, those spaces had been filled with tools and furniture in various states of completion. A second sneeze was brought on by the sawdust that still hung in the air where his father had been at work with a table saw – trimming down lengths of wood that had some eventual purpose he couldn't quite discern. On the other side of the barn, completed pieces stood behind sheets of plastic, that had clearly been hung to keep contaminants from settling on the freshly varnished surfaces.
Stephen could remember his father always having some interest in furniture building. He'd built a roll top desk for Stephen's mother for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Beverly Strange had used that desk often – both as a place to draft letters as well as work on her stories. She had never quite managed to publish anything but she had completed five manuscripts before she had taken ill.
Another sneeze hit sharp across his sinuses so Stephen called an end to his explorations – locking the outside door and following the path to the house.
-
A mourning dove began to call as Stephen reached for the outside door. The sky had started to brighten into subtle shades of peach while he'd been in the barn. A soft breeze lifted the branches of the trees and the hushed movement of the leaves, above, chased the thudding silence that had felt like pressure against his eardrums. The dog looked up from its spot in the garden where it had dug a shallow hole – tail thumping against the earth. Stephen gave it another pat as he walked by.
Boots crunching over pea gravel, Stephen pushed open the screen door. The entryway was, at one point, a small garage. Back in the late 70s, when Stephen had still been an infant, his father had made a number of renovations to the house. Not every alteration had met with his wife's approval, of course, and she had complained for years about the ugly entryway. Primarily because Dad tended to use the space for storage. And, even so many years later, it still housed various odds and ends. Oil cans were stacked in one corner. In another was a pile of firewood as well as mis-cut lengths of finished lumber. Near the door rested an open bag of dog food. Again, that sensation of familiarity was enough to give Stephen a head rush. He half expected his mother to call to him to stop dallying outside and to come in and get a cup of coffee.
The small landing, just beyond the door, had new tile beneath the floor mat. Without even thinking about it Stephen slipped off his boots and left them neatly arranged on the shoe rack alongside his father's boots. The sound of the pot clanked against the heating element as he stepped up the three stairs into the kitchen. Eugene met him there with a mug.
“Black, right?”
Stephen nodded as he accepted the cup. “Thanks.” The coffee was rich and wonderfully hot – enough to trickle a shiver through Stephen's limbs. He enjoyed the heat for a moment, eyes closed. When he opened them again, though, it was to catch his father's gaze flickering across the scars on his hands. Noting that he'd been caught looking, Eugene merely turned away to head for the refrigerator.
“Got some eggs, bacon... I could even mix up some pancakes if you want. Not sure what you eat these days...”
“The coffee is fine.” Stephen hadn't meant to sound dismissive but, given the way his father thumped the package of bacon on the counter, it was clear the older man had taken it that way. Retrieving a cast iron skillet from the tall cabinet alongside the stove, Eugene clanked it against the range before striking a match – holding the flame near the clicking pilot until the gas caught in a brief flare. Setting the heat, he moved the skillet into place and then began opening the butcher paper containing the bacon. Roughly a pound of bacon was parceled out; lengths sliced in half before being arranged in the skillet where they began to sputter. In moments the smoky sweet scent of maple cured bacon began filling the kitchen. Stephen's stomach rumbled, much to his indignation. He finished his coffee; setting his cup on the counter, before going to the refrigerator and digging out the carton of eggs. His father said nothing as Stephen set another skillet on the heat – just continued on with breakfast preparations. One by one, Stephen cracked three eggs into the skillet. However, on the forth, his hand spasmed and the egg dropped to the floor.
“Dammit...”
While Stephen grimaced and rubbed at the twitching muscles in his fingers, his dad knelt with a wad of paper towels and wiped up the ruined egg. Tossing the mess into the trash beneath the sink, Eugene washed his hands; speaking while his back was turned.
“Still hurts?”
The trembling hadn't abated but, long resigned to its permanency, Stephen resumed tending the eggs – carefully adding a forth and satisfied when it made it into the pan this time.
“Comes and goes. Some days are worse.” No point in mentioning why it was worse. Over-extending himself in battle had affected more than his hands but at least the technicolor vomit seemed to be over with. Silence resumed, once more, save the snap and pop of frying bacon. As the proteins neared completion, Eugene dropped thick bread in the toaster. While the bread toasted, the two of them collected butter, jam, and seasoning to the table. Minutes later the food was ready.
The heavy wood table used to be covered in a white lace tablecloth – stained on one edge from a mishap with the cranberry sauce one Thanksgiving. Now, however, it was just the veneered surface which appeared to have become a collection station for everything from tools to newspapers to old mail. Eugene simply pushed things out of the way until there was space for them to set down their plates.
Breakfast, like most of the preparation, was a silent business. Eugene rarely spoke during meals at the best of times. Had Wong been present, they'd have already been well into a debate about the writings of Xenophon or Diogenes of Babylon. Of course, breakfast was also the only meal the two sorcerers regularly shared together.
“More coffee?”
Stephen blinked; attention shifting back to the farm house and the sight of his father rising from the table. “Uh... no... I'm good; thank you.” Swallowing the last bite of toast, Stephen pushed the empty mug away along with his plate. His father was still in the kitchen – looking out the small window over the sink while sipping his fresh cup. Stephen leaned over his elbows on the table.
“So... how... uh... how have things been? Around here? With the farm?”
Eugene shrugged; glancing his way only briefly before turning back to the window. “Bout as well as could be expected.”
Should have accepted a second cup of coffee, regardless of the acid reflux it would trigger. At least it would give his hands something to do while he scraped fragments of conversation from his father; much like taking a tissue sample from an infected organ. By now the sun was spreading long beams of dazzling light across the kitchen. Back when the farm still kept cattle, his father would already be heading off to turn the animals out into the back pasture. As it was, Eugene grabbed a cardboard bakery box off the counter and returned to sit down across from Stephen. Flipping back the top, Eugene plucked free a cake donut.
“Got these in town yesterday. There's plenty if you want one.” Eugene had always loved sweets.
Stephen chuckled and held up a hand; shaking his head. “Nothing for me.”
Chewing a bite, Eugene washed it down with a long swallow of coffee. “Probably could do with a few more calories. You've always been too skinny.”
“I've got Mom's metabolism.” Somehow, even as he said it, he felt it land wrong. He wasn't surprised when his father frowned and looked away. Stephen followed his gaze. On the wall, above the framed Air Force medals and a collage of Polaroids, was a black and white wedding photo. It had been a decade since his mother had passed. Cancer.
Stephen said nothing – not really even certain what to say. His father, though, sighed and set the remainder of his donut on the table. “Twelve years. Feels like its just been a day, sometimes.” He paused – wiping crumbs to the floor with his fingertips. “It's like I blinked and my whole family vanished.”
His throat thick – Stephen rubbed a thumb across his knuckles. “I'm sorry. I should have come home sooner.”
Eugene snorted. “What for? You closed that door when your mother died.” he shifted in his chair – wadding up the remainder of his donut in a hunk of paper towel. “And it's not like there's anything around here I need a doctor for.”
And that, of course, struck exactly to the heart of the problem.
“I know you blame me for Donna-”
Eugene shook his head and laid a hand flat on the table. “I really don't want to dig that up again, Stevie.”
“We never talked about it.”
“Why would you want to? Why in the hell would you think I want to?” His hands now braced on the tabletop, Eugene appeared ready to stand and walk away. “Kid, I haven't heard from you since goddam aliens, or whatever, invaded New York. You finally decided to do a welfare check and the first thing you want to do is talk about your dead sister?”
Stephen pressed his lips tight. Following though on his motion, Eugene stood and shoved his chair to the side with a scrape – sweeping up his mug before carrying it to the kitchen to deposit in the sink.
The silence between them carried only the sound of Eugene's wool sock clad feet shifting against the linoleum in a faint scrape of grit. Finally the older man breathed out.
“You should have called to say you were coming-”
“Why, so you could tell me not to bother?” Stephen crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair. Behind him, his father snorted.
“I'm not the one who decided to move six states away.”
Fingers itched to slip on his ring. He and his father, while not distant, had likewise not been terribly close. He had been far more like his mother. It was Donna who had been the apple of their father's eye. She had been the one to go with Dad to the barn every morning to milk the cows. She had been the one to learn how to drive the tractor. She had been the one to practice piano every week so she could accompany their father when he'd dig out his guitar. After Donna's death...
Eugene breathed out heavily. The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight – groaning as he scrubbed fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry.”
Stephen blinked at his hands – frowning as he lifted his head. “What?”
Callous thickened hands tapped against faded overalls. “I... promised your mother. When she was...” he cleared his throat over a sudden rasp. “I promised her that we wouldn't fight. She threatened to haunt me.”
Stephen, abruptly, felt a smile pull at his lips. “Yeah?” he tapped his fingers against wood, “She made me promise the same thing.”
They both chuckled, then. Outside, the dog gave a few deep barks. Eugene glanced out the window. “Bodie hates the crows. Damn things are always crapping on the truck.”
For whatever reason that set Stephen off and he found himself laughing – his father joined him moments later. As their hilarity died away, Stephen yawned and scrubbed at his eyes while Eugene approached – hesitating a moment before finally resting a hand on Stephen's shoulder.
“Look I'm... Whatever issues we got... I'm still glad you came.”
Stephen patted his father's hand – nodding. “Me too, Pop.”
-
Bodie heaved himself out of his dirt nest as the two men stepped outside once more. Dew gleamed on a lawn scattered with red and gold oak leaves and Stephen inhaled deeply – face tilting towards the sky. Eugene shrugged on his coat before digging a cigarette from a beat up pack. He cupped his hands around a match and lit up – the sharp tang of nicotine coating the air as he breathed out.
“Thought you quit.”
Eugene shook out the match before tossing it onto the gravel. “I did.” He didn't bother to elaborate. Stephen rolled his eyes and looked out on the old field – now mostly tall grass and brambles.
“I remember when that was a vegetable garden.”
Smoke curled up around his fingertips as Eugene gestured off to the left. “Still get asparagus coming up every spring. Sometimes I even manage to pick a few before the animals get to them.”
They stood quietly together as Eugene worked his way through his smoke – finally dropping the remainder to the ground where he crushed it out under his boot.
“You planning to be in town a while?”
Stephen tucked his hands in his pockets – the cold morning sending small bursts of pain down his fingers. “I promised a friend I'd be back tonight.” Not entirely true. Wong had assured him they would get by just fine for a few days. But, even with the defeat of Kaecilius, and the threat of Dormammu eliminated, the Sanctums were still vulnerable. Rebuilding the London Sanctum would take time, which left New York and Hong Kong to carry the protections for the planet, until the balance could be restored.
“You flew all the way here just to turn around and head back? Seems a hell of a waste of money. You could have just called if all you wanted was a chat.”
Stephen bit his tongue on several replies – not wanting to stir up another round of arguing. They both knew how well their last phone conversation had gone. Instead, Stephen shrugged.
“I actually didn't fly.”
His father snorted. “Well you damn well didn't drive unless you've got a car that can do five-hundred miles per hour. Of course, knowing you...”
“I walked.”
Eyebrows lifted, then. “Walked.”
Stephen pulled his hands back out of his pockets – slipping the double loop of his ring over two fingers.
“There's something I want to show you, Dad.” he flexed his fingers. “I know you heard about my accident.”
Eugene nodded. “Driving too fast in that damn car. You always drove too fast.”
Remembering humility, with as much grace as he could stitch together, Stephen dipped his head to the side. “I appreciate you not saying 'I told you so'.”
His father grunted. “It was implied.”
Holding up his hand, Stephen allowed his father to see the ring he wore as well as the overlapping scars. “I spent nearly everything I had trying to find a way to repair the damage.” he let his hand drop again. “Nothing worked. So finally I turned to the last option remaining. I heard about a place in Nepal called Kamar Taj. They... uh... they offered me a different path. A better path...”
Now it was Eugene's turn to hold up his hand. “Hold on – you telling me you found religion or something? And, what, now you're here to collect donations or pass out tracts or some sorta bullshit?”
Stephen's laughter shook through his chest. “Uh, nooooot exactly...” Then, raising his hands once more, he began to rotate the left in a circle.
And a burning void of fire opened up in the space before them.
Eugene, frozen in place, appeared to have lost his capacity for speech. Finally he sputtered – taking a step back. “What in holy hell...!”
Stephen placed a hand on his father's arm.
“Dad, you've always said there are things in the world that can't be explained. You often told the story, when Donna and I were kids, about the time your B-52 was shot down over Laos. You and your crew survived, though you had all sustained injuries. You lost your way in the jungle and were certain you'd be found by Viet Cong.”
His father, eyes still fixed on the portal, nodded. “We... we, uh... We had lost our supplies. We'd been walking in circles for days. But then...”
“Then you were found. Not by the Viet Cong – but by a US soldier.”
Eugene nodded. “He waved us towards him. Didn't say a word. Just started walking. And we were so tired... desperate... we followed. Three days later we arrived at an Army base. We were all taken to the medic tent to get patched up. Musta slept fourteen hours. When I woke up, I asked about our guide.”
Stephen, very familiar with the story, finished it when Eugene trailed off. “Nobody knew who he was. The only people the soldiers had seen, emerging from the forest, had been you and your men.”
Eugene nodded.
Stephen gestured back to the portal. “In Kamar Taj, I learned how to connect with the energy that flows through the universe – to harness that power and transform it.”
Dubious, Eugene crossed his arms. “That some fancy way of saying you learned magic tricks?”
Grinning, Stephen shrugged one shoulder. “Somewhat.” He rubbed Bodie's ear as the dog stepped between them. “You never found out who your mystery guide was. And nobody could identify him. It was as though he had vanished into thin air.”
Eugene, mouth twisting down, nodded.
Placing his hand on his father's back, Stephen led him forward. “I want you too see something.”
Eugene's eyes went wide as they passed through the burning circle; flinching away from the orange flames... as they stepped out onto a rock strewn beach surrounded by slate grey mountains. He turned, stunned, as Bodie jumped through the portal behind them. Then, with a gesture, Stephen allowed it to close. As his father blinked at his surroundings, struck silent, Stephen rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome to Alaska.”
-
They used the portal throughout the day – though Eugene never quite lost his hesitation in walking past the burning ring.
He had always talked about taking a trip to Alaska, “when he could get the money together”. He'd wanted to take Beverly around the world. Talked about it, in that far off way, while sorting through bills and past due statements; while their children were born and grew and needed things such as clothing, food, school supplies... The dream of travel went from an active goal to idle daydream. Until, eventually, it was buried in a graveyard along with his wife and daughter.
Yes, he had blamed Stephen. Not just for Donna, whom Stephen had promised to look after when they had gone swimming that one day in June; but also, years later, for his mother. Stephen had been a resident when Beverly had taken ill. The cancer had moved fast – six months after her diagnosis, Beverly had passed while sitting beside him on the back porch – watching the sun fade into evening. Stephen had only come home once that whole time. For years, Eugene had held that against his son – along with him not, somehow, discovering a cure. There had been one argument, in particular, the day of Beverly's funeral. Words were spoken which neither one could take back. Stephen had not come home again, after that.
Eugene watched as his son threw a long piece of driftwood for Bodie – the dog racing along the shore and splashing into the waves. This was their last stop before they would head back through the portal for home. He had carried his grief and resentment for years. Carried it even while knowing that there was nothing Stephen could have done to save his mother. Or his sister...
Somehow, letting go of the blame had hurt worse than continuing to carry it. He had hoped it would fix things... somehow. He just wasn't certain about anything, though.
Far out on the waves, a blast of water and air erupted into the sky. Moments after that, a huge, curved back rose up from below – a long fluke slapping the surface as a whale rolled onto its side. Soon, another whale joined the first; then two more after that – each of them rolling and diving – tails lifting high. A short distance away, Stephen had stopped to watch, as well. Walking across the scattered rocks and broken shells, Eugene joined his son.
-
It was well after dark when they returned to the farm. Stephen followed his father through the portal – Bodie racing past them both and towards the farmhouse door. With the portal closing shut, the yard became nearly black; save for the motion detector above the screen door.
Eugene, who had retrieved a large scoop of dog food, emptied it into a metal bowl near the door.
Stephen hesitated; fingers flexing. The silence around them pressed against his eardrums. As a child he'd been afraid of the dark. During the daytime he had loved exploring the forty acres of woodland beyond the barn. He and Donna had played in creeks and climbed trees – though her lighter frame had always gone higher than he'd ever dared. But when night closed in it made him incredibly aware of the endlessness above – nothing between him and the eternity of stars but the pull of gravity.
Donna had loved it – all the constellations and the rare meteor. She'd always been the brave one.
Stephen pulled at his coat sleeve. “Dad, I...”
“It wasn't your fault.” Eugene still had his back to him; blunt fingers digging into the fur on Bodie's shoulder as the dog wolfed down his food. Pulling in a heavy breath, he turned – though his eyes looked off towards the edge of the yard, still lit, by the soft yellow cast of the single large bulb. He shifted his feet.
“I know you...” he cleared his throat, “I know how much you loved your sister. And I... I, uh, know you tried... son. I know you tried. Frankly, I stopped blaming you a long time ago.” He rubbed at his forehead before swiping his palm across his mouth. A bat swooped low over them, drawing a small woof from the dog, before it twisted sharply and vanished into the darkness.
Leaning his weight on one hip, Stephen shook his head. “Let me guess. That was Mom, again; wanting us to bury the hatchet so she guilted you into forgiveness.” He sighed – gravity pulling at his limbs.
His father, for once, didn't rise to the bait. “I knew it wasn't your fault from the start. I know you almost drowned, yourself, when you got a cramp in your leg. And I know the neighbor's boy, Jimmy, had to pull you out.”
Finished with his dinner, Bodie shook himself before wandering over to the welcome mat where he dropped down with a huff.
Stephen frowned – head tipping. “Wait, you knew?” he blinked several times, “Why the hell didn't you tell me all of this before?”
“Well how could I?” Eugene finally looked up at Stephen – glaring. “You almost never picked up when I'd call – you rarely came home and when you did all we'd end up doing is argue. The one time we had a meaningful conversation was after those alien things attacked New York. Hell, I had to find out about your accident from the newspaper – Enoch, down at the station, read it before me and was the one to show me the article. I feel like most of the time I've just been watching your life go on in print.”
Stepping away from his father, Stephen walked until he reached the peeling white fence bracketing the driveway. He rested his hands on the flaking wood – noting the rough shake. His father remained back next to the house – though Stephen could hear his feet shifting back and forth on the gravel. Finally, after several moments of looking up at the stars and picking out constellations, he turned around and rested his elbows on the rail.
“God, we really are terrible at this.”
The snort of breath from his dad, following that observation, was enough to make him smile. Heels crunching, Eugene moved to stand beside him – both of them leaning on the fence with their backs to the dark. With their companionship, unbroken by words, other night sounds began to rise to fill the oppressive silence. Small chirps of frogs, down by the old cattle pond, called back and forth over the still water. Closer – somewhere in the tall brush edging the barn, the steady buzz of cicadas competed with the sharp call of crickets. Stephen crossed his arms and shifted into a more comfortable position.
The air, steadily cooling with the night, chilled the breath as Stephen exhaled. His thumbs tapped against his ribs.
“So, uh...” he licked his lips – eyes fixing on the light above the screen door. “I didn't really know, at first, why I, uh... decided to come home.”
Alongside him, Eugene made a rough sound in his throat – possibly a chuckle – possibly just clearing his airway. But he chose not to speak. Stephen wasn't entirely certain whether or not that was a blessing but, nonetheless, pushed on.
“Something happened – a few weeks ago.” he trailed off again; mouth going slack around the shape of words that formed like soap bubbles – fragile and light and disintegrating before they could be spoken.
His father, surprisingly, was the one to break past the hesitation. “Lemme guess – some sorta magic thing?”
It may have been asked brusquely but it was enough to unlock the words tumbling in his throat. And suddenly Stephen was speaking. Of course Eugene, being Eugene, Stephen wasn't expecting his father to fully buy into the crazy tale he was hearing – even redacted as it was (the man had only just learned that magic was real and the new career choice of his only child – he didn't need to also be hit with “gods from alternate universes bent on global destruction” in the same day). So, it was a little surprising when the man didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. There was no mention of the time stone and Stephen was vague on the details regarding actually dying. Repeatedly and in horrific agony.
Even so, enough of the truth bled through. And as his tremors worsened and his voice grew hesitant – Eugene settled a hand on Stephen's wrist.
It tickled a memory from long ago. Five years old; waking in the night and the little lamp, next to his bed, had burned out. He hadn't cried out but he'd made a noise while huddling beneath the covers. His Dad, who had been just down the hall, had come in to see what was wrong. He'd quickly changed the bulb before sitting on the bed and settling a warm hand on a bunched shoulder – rubbing a soothing touch while telling a story about the time the cows had broken out of the pasture and got into the corn. It had made Stephen giggle and chased away the fear.
It was like that now.
There was no more story left to tell, but they remained side by side until the effect of its telling faded enough for Stephen to gently pull free and push both hands through his hair.
Eugene crossed his arms – looking back towards the house. A short distance away, Bodie grunted as he heaved to his feet – shaking himself violently – before toddling across the yard. Coming to a stop next to Eugene, he sat heavily before leaning his shoulder against the man's legs. On autopilot, Eugene dropped one hand to scrub fingers through the dense fur.
After many minutes passed, Eugene sighed. “So what do you plan to do? You still planning to head out right away or you gonna stay here a while...?”
Stephen shook his head. “No, I should get back.” He rolled his bottom lip through his teeth – looking off in the general direction of the house. “I, um... what I do it... I need to be there.” he finished – fingertips rubbing together.
His father nodded.
He could stay; really. A day – two – certainly wouldn't hurt anything. But for all of their conversation he felt, very strongly, that this camaraderie was a fragile thing. They hadn't even managed ten hours without repeated arguments. It had always been that way. Even before Donna's death, Stephen had constantly found himself at cross purposes with his father. His mother had labeled them oil and water and cliché as the adage was, it was painfully true.
“You have any plans for Thanksgiving?” the question had slipped forth without any preplanning on his part.
Eugene shrugged. “Oh, probably pick up a rotisserie chicken at the deli; same as always. Just as good as anything else, really. Why?”
Stephen shrugged in return. “I thought, maybe, you could join me in New York. We could have a turkey – like Mom used to make.” Wong had never celebrated Thanksgiving, himself, having grown up in Bangladesh before moving to Nepal during the border skirmishes in the early nineties. However, he'd shown some vague interest when Stephen had discussed the holiday – mostly as idle conversation that had grown legs when Stephen had recalled childhood feasts and his mother's chocolate pecan pie.
Resting his shoulders heavily against the fence, Eugene rubbed at his nose – red from the night chill. “I'll think about it.”
Well, truthfully, that was the best Stephen could really hope for.
-
They said their goodbyes not long after that. There was no real ceremony in Stephen's leave-taking; other than the spectacle of the portal opening beneath his hands. Eugene still watched with the same wary wonder that he'd shown the first time he'd seen it appear. Stephen hesitated on the threshold – after both of them had shooed Bodie away. The dog was clearly delighted by the gateway to a million different worlds of doggy exploration.
After a moment, unsure of the protocol when awkwardly reconnecting to a distant and frequently contentious parent, he held out his hand.
“I'll keep in touch.”
With slightly less hesitation, Eugene took his hand in a firm shake; single movement up and down, before releasing. “Maybe call first.”
Stephen smiled; one side of his mustache lifting. “Sure.”
And that was it – really.
But...
Stepping forward, out of the fiery circle, Stephen caught his father by the shoulder as the old man had begun to turn – pulling him into a hug.
There was more hesitation in returning it than had been for the hand shake, but ultimately Eugene responded to the embrace.
It didn't last long – neither one of them were well practiced in overt affection and hugging had become unfamiliar territory once Stephen had reached the age of eleven. But as they parted, once more, Stephen felt something a bit more genuine lift his lips.
“I'll call this weekend. Maybe we can plan another trip, or something.”
His Dad nodded. “Sounds good.”
This time, as Stephen stepped towards the portal, it was his father who called out to him. “Hey, kid? Be safe out there, will ya?”
Stephen nodded – one hand lifted to wave. “I'll do my best. Love you, Dad.”
The wave was returned – a little jaunty – a little more humor than his father had shown in many years. And Eugene smiled in response. “I love you too, Son.”