Work Text:
It had been five days.
Hardly any time at all, and yet an eternity.
Jeff paced the twenty feet of floor space almost unconsciously, turning on his heel each time he neared a wall, stepping automatically over Gordon’s toy boats, one hand rhythmically stroking Alan’s back. The nine-month-old was asleep now. Probably. One could never be sure with Allie. Lucille always called him her little possum.
Used to call him.
Jeff closed his eyes without pausing, footsteps continuing their even tread. He was so tired. Numb and restless and limp and shaky and ready to sleep for a year—except he knew that the moment he lay down, his brain would catch fire, burning away any chance of sleep. He envied Alan his obliviousness. The baby knew that his mother was absent—still cried with confusion for at least a minute every time he was offered a bottle—but he didn’t understand, not really.
The other boys weren’t so fortunate. Jeff opened his eyes and took a silent roll call, as he had every few waking moments for the past 114 hours. Scott and Virgil were curled up on the hospital bed together, the older boy slumped groggily against his little brother’s shoulder, both sets of eyes closed. Scott was looking better, at least—his colour was normal, and there’d been no lasting side-effects from the hypothermia. The concussion would pass, and the ribs would heal. Jeff found himself hoping that the head injury had chased away his son’s memories of the avalanche for good. The very idea of Scott having to deal with that kind of trauma for a lifetime sent sick twists through his father’s gut. It was better that he never remember.
Gordon was on the floor at the foot of Scott’s hospital bed, moving a pair of LEGO boats around one another in abstract patterns, lips pursed in concentration. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t actually crying, thankfully—for the first two days, he’d barely stopped, clinging to his grandmother’s leg or Virgil’s arm or anything he could reach, asking for his mother over and over again. Someone in the neighbouring room had complained about the noise, and Jeff had nearly punched them.
John was sitting against the wall, back straight, knees hunched, tablet against his thighs. He was reading. He usually was, even before. But there was an unblinking intensity in his stare that caught Jeff off-guard, and he wondered how much of the content his middle son was actually taking in. It would be a good idea to get him outside for a while. Maybe when Mom got back, Jeff could take him and Virgil and Gordon out to the park down the road. They all needed to be able to breathe without the sting of hospital in their throats.
Jeff watched as John’s finger flicked across the touchscreen, the tiny face neutral, lower eyelids dark with shadows—and suddenly, heart thudded against lungs and cut his breath short.
Gordon had screamed and cried. Scott had fretted deliriously and then wept, trembling, against his father’s chest. Virgil had been a tiny rock for everyone, comforting and clinging to his brothers even as he sobbed himself.
But John … John hadn’t said a word, hadn’t shed a tear. Not for five days.
How had Jeff not noticed?
Lucille would have noticed. Lucille would have fixed it. She was always the best with Johnny—coaxing out giggles with stories and smiles, convincing him seriously that sleep really was actually a good idea, instructing him in proper tea-making procedure with the same sort of gravity he’d give nuclear physics. She knew how to handle him. Jeff … did not.
He forced himself to exhale normally, running a thumb along Alan’s back. “Virgil,” he said softly.
Hazel eyes opened and blinked drowsily up at him. “Mmm?”
“Take Allie for a second, okay? I’ve got to make a call.”
Virgil shifted cautiously, careful not to disturb Scott, and held his arms out. Jeff placed Alan in them, and Virgil cradled his baby brother comfortably against his chest and shut his eyes again.
Jeff slipped out into the hall and shut the door, fumbling for his phone. Two rings and his call was answered. “Sally Tracy.”
“Mom.” He forced his voice to stabilise. His mother had gone back to Gran Roca, to get the house ready for their return once Scott was discharged. There were things that she had to do, and she didn’t need the added worry of thinking Jeff was beginning to crack. “Don’t freak out, nothing’s changed. It’s just—when you were here, did you hear John say anything? Anything at all?”
There was an awful pause on the other end of the line. “No. Has he—”
“No. Nothing, not since—” Jeff rubbed his forehead. “Not since Thursday. I just realised.”
“Heck,” Sally said flatly. “Have you tried to get him to talk?”
“No. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, or if …”
Sally sighed. “Try. But don’t push it. I’ve heard that it’s not unusual for quiet kids to shut down for a while after trauma. Just be gentle with him.”
Jeff winced, visions of accidentally psychologically breaking his son flashing through his mind. He was tired, and he was frightened, and his head hurt, and he wanted his wife.
His voice dropped away to a rasp. “I don’t know how she did it, Mom. I don’t know how to make him laugh, or how to help Virgil with piano, or how to get Gordon to sleep, or—or anything. I’m never here, and I don’t—I don’t know my own children. And I can’t fix any of this.”
“Baby—” She exhaled. “It can’t be fixed, hon. But that’s the way life is, sometimes. Finding ways to live with what’s broken. And the best way to help your boys do that, right now, is just to keep letting them know you love them.” He could hear the smile in her voice, pained and warm. “Go and give Johnny a hug.”
He nodded, swallowing. “Okay. You’ll be back tomorrow?”
“In time to take Scott home, yeah.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s what I’m here for, baby. Call me as much as you need, okay?”
“Okay. Bye.” He lowered the phone without hanging up, unwilling to hear her returned farewell but knowing he needed to let her say it. It hurt too much to hear the love in her voice right now. Everything hurt—needles in his back, in his temples. He needed sleep.
As silently as he could, he pressed down on the door handle and re-entered the room. Scott, Virgil, and Alan were all precisely where he’d left them, curled up on the bed. But Gordon had migrated, boats left behind, and was shuffling cautiously up to John’s side. “Johnny?”
The older boy didn’t respond, and Jeff felt ice settle in his gut. But Gordon was nothing if not persistent. “Johnny. Whatcha reading?”
Nothing. Gordon wiggled around against John’s arm, squinting at the screen. “Pie-es-kes. It looks like a fish.” He poked at the tablet, glancing sideways up at John’s face. “Is it a fish?”
For a second, there was silence—and then Jeff nearly toppled over in relief as the response—weariness, irritation, and amusement warring in the whispered tone—slipped from John’s lips. “It’s not a fish. It’s a constellation.”
“Kon-stell-eh-shun,” Gordon repeated conscientiously, even though Jeff was sure he’d heard the word before. “Stars.”
“That’s right.”
The scruffy blonde head tilted to one side. “It looks like a fish.”
The single giggle, breathy and barely existent, seemed to shake John like a leaf.
And then he crumpled like one, folding forward with a ragged gasp, shoulders heaving violently. Jeff, previously frozen in the doorway, had seldom moved so fast. In under two seconds he had the door closed and was on the floor, John in his lap, rocking gently back and forth as his son’s fingers twisted in his shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered numbly, mindlessly, over and over again. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Cry it out. Don’t lock yourself away, because I’ll never be able to find the key. “I’m here, and I love you. I love you so much.”
The storm was nearly silent, and startlingly swift. Less than a minute after Jeff had scooped him into his arms, John stopped crying and rested his head against his father’s shoulder, face hidden beneath tousled red hair. “Daddy.”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t go. Don’t ever.”
Jeff swallowed. “Not going anywhere, kiddo.”
“Don’t,” John repeated, as if Jeff hadn’t spoken. He pulled back and blinked wetly up at his father, the turquoise-blue eyes as beautiful and alarming as they had been the day he’d been born. “Promise.”
It wasn’t a promise he could honestly make.
He made it anyway.
“I won’t,” he replied solemnly, keeping his fingers locked around his son’s shoulders. “I’ll be right here. Right where you need me.”
John’s expression relaxed; and Jeff brushed at the boy’s tear-streaked cheeks, then turned his head as a small hand tugged on his sleeve. Gordon, who had sat in uncharacteristically silent alarm throughout the crisis, was nudging John’s tablet back into his hand.
“Sorry,” he said seriously, brown eyes wider than ever. “I know it’s not a fish.”
Jeff couldn’t help it. He laughed, once, deeply, warm and weary. “He knows you know, Gordo. C’mere.”
Gordon joined the pile—half on John, half on Jeff—and Jeff shuffled cautiously backwards, pulling the boys with him, until his back was resting against the side of the bed. He twisted his neck around, glancing up at what little he could see of Virgil. “All right?”
The twelve-year-old nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Allie’s asleep. Scott too.”
“Good.” Jeff squeezed his arms tighter around his boys—right arm around John’s shoulders, left hand on the small of Gordon’s back. So … tired. “I’m gonna take a nap, okay? Nobody do anything stupid.”
A chorus of hushed “yes, sir”s responded, and Jeff tilted his head back against the mattress and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t the most conventional sleeping position, but somehow that actually made it easier—tricked his fretful brain into letting down its guard. Holding the boys helped, too; the warmth and the soft, rhythmic breathing were surprisingly reassuring. He let himself be lulled, let himself drift, and was right on the verge of tipping into blissful oblivion when the whisper tickled his ear.
“Dad.” It was Gordon, nestled against his shoulder.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Did you know—” He paused to yawn. “—that octopuses are the only fish that squirt ink?”
“Octopodes,” corrected Jeff absently, eyes still shut. “And they’re not. Squids do too.”
“I know.” Gordon snuggled closer, soft hair pressing against his father’s neck. “I was squidding.”
Jeff knew a Lucille joke when he heard one.
It should have hurt. But it didn’t. Because with the recognition of the pun came the realisation that his little boy was trying to comfort him, the only way he could.
He had Gordon’s jokes; he had the way Alan trustingly grasped his finger; he had Virgil’s hugs; he had John’s need for him, a need he hadn’t known existed. And he had the way Scott had gripped his hand when he’d come to in the hospital—when his first thought, even in childish grief, had been to say I’m sorry.
Jefferson Tracy loved his boys, more than anything else he had left in the world.
And, he realised with dizzy warmth, they loved him right back.
One side of his mouth twisted, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Get some rest, Gordon.”
Another, adorable, yawn. “’Kay.”
Jeff breathed in, then out, and then he was asleep.