A very rough little piece that came from nowhere and is entirely dedicated to @call-me-casual because this is entirely her fault 😌
The house was dark except for the strip of light under the study door.
The smell of chlorine followed him down the hallway, his hair damp against his forehead. The medal ribbon itched at his neck, and the trophy felt heavier than it had at the pool. He paused, hand hovering over the old wood of the door, waiting to knock, before deciding to simply push it open.
His father sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, holopads and papers spread in front of him. The study was littered with the same, the walls plastered in half-baked ideas and the dreams of a wounded animal, the long shadows cast by the desk lamp doing nothing to take away from the shadows that haunted the room.
Jeff didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“Mm.” A pause. “That’s good, son.”
Gordon waited for more; a smile, a question, something, anything. Nothing came. The clock on the wall ticked on.
“It always comes up!” Gordon’s voice broke, suddenly loud in the small room with all of the indignation of a slighted child. “You promised!”
Jeff’s hand paused. “Watch your tone.”
“Why? You’re not listening anyway! You won’t even look at me, will you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gordon.”
“It’s true,” Gordon snarled back, barely held back by the seething anger that threatened to spill over. “You can’t stand to look at me!”
Jeff flinched, the breath leaving his chest at the accusation, his gaze remaining desperately on the holopad. “Don’t,” he muttered, voice dangerous and low, dropping the pen. “That’s enough.”
“You don’t have a problem with Scott or John or even Virgil! It’s because I look like her, isn’t it?”
“I said enough!” The word cracked out before he could stop it, sharp and ugly. His hand slammed against the desk, and the noise echoed out into the hall beyond, standing tall and towering over the boy in front of him. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
Gordon didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a single beat. “I think I do. You look at me and all you see is her, and you hate it.”
Jeff’s throat closed. His heart stuttered. He wanted to deny it, to say no, that’s not true - but the words didn’t come. Because for one raw second, it was true.
Impossibly. The same brown eyes that he had once adored as they filled with mischievous laughter, the same wide smile that was the very image of his mother at her happiest, the similarities that he so revelled in-
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jeff met his son’s gaze, and there she was, just as he so feared. Lucy stared back at him through the fury. The same fire, the same fierce light. But where Lucy’s gaze had once been love, soft brown and full of affection, Gordon’s was all hurt. Hurt and anger and-
The reminder of everything he’d lost.
The self-loathing came fast and deep. Lucy would have hated this. The distance. The anger. The man he’d turned into. A man so afraid of his own pride that he hid in it’s shadow.
Jeff bent his head, and looked away first. “Go to bed, Gordon.” His voice had gone flat again, the anger draining from him as his shoulders sank.
Gordon hesitated, then moved forward in one stride to set the trophy on the desk with enough force that it toppled and rolled, the sound small and hollow.
Jeff stayed standing as he left, counting each measured breath as his hands shook, knuckles white as he gripped at the desk. Willing himself away from the edge of composure, eyes unfocused as his mind ran.
Moments later, there were footsteps once more. This time heavier, surer, and he lifted his head to find the blue eyes of his eldest son staring at him from the doorway. Scott’s face was unreadable, his gaze shifting from the fallen trophy at his feet before returning to his trembling father, before he sighed. Shaking his head with a soft, resigned noise, and disappearing down the hallway in search of his brother, leaving Jeff alone once more.
The lamp buzzed. The sharp smell of chlorine lingered in the air. The warm summer breeze felt cold against his skin.
Finally, he bent, picked up the trophy, and turned it over in his hands. The metal was still warm from Gordon’s grip. He thought of Lucy, the way she’d laughed, the way she’d have gone to every meet, every race, and shame carved through him, deep and unrelenting.
She would have been so disappointed.
And not for the first time in years, Jeff Tracy hated himself for being alive when she wasn’t.
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