THERE’S NOTHING LEFT FOR YOU (MY FATHERS LOVE)
summary: duty or family? he always did chose duty behind bittersweet goodbyes and missed birthday parties. you’ve always tried to understand. but when your husband comes home one day, your 15 year old kid decides enough is enough.
or… your child yells at their father through a tear-stained face
contents & warnings: simon & john x mom reader (separate), angst, reader's child is named, absentee father, emotional manipulation?
cod main masterlist . ao3 profile
⤷ i genuinely don't know what came over me. while i absolutely love the idea of tf141 being amazing fathers... a part of me always thinks the opposite.
He knows he's late. Beyond late.
Night had already settled across London's horizon. The sky blanketed with an array of stars. Each of them a touch brighter than the next; glimmering down on him, smiling even.
John's momvents are gradual, unwinding. Park the car. Take the key. Unbuckle the seatbelt. Open the door. It was timed, familer, known like the spurs of energy from his only, beloved daughter and the tender warmth from his wife's arms. You exuded it: the candid, honeyed sweetness that Price indulged in, gulp after gulp.
John recalled when he first held his daughter in his gritty, calloused palms. Under the hospital's white, glaring lights and your ever asture gaze, John felt the bones in his body quiver, his eyes a deep sea of glisenting blue. The world mellowed, it was only him and her: a finite stone hurtling against a blodied reality. She was so tiny. Wrapped in nothing but a blanket, her nose twitching, her body tenderly warm, malleable, innocent.
"Hey honey, how's school?"
"I didn't go to school today."
John slipped the ring on your finger for two reasons. First, he adored you. You were like stardust against his fingers, a kind of breeze he'd beg to dance with, a woman he'd kneel before when he came home, bruised and battered like a wooden doll. Second, you are shrewed, clever, and undeniably effacious. To a fault truly. John sunk his teeth deep and swallowed every drop of mellowed forgiveness until it ran dry. Untill John stopped reasoing because every father should drop their kid off for the first day of kindergarten, because he should've been their clasping your hand when you fainted for the first time, because little Jen should've had her father come with her to 'bring your dad to school' day.
John stops, the warm lamp light of the living room constraints him, the bitterness in his daughter's voice echos against the walls. Against him.
"Jenzelle. Drop the attitude-"
"Or what? Or what dad?" Your going pack your bag up and leave?"
"Jen," John sighs, "You know I can't control-"
"Of course I know!" Jen heaves, throwing her hands in the air, taking another step back, "You've always told us that. Told mom that. You told me that."
Jen's face scrunches up, her lips pressed into a firm line, just like her mother-
"Don't look at me like that dad, don't."
John takes a gentle step forward, stretching his hand to her shoulder, "Honey, please. Sit, we'll talk. I'll call your mom-"
Jen swats his hand away, stepping backwards, "That's what I've been trying to do for the past fifteen years of my life."
Her words are blunt, sharp, faster than any bullet John has-
John melts, his hand quivers. Jen swallows and her eyes grow red, glossy, hot. Yet, her voice is hushed, mumbled under her breath like a mere whisper. A prayer. A quit plead hidden behind her crescent smile and brilliant, bright eyes.
John swallows, "I love you and your mom more than anything in this world."
Jen squints, as if gazing at a puzzle. "Then where were you dad? I know it's stupid but-" Jen huffs, hastily wiping the tears from her face, gazing to the ground before glaring straight into John's eyes, "You said you'd keep me safe. That I'd never be alone."
He did say that, whispered it into her ears when she scraped her legs. When he tucked her into bed and when the fireworks shook the house. He engraved it in his heart when he held her for the first time. And after every ‘I love you’.
“Then why at the hospital, did I spent every night alone since fourth grade? Alone dad. Alone because you couldn’t answer. I took care of mom alone and you-”
She points her finger at him, John freezes.
“You love your job more than me, don’t you?
No no no baby, that’s not true.
I love you baby. You, your mom. I love how you take after her. Whatever you said is not true. It’s not true. God, it’s not true.
I’ll retire, quit, drop the job whatever. But please don’t say that honey. Please.
“Don’t try dad. Don’t try.”
The stars are out; glimmering, dancing in the night sky. The paper he’s writing on is strangely wet.
They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Simon learned to be silent. To stitch his mouth close and chop his tongue off from the beginning of childhood leading into his career.
Neverthless, he believed his indifference- the apathetic glaze of his eyes- would never reach your eyes or his son.
"I've tried everything to make you stay- I brought home medals, took honours classes-"
Sean grimaces, his eyes painfully red. "Of course, you knew," he seethes, "You always seem to know everything!"
Simon was taught not to flinch or cower, his back straight and stiff. Accompanied by flat indifference.
Simon still smells the savoury aroma of dinner: its scent lingering in the living room. He notes how the recorded player is not fully off and how there is only one hanging photo of all three of you: when Sean was born, Simon gingerly cradling him in his burly arms.
Simon recalls how twilight casted its shadows over your home fifteen years ago. How violently his legs shook; caving under his own weight when he fell to his knees before you, grasping onto your shins and knees for dear life, begging, asking.
"What if I'm not a good father?"
"You're going to be a wonderful father, Simon, don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I don't want to hurt... I don't want to be-"
"You never cared about us," lashed Sean, "You were never there, and don't give me the stupid 'military' excuse."
For the first time since he arrived home, Simon spoke ever so calmly, "It is true."
"I saw the papers. I heard what you and mom were talking about over the phone."
Simon's eyes widen slightly.
"She asked you to retire dad," Sean's lips quiver, "She never asks of anything too big. You know this."
Simon did know that: how you desperately pleaded with him. At that moment, he imagined your clenched fist, the hot tears streaming down your cheeks and the grit in your eyes. The same one he spent nights picturing over and over again.
"Why dad? Why were you never just there?"
Because I'm a coward. Because I'm afraid.
Sean's bloodshot eyes stare daggers into Simon's. Acute and tenacious while he backs away, "Keep telling yourself that."
'Go call him', screamed Simon's mind, battering against his head, 'Do something, anything. Please.'
Simon stood there frozen.
A self-made ghost in his own home.
