#dadmas

He'd do it again if it meant getting out, avoiding the slop that was supposed to fix his poor nutrition, allegedly.

He'd heard some of the staff talking about moving him to "Phoenix Block" if he continued to be violent. The high-security wing of the "children's hospital", supposedly, where the hourly checks were closer to every twenty minutes, and all the doors required passkeys to open.

Jak knew prison when he heard it.

He was getting out of here. He didn't want to have to kill anyone, but if that's what it took to get away, he'd do it.

When Dr. Goad woke him up on the thirty-second day in Spargus and told him to get dressed, told him he was being transferred to "Convalesence Ward" in a separate facility entirely, he thought maybe it was a reprieve. That he wouldn't need to kill anyone after all.

He'd made the minimum weight requirement to be allowed to leave the immediate supervision of the pediatricians, he was told, but that it was in his best interests not to deliberately antagonize the head of C-Ward, Dr. Leon.

"If you attack him, he will defend himself and you will not like it," Goad warned as she handed him a small canvas bag with a copy of his treatment plan in it. "You're also going to start speaking to one of our counselors-"

"Good luck with that," Jak hissed.

As usual, Goad wasn't fazed.

"The Foundling Bureau has determined that you must complete minimum twelve anger management sessions if you want them to even consider moving you to the youth barracks with your peers."

"And I'm supposed to care what some Bureau wants because-?"

"Because you're a Foundling, kid. That means you're a ward of the state until you're twenty-one. The state handles cost of living, education, medical bills etc. But they also get to make the call on when you're ready to be integrated into the rest of the city."

Goad nudged his shoulder.

"Let's go. Stick with your treatment plan, don't try to kill anyone, and maybe you'll be earning your gate pass before Rainfall."

The first week in C-Ward was a nightmare.

No walls, just curtains between two rows of beds. No lock on the door. Jak could see armed men walking that hall every hour. The one with the glass eye definitely didn't like him.

Probably because Jak headbutted him and broke his nose. Served him right for getting so close.

Dr. Leon was not a "pediatrician." He got all the stubborn adult patients, and he coddled no one, especially not "upstarts with too much punch in their system." A battle of wills always ended in Leon's favor. Always. Violence resulting in deliberate injury was not tolerated. Doing something that could cause harm to himself or staff meant sedation, since he'd been promised that no restraints were to be used except as an absolute last resort.

Jak had learned after two involuntary sedations not to try to kill him. He had eyes on the back of his head, always seemed to know when Jak was about to strike.

He also had an unholy level of patience for outlasting defiant patients. And he wouldn't leave unless Jak drank the disgusting protein mix. If he wanted what little privacy the curtains provided, he had to take the formulated mixture.

Jak hated it. And he was pretty sure he hated Leon, too.

They didn't make him stay in bed if he couldn't sleep at least. And they'd told him at the outset that they wouldn't sedate him at night unless he requested it — and he never would. At least Jak could say that about this tower. They just made him go with someone if he wandered, allegedly so he wouldn't get lost.

Usually it was the man with the faded red blotch on his forehead. Brother Tam. The '"mandatory counselor". He'd showed up the day Jak threw the protein bottle at Leon's nurse.

Leon wouldn't let Jak leave the room until he'd cleaned up the mess.

Jak wished he'd thrown the bottle at Leon.

But Brother Tam didn't snap or scold. He sat down on the floor and gently asked Jak to hand him a towel. He just...talked, about things that had nothing to do with the situation.

Jak wouldn't have even considered touching the rag, just to spite Leon. But he didn't like the idea of a little old man cleaning his mess. That wasn't how the world worked.

Tam didn't gloat, or even say a word about his acquiescence. He asked instead if Jak wanted to go exploring with him to find the laundry chute.

Jak didn't know what to make of Brother Tam. He spoke to Jak like he was a young child, and that was infuriating. But he'd started bringing bribes for not getting into fights, and he had all these weird ideas about self-worth that made Jak feel a little bad about getting angry with him.

It was one of the nights when sleep wasn't coming to him. Leon had left the ward already, and Jak didn't care enough to even feel relieved.

Tam found him sitting in the hallway outside the ward dormitory, looping a bit of string around and around his fingers. Too tightly, but he needed that sense of compression. He needed grounding at the moment.

"Good evening, friend."

The elderly man smiled down at him.

"You look like you have a lot of thoughts tonight. I find that when I have too many thoughts to sleep, it helps to take a walk. Do you want to take a walk with me?"

Jak shrugged. He didn't really "want" to do anything. But he didn't...didn't not want to do anything, either. He couldn't explain the sensation. Tam reached into the tote bag he always carried and brought out that stupid cardboard circle with the seven colors on it. Emotion spinner, he called it. Each color represented a different feeling. Happiness, sadness, anger, fear, excited -- that one never got used -- confused, and one vaguely the color of oatmeal that Brother Tam referred to as "the blah."

"How are you feeling tonight, friend?" Tam asked.

Jak waited a few minutes before cooperating. He always did. So far, Tam was a lot more patient than some of the hospital nurses. Definitely gave him his space more than Leon.

Jak needed a couple more instances before he could say with any confidence that this wasn't an act.

After a moment, Jak pointed to the oatmeal colored triangle.

He didn't really feel anything right now. Just sort of numb to everything.

Tam nodded as if this made perfect sense.

"There's nothing wrong with feeling that way," he assured Jak, "Sometimes when we've been hurt very badly for a long time, it's hard for our brains to make the right amounts of chemicals that make us feel happy or excited about things. They've been more focused on survival. But that's okay!"

He reached out to offer Jak a hand up. As always, Jak brushed him off to haul himself to his feet. He needed to know he could still do it himself.

"After the last couple days I think we've explored all the way to the ground floor on this side of the citadel," Tam said as if he hadn't noticed, "Shall we try going up a few floors tonight?"

Jak shrugged. He didn't have an opinion one way or another.

Tam kept up a steady stream of talk in a low, soothing voice as they walked. Nothing of importance, just comments about architecture, counting the number of stairs they walked as if he were a child, the same thing as always.

The difference came when they'd reached the huge open chasm that supposedly led to the very top of the tower. There was a sound coming from one of the floors above them, something Jak would not have expected in a million years.

Music.

Not the tinny, garbled voices on the radio in the saloon, or like when Tess hummed, or even his own whistling in happier times. This was an instrument. Not a recording, it was real. Jak could hear the deep notes of strings being plucked and stilled in a familiar melody. If he remembered it, Jak supposed the song must have been very old indeed.

*A Stillness in the Rain". That's what the song was called. And Jak-

Jak remembered.

He remembered Uncle teaching him to play the first four notes on his lumpy clay ocarina -- it was all it was capable of.

Brother Tam seemed to realize Jak wasn't with him and turned to find him frozen on the steps, head tilted back and listening. The old monk cocked his ears in the same direction until he too picked up the sound. A warmth spread across his face as he returned to stand with Jak.

"It's the king," he said softly. "It has been...years, since the last time he played."

"Harp?" Jak asked -- signed, lest he miss a single note.

"A lyre, I think," Tam answered. "I'm glad to hear it again. Music is a balm to a troubled soul."

"He forgot a measure," Jak said in observation. He wasn't really talking to Tam so much as just signing his stream of consciousness.

"That's alright. That part's hard."

"Oh?" The monk turned to more fully face him, a sparkle in his brown eyes.

"I didn't know you knew this song, friend."

"Uncle taught me."

Uncle wasn't much of a musician, but he thought it important to pass on the traditional folk songs of the Hill Country, where he'd grown up.

Was there any Hill Country left now, after the Metalhead Wars?

The metalheads...

Jak had never stopped to think about it -- rather, he'd deliberately avoided thinking about it -- but Sandover was the epicenter of the original invasion. None of the villagers could fight, they'd just used Jak for that! They were old!

They were dead.

All of them. Every single person he'd ever known growing up. Every inhabitant of the coastal villages was long, long dead.

I didn't say goodbye.

Somehow, that was the thought he kept circling around to, again and again.

I didn't get to tell Uncle goodbye.

I never got the chance-

He died without ever knowing what happened to me.

Sandover was gone.

Home was gone.

His childhood was gone.

"For the greater good."

All Jak had to show for that "greater good" was a handful of ruined huts and a melody. Did anyone even know the words anymore?

Jak's chest burned. His throat felt clogged. Tight. He had to move. Escape. If he didn't get out, he was going to-

The first hiccuping breath was soft enough to escape notice at first.

Not the second.

Nor the third.

He couldn't breathe through his nose, his face was hot- it was like having a fever.

Fitting, he felt sick.

Tam was talking to him, calling his name- it didn't matter. Jak couldn't focus on that at the moment and he wouldn't have cared if he could.

Haven had taken more from Jak than just his innocence and his freedom.

They took his home. They took Daxter when they threw Jak away.

Jak had nothing.

He didn't even have the clothes on his back anymore. Precursors only knew what had happened to those.

A heaving sob shook his entire body -- he was going to throw up, he knew he was going to throw up -- he couldn't see.

At some point he must have backed against the wall, because he remembered sliding down to sit on the stairs, just so he wouldn't topple off into the chasm.

Palms pressed against his eyes, teeth gritted uselessly against the next tremor to rock him.

Jak cried as he had not cried since he was a very small child. It was near silent then, too. Silence was safety.

But he couldn't manage complete silence this time. Hot tears burned against his palms, mucus clogged his nose and ran down his upper lip. It was ugly, and painful.

Like becoming his darker form.

An inane thought passed through his mind, a half-formed comparison of dark eco to grief that he never completed.

"Jak, are you hurting, friend?" asked Brother Tam. He sat down on the step just above Jak and placed his wrinkled hand on Jak’s shoulder.

"I'm very sorry that you're hurting right now. But it's good that you can cry. That sounds strange, doesn't it? But it's true."

"Uncle's dead."

His hands shook, slurring some of his words.

"Everyone's dead. I never got to say goodbye."

Tam made a noise of understanding. "You lost your family?"

"Not lost." Jak raised his eyes, but could barely make out the monk's shape.

What a stupid oversimplification. Lost, like they'd vanished at sea. No, Jak knew exactly what had happened to them. Samos took him through that bloody Rift Gate and left them to die.

Rationally, he knew they would have died too if they'd stayed. But knowing that Samos knew all along who was waiting on the other side did not incline him to be charitable.

"Haven destroys everything good. Why-"

Why do they hate me so much?

Why was nothing I did ever good enough for any of them? I tried so hard!

Hands went back to his face, hiding eyes stained scarlet. His kaftan sleeves were soaked, a mess of tears and snot. He gripped a handful of his own hair, desperate to ground himself.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

An authoritative voice rang out above them.

"...oh, excuse us, sire. I don't suppose you have any water with you?" asked Tam placidly.

Heavy boots thudded down the stone stairs, echoing off the chasm walls over Jak's quiet, hiccuping sobs.

"What's wrong with him?" Damas demanded, "Is he hurt?"

Brother Tam folded his hands and shook his head.

"I don't think this is a wound recently given, sire. I think Jak may be acknowledging wounds he received a long time ago."

Jak curled into himself, as if he could hide from the men. He couldn't think beyond the oily black sorrow. He had to expel it. Vomit it out before it could choke him.

Tam stood and turned a very serious gaze to the king. He gestured upwards towards the floor Damas had come down from.

"Young Jak heard the song you were playing. He told me his uncle once taught him that melody, too."

The monk winced sympathetically.

"His uncle was killed, I think. And his community, by the sound of it."

Some of the tension eased in Damas’s shoulders, leaving them to bow under an empathetic weight.

"Did he lose all of his family? Has he no parents?"

Tam raised a hand. "I wouldn't ask just now, my lord. Some things a man's just got to process on his own time. This young man's been fighting for an awfully long time. Go ahead and let him cry himself out. It'll be good for him."

"Good for him? He sounds like he's going to throw up!" Damas protested.

"That's why I asked for water."

With a mildly chagrined expression, Damas unhooked a flask from his belt and held it out.

"Not much, I'm afraid."

Tam knelt and tapped Jak's shoulder.

"Jak? Do you think you can drink some water?"

Jak pulled away and shook his head. Just leave him! Just- Just let him be!

Damas took a step down and nodded meaningfully to the boy.

"This isn't the appropriate place to deal with this. Bring him up to my chambers."

The tide had ebbed for the moment when Tam pulled Jak to his feet and led him upstairs. His head ached, and his eyes throbbed, and that catch in his chest told him this was not over. Five years he'd gone without shedding a single tear and now he couldn't make them stop. He hated it. He hated himself. He must have looked so pathetic!

The room they took him to was dimly lit, and Jak didn't bother looking beyond the flagstone floor and a few patterned rugs. A stronger hand than Tam's took hold of his arm and pulled him across the room to a battered settee that had likely been green at some point. Damas barely had to push to get him to collapse onto the couch. Jak stared blankly at the floor with hollow red eyes. The violence of the tears had inflamed the blood vessels in his sclera badly.

Damas walked away, leaving Jak in a kind of limbo between the waves of repressed pain and grief striking him. Tam took his place, easing down beside him.

"Lord Damas hoped you might feel a little bit safer in here," he explained.

"I know this is hard, and I think this will probably be hard for you for a good while. But you're not alone, you've got Dr. Leon in C-Ward, and you've got me, and the king-"

"Don't put Leon in that list, he's terrible," Damas interrupted.

"Only if you avoid scheduled health examinations, sire."

"He's terrible," Damas said again.

Jak jumped when something cold and wet was draped over his hand.

"Wash your face," Damas said gruffly. He nodded to the cloth. "And hold that against your eyes until it isn't cold anymore."

Hesitantly, Jak did as he was told. His skin chafed against it, but it was a kind of relief. Faintly, he could hear the sounds of a whispered disagreement between Damas and Tam. That was almost enough to make him curious, but not quite. Tam, oddly, did not win the disagreement. There was a note of disapproval in his gentle voice when he announced that he would just be in the other room.

Jak focused all his attention on stifling the tears, ruthlessly forcing them back into their box. He was showing weakness. He was showing that he could be broken. It had to stop.

"Did they take everyone?"

The sudden question startled him, but he managed not to visibly jolt. When he raised his head slightly, he found Damas sitting across from him, elbows resting on his knees. Upon making eye contact, the king asked another question.

"You didn't get the chance for closure, did you?"

How could he know that? How could some warlord king know anything about grief?

When Damas spoke again, he sounded as though he were talking to himself more than Jak.

"It happens so fast. One moment you have a- a home. It's not perfect. Some of it is harsh and cold. But it's the only thing you've ever known. And then one day you blink and home is gone. One day you blink and there are people you trusted abandoning you in hell."

Jak's head shot the rest of the way up.

"Why do you know that?!"

Damas gave him a grim smile. Not so much sympathy as understanding.

"Many Wastelanders' stories begin the same way, my friend. Mine does."

Then he leaned forward, clearly struggling to find the right words.

"You're not...not alone."

He made a sound that might've been a bitter laugh.

"No one in Spargus is. We're the forgotten ones, we kind of have to stick together. No one else is going to watch our backs."

“Oh, you believe in miracles all of sudden?” You ask sarcastically as your eyes fall closed again.

A soft sigh leaves your lungs as you gently stretch and relax into the sheets, tilting your head to allow him better access to your neck.

Maybe a Christmas miracle would happen. You cross your fingers.

“Believe in ‘em?” He scoffs, warm breath blowing over your neck. “I’ve seen one firsthand. How the hell else could I have landed you?”

He smirks and sinks his teeth into your skin, feeling rather proud of himself for that one, because he can practically hear you rolling your eyes when you echo his scoff.

“Must be all the smooth one liners,” you tease, letting your hands roam to seek out the only present that you’re really hoping for today.

You find it without much trouble. His morning wood is just inches from your thigh. You slowly drag your fingers along his shift before wrapping your hand around the barely contained erection, concealed only by his boxers.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, sighing as he readjusts to swivel his hips towards you.

He starts bucking them gently, shifting upwards into your grasp while he starts sucking on your neck again to stifle the desperate moans threatening to spill from his lips.

“Shit,” you moan, eyes briefly rolling back when his tongue finds that special spot on your neck. “Baby, do you really think we might have enough time?”

“We can make it quick,” he mutters impatiently, tossing back the sheets in a hurry as he moves to position himself between your legs.

The both of you are veterans when it comes to quickies. You thought you were good at ‘em before you had kids, but now? It’s an art form that you have perfected.

You reach down to haphazardly bunch up the hem of your nightgown and pull your panties to the side while he tugs his boxers down far enough to let his pierced erection spring free.

“Remind me to eat you out later,” he murmurs, eyes flitting to yours as he dons a grin that makes your pussy throb even before he guides the head of his cock between your folds.

“Maybe I’ll just sit on your face,” you muse, eyes fluttering closed and a soft moan escaping you when he shifts his hips.

“Merry Christmas to me. I hope you do,” he replies huskily, smirking as he sheathes his length inside of you in one smooth thrust.

Both of you take a brief moment to savor the feeling, intentionally quiet noises of pleasure flooding the room. You lift your hips, grinding them forward while his begin to roll. He’s just about to pick up the tempo when the sound of little feet start pattering down the hall.

“Babe,” you whisper, pressing your hands to his chest as your head whips towards the door.

“I hear ‘em. Just know this means I’m pounding the fuck out of you later,” he murmurs as he leans in to steal a kiss, a handsome smirk lingering on his lips when he pulls away to fall back into bed beside you.

He tucks his suddenly softening cock back into his boxers and you adjust your clothes while he grabs the covers and tugs them over the both of you.

“Ssh!” You hear your five year old’s voice in the hall.

She’s giggling despite her warning to keep quiet and so is your 3 year old son as the sound of their footsteps grow closer to your door.

You and Touya employ your acting skills, pretending to be fast asleep just before the door slowly creaks open.

“I told you they’re still sleeping,” your daughter whispers as she crosses into the room, creeping closer to the bed with her brother right on her heels.

“Let’s get daddy!” Your son suggests in the loudest whisper you’ve ever heard.

You peek one eye open to look at your husband, who can’t seem to help the warm smile that graces his features. You close your eyes again and wait, though it doesn’t take long for your children to make their move.

“Daddy!” Your daughter cheers as she launches herself onto his side of the bed.

“It’s Christmas!” Your son exclaims as he joins her, pouncing directly onto his father’s chest.

“Oof!” He grunts, a huge grin spreading across his face as he let’s our a jolly chuckle that could rival even old St. Nick’s. “It’s Christmas? So what? What’s that mean?”

He sits up to wind an arm around both of them, his tickling fingers getting to work immediately, sending both children into laughing fits as they try to squirm out of his grasp.

“Santa!” Your son squeals, scrambling towards your side of the bed as you sit up, smiling fondly at the scene in front of you.

“Yeah! Santa came, daddy!” Your daughter manages to inform him through her giggles while trying in vain to protect her ticklish sides.

“Good morning!” Your son greets you, tilting his head back when he plops down into your lap as your arms wind around him.

“Good morning, mommy!” Your daughter echoes his greeting as Touya finally takes mercy on her.

“Good morning,” you reply, beaming as you press a kiss to the top of your son’s forehead and then lean over to do the same to your daughter. “So you guys already saw the tree? Santa came and left us all presents?”

“Yeah! I saw my name! And brother’s and sister’s and yours and daddy’s too!” Your daughter excitedly informs you, practically bouncing on the bed, which seems to give her an idea, because she rises to her feet. “Let’s open presents!”

Her brother joins her, climbing out of your lap to stand up as the two of them start jumping up and down in the space between you while chanting for presents. Touya chuckles and glances over at you to exchange smiles before he stands and loops his arms around the kids again.

“Alright, alright, we’ll do presents,” he says as he tucks one beneath each arm and starts carrying them off, making them squirm and giggle. “We gotta get your sister first though. Why don’t you two go find one with your names on ‘em and mommy and I will be right there?”

He sets them down near the bedroom door and they cheer before they take off. You rise from the bed, watching him as he watches your children go. There’s a smile on his face, but he looks a little lost in thought. He doesn’t seem to notice you approach until your hand reaches out to take his and he snaps out of it.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” You ask quietly as you slip your arms around his middle.

He folds his arms around you in return, peeking at you for only a moment before he looks down, a little embarrassed by the sheer amount of emotions that he’s feeling.

“How lucky I am. Thank you, doll. For everything,” he whispers, placing a kiss to your scalp as he gives you a long squeeze.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you say softly, closing your eyes as you hug him back tightly.

He closes his eyes, holding you a little tighter while he sends off a prayer to any and every deity that he’s ever heard of. He never wanted to lose this. He’d lost a family once and he’d survived, but he wouldn’t make it through losing this one.

He feels a slight pressure just beneath his eyes and he knows what’s coming. Usually he tries to fight it, but he knows it’s hopeless this morning.

“Merry Christmas, doll,” he replies as a crimson tear slips over his cheek from under his stapled seam.

The baby starts fussing down the hall and you pull away, only to stop when you realize that she isn’t the only one who’s crying. You reach up to cup his face, delicately swiping the tear away with the pad of your thumb before your gaze finds his.

“Are you okay, baby?”

He nods, a tender smile on his lips as he cradles your head in both hands and plants a kiss to you forehead.

“I’ve never been happier,” he says sincerely. “I’ll go get her. You wrangle the other gremlins.”

With a gentle swat to your behind, he heads down the hall and you turn to look at him over your shoulder. A smile spreads across your face as you watch him swing open the door to the nursery and beam at your other daughter, who can be heard giggling inside, amused by the funny face he makes as he enters the room.

You shake your head, still grinning like a fool as you make your way towards the living room, where your eldest is doing her best with her newfound reading skills to sort out the gifts.

“Lemme help you, sweetheart,” you say as you pick up one of the wrapped presents from beneath the tree.

A few minutes later, Touya arrives with your 18 month old on his hip. She stares in wonder at the presents and start kicking her tiny legs while pressing on his arms.

“Down,” she requests in the most adorable, excited little voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, finding a place on the floor to plop down, so that he can set her free and keep a close eye on her.

He keeps an eye on all of you, basking in the wonder of a Christmas morning that he never thought he’d live to see, let alone celebrate with his own family.

He watches the children dance around while impatiently waiting to tear into their piles of presents. He watches you take you youngest daughter into your lap and help her tear away the wrapping paper on one of her gifts, which she finds more interesting than the gift itself. He watches you crawl over and reach way under the tree to retrieve a small, rectangular gift.

“This one’s yours,” you say as you sit down beside him and offer him the package. “Feel like it’s important to note that this one’s from me and not Santa.”

He furrows his brow, smiling curiously as he glances over at you before he turns his attention to the gift in his hands. He tears the paper away and finds a box, which he lifts the top of of to reveal a familiar looking white stick inside.

Pregnant is what it says.

You watch his face and are blessed enough to see the moment of realization on his face. His eyes go wide and he suddenly grins so wide that you’re worried he might lose a staple.

“I’m gonna be a dad again?” He asks excitedly, sounding the teeniest bit choked up, though he’d never confess to that.

“Yes,” you confirm, nodding your head as you mirror his elated expression.

He chuckles in disbelief and throws his arms around you, pulling you in to hug you tight and press his lips to your scalp again.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, pulling away to cup your face in his hand and kiss you like he means it, because he does. He’s never meant anything more.

Before you can respond, he pulls away and looks down at your belly, placing his hand over it gently.

“And I love this one already,” he adds softly.

Tears of joy threaten to spill from your own eyes now as you place your hand over his.

“We love you too. We’re just as lucky to have you, baby. All of us,” you say quietly.

He leans in to press his smiling lips to yours again, his head already filling with what next year might look like. The sounds of the children squealing and screaming fade away as he presses his forehead to yours to look into your eyes.

“Merry Christmas, doll. Thank you.”