Title: Father’s Day

 

Author: Lisa Yaeger

 

E-mail: lisayaeger@hotmail.com

 

Rating: PG

 

Pairings: mild Sam/Jack

 

Content Warnings: None

 

Summary: Father’s Day is the worst day of the year

 

Season/sequel: Season 6, but no spoilers

 

Archive: SJD & whoever wants to- I'd be flattered!

 

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places are the

property of MGM, World Gekko Corp and Double Secret productions.

This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary

purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was

intended. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this

story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real

persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the

author.

 

Status: Complete

 

Feedback: Welcomed!

 

Date: 9-6-2003

 

*****

 

Worse than Christmas.

 

Worse than his birthday.

 

Worse than the day he died.

 

Father’s Day.

 

The one day of the year when he couldn’t ignore what he no longer

was.  His friends, his team, could make even the coldest of

Christmases warmer.  Make him feel just a little bit younger than he

actually was.  And even, if only for a few minutes, make him forget

the one day that was eternally etched in his memory.  Make the sound

of the shot that forever echoed in his mind go silent.  Just for a

second. 

 

But this day, this Sunday, was unavoidable.  Reminders were

everywhere- the card store, the clothing store, the grocery store. 

Even the ice cream stand didn’t want him to forget to order an

ice cream cake for that “Special Dad.”  Problem was, he

wasn’t.  And that wouldn’t have been so awful if he never had been one at all.

 

Except that he had.  And it had been the happiest time of his life.

 

After the first year, they had figured out this was the one day that

he had, just *had*, to go it alone.  No presents could distract

him.  No silly songs or helium balloons could make his attention

waver.   No photo albums or stories of his childhood could lessen

the pain he felt on this one day.

 

So they had learned to leave him alone.  He had done something

different every year for the past five years.  Sitting at the

cemetery.  Smoking.  Driving until dawn of the next day.  Pouring

through old scrapbooks.  Drinking.  And through it all, his mind

never stopped reliving the nine father’s days he had been

fortunate enough to have.  Remembering every gift, every card, every smile, every laugh.  Everything he would never have again.

 

It was the one part of his life, his soul, that even she couldn’t

touch.  Couldn’t make it better.  Couldn’t make him forget.

And no one could ever, ever, fill that particular void. 

 

And it wasn’t until very recently that he could even fathom the

possibility, that maybe, just maybe, he could try it again.  Could

consider the prospect of one day, in the not too distant future (he

was closer to 50 than 40 after all), trying it again.  Maybe.

 

Not that he had ever talked to her about it.  Not that they talked

about anything even remotely related to the future.  Unless it had

to do with strategy and technology.  In conversations about the

former, he talked and she argued.  In conversation about the latter,

she talked and he nodded.  He remembered their last banter very

well, in fact.

 

That’s when he felt it.  The familiar motion of his lips curving,

the corners of his eyes crinkling.  His heart, for a beat or two,

felt lighter.  His stomach loosened just a bit.  And for that moment

in time, he nearly forgot why he was sitting on his couch alone.  In

front of a muted TV.  Wearing boxers from the day before.

 

His first smile on that day in over seven years.  It wouldn’t

have seemed like anything monumental to those that didn’t know him

well.  But to those that did, they would understand.  And they would know.

 

Know that even though she couldn’t heal that wound, even though

they had never said a word to each other about it, that only one

thing could possibly make him smile on that particular day.  Only

one person who could turn his thoughts from the relentless pain of

the past 24 hours.

 

And in the darkest hour of the day, in the endless cycle of guilt

and emptiness, he felt an indefinable *something*.  Not quite hope,

never peace, and not anything he would label as pure as love.  But

it was there.  As real as the anguish.  As deep as the grief.  As

steadfast as the throbbing ache that, while might dull occasionally,

never actually ceased. 

 

He couldn’t put a name on it.  Truth be told, he didn’t

really want to.  He just wanted to feel anything that wasn’t sorrow.  However briefly.  However fleeting. 

 

*****

 

He woke the next morning to find the TV still muted.  His breathing

came a little easier with the dawn of Monday.  It was over.  He had

made it through.  Another year further away.  The memories a touch

more blurry.  Like Vaseline on the camera lens. 

 

Part of him was relieved that the edge had lifted a little.  More of

him felt guilty for feeling that way.  But a new part, like a blade

of grass poking through the cold ground after a long winter, was

glad to wake up. 

 

 

Something inside certain that the worst was over.   

 

*****

 

Feedback to lisayaeger@hotmail.com