Rush - a response to nanda's backstory challenge. A little piece of Jack, Sara and Charlie.
Pairings - Jack/Sara
Sara had lay down guidelines early, while Charlie was still essentially a demanding pink and white blob in a onesie, secreting bodily fluids from both ends. No TV. Ever. Quality time. Family time. Bonding. Her index finger would jab at the page of whatever baby book was hot news of the week, and Jack would nod and smile tiredly, kiss her goodbye, and write postcards, hoping Charlie wouldn't have grown too much while he was gone.
Charlie always grew. The books always changed. And by the time he was three, Sara would plunk him down in front of the TV in desperation. She wasn't cut out for single parenthood and Jack tried to finagle ways of staying near home more. But the skies called to him, and so did his superiors, and Jack loved his country.
Four, five and six, personality in full bloom, Jack returned home to a compact body full of energy, arms spread, flying around the house while Sara shouted, "Outside! Not in the good room!" And Jack would pick him up, swing him around, Charlie screaming, "Daddy! Daddy! Faster!"
He held his boy so tight, sometimes. His country, his home, his family, his son. Brown eyes like his own and a mischievous smile that dissipated even Sara's impetuous temper - "But, Mommy, it was an accident."
Spelling tests, smiley-faced stickers and golden stars. Report cards and paintings of planes and Air Force blue skies tacked onto the refrigerator that hummed too loud and needed to be replaced. Charlie's skin tanned golden like his mother's in the summer sun, and Jack came back to find sun-kissed highlights in his boy's hair and a full two inches in growth.
Play dates and sleep-overs, hatred for the girl-next-door whom Jack had no doubt would sprout up to be the beautiful girl of his one-day teenage son's dreams. Car pools and playground fisticuffs, parent-teacher conferences he was *always* late for, and stern talking-tos during which he could never maintain a straight face. Because Charlie was *him* and his arch-nemesis had been Mark Stanhope and it had been a bloody nose instead of split lip but still– "Fighting isn't smart, Charlie. You can't fix things with your fists."
And Charlie squirmed and asked about the latest mission and Jack sent him to his room. Later, he checked the lock on the drawer where he kept his sidearm before he checked the locks on the windows and doors, a beam of light from his son's room disturbing the dark hallway. "Go to bed, Charlie. I'll see you in the morning."
"Promise?"
Mornings were good when he was home. Pancakes and bacon and newspapers with butter-splattered corners. Charlie fighting for each parent's attention and sporting a milk moustache, Sara chattering on the phone to a friend and organizing BBQs and dinner parties, babysitters and birthdays. "Okay, no clowns. I know! Scary! No, I just don't like their painted lips. And their feet." Muffled laughter and Jack turned the page, catching the edge of his pushed-aside plate.
He was gone for two months, once, an arduous mission that left him with broken bones and a pile of letters that never reached him. Charlie's handwriting took after his mother's, round and slanted forward, an optimistic like Sara. Ricky has a Supersoaker, Dad, and I really want one but Mom says we have to wait and see what you say. Come home soon, but not just for the Supersoaker. Miss you. Love Charlie.
Jack didn't know what a Supersoaker was, but on the flight home, the pilot buzzing in his ear and his arm strapped to his chest, he was willing to stop off somewhere and get one. Anything for his son.
It was late when he got home, too late to wake Charlie – school tomorrow and an all-important math test, Sara told him sleepily. The Supersoaker was gently placed at the end of Charlie's bed and Jack tugged a toy gun from between his son's fingers.
"He's grown again," he whispered to Sara in the darkness of their room, undressing by a chair that didn't used to be there. His arm was aching, painkillers wearing off – but he has felt worse.
Sara's response was muted, a whispered comfort muffled by the pillow bundled under her head. He crawled in next to her and stared at her silhouette. His free hand touched hers as he closed his eyes.
He didn't want to do this any more. He pictured retirement, the call of the earth instead of the sky. His son, instead of his country. But knew this was nothing more than a dream, that he would go when they called, just like he'd always done before.