My Brother's Keeper by WidgetFactory (Not Dead Yet Challenge)

[widgetfactory.livejournal.com]

Title: My Brother's Keeper 
Author: widgetfactory
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Drama, Angst
Characters: John, Dave and Patrick Sheppard
Summary: Dave thought about the last words he’d spoken to his brother, maybe two, three years ago. Not angry, just empty. They’d had nothing to say to each other. SPOILERS from Outcast.
Word count: 2,217
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't profit from 'em. Booyah. Oh, and first-time ficcer. Be kind.
Notes: Set during season 2, when the team goes missing in Lost Boys/The Hive.  

***

Dave took the Merc smoothly into the curves of the little two-lane country road with barely-restrained abandon, coaxing more speed from the engine as the landscape scrolled by, all rolling hills and falling leaves blazing with color as they snapped past his windshield in the wind.

It was a perfect day, he thought, feeling like the car might almost take off under him as he tucked it into the next winding turn. Crisp, clear air, cloudless blue sky, and the new contract printed out in triplicate and ready to sign, tucked into a manilla folder on the passenger seat. As the speedometer ticked toward a hundred he felt his own heart racing happily, the stress of the last eight months lifting from his chest as though an anvil sitting there had suddenly disappeared.  

The contents of the manilla folder represented the biggest contract he’d ever negotiated for the company. He thought maybe he’d aged 10 years working on it. Not surprisingly, it had cost him his latest relationship, but things probably never would have worked out with Ginny anyway. She’d kept harping on his “personal space issues” and “inability to communicate.” Suggested he get therapy. “Sheppards don’t believe in therapy,” he’d said with a tight grin. “I bet,” she’d replied, rolling her eyes. She’d slipped wearily out of bed and gone to the bathroom .When she’d come out she was dressed again and putting on her lipstick. It wasn’t the last time he’d seen her, but it was the last time they’d slept together. 

***

Dave saw the gate up ahead and tapped his foot on the brake a little reluctantly. The tree-lined private drive opened up beyond, the house just visible in the distance. He slapped his remote overhead and the gate creaked open. 

He was going faster than he should have when he reached the circular driveway -- listening to the Eagles on the radio, almost humming -- so he when he saw them in his peripheral vision, he hit the brakes pretty hard. The Merc lurched to a stop and the manilla folder and all its contents slid from the seat onto to the passenger-side floorboard.

Two men in Air Force dress blues had just closed the front door behind them and started down the front steps.

Neither one was John, Dave realized automatically. Too short.

They glanced his direction and he stared back until they got into a car with government plates and pulled away.

Dave just sat. Later, he wasn’t sure how long. He could physically feel it, though, his perfect day slipping away like water down a drain.

Finally, he switched off the ignition and turned his unfocused gaze to the disarray of papers on the floorboard. He unbuckled and leaned over to gather them together, taking his time to put them back in the right order and carefully align the edges of the pages. When he was done, he tucked the papers back in the folder, stuck it under his arm, and climbed out of the car. 

***

His father wasn’t in his study or the living room. The library was empty, and the kitchen. Something kept Dave from calling out for him. Silence draped like a sheet over the furniture and staircases. His ears rang with it.

In the end, he found the old man out by the stables, leaning on the white rail fence that circled the riding ring. He was smoking, although he’d just quit for the umpteenth time a few months ago. One of the trainers was putting a lanky colt through his paces in the ring

As soon as he saw the old man, Dave knew. He knew. Something about the way his father was letting the rails support him, the way he held his shoulders.

“Dad?”

Patrick Sheppard didn’t turn around. “David.” He flicked the cigarette away.

They both stood there for a minute. Dave stepped up next to his father and lay his forearms against the railing. 

“This one’s worth something,” his dad said after a moment, nodding at the colt. “Look at that.”

Dave looked. It was beautiful. A loping grace approaching the jump and an effortless flight over it. No hitch, no stumbling, no fear or deliberation. Just one fluid movement.

He thought of John. He couldn’t help it. When John was twelve or thirteen, he’d saddled up one of the thoroughbreds, one of the gazillion-dollar racers the boys were never allowed to touch, much less ride, and galloped out of sight. Dave remembered a blur of hooves and mane, the rush of speed, his envy and his anger.

The crazy thing, crazier than John even, was the fact that he’d gotten away with it. He always did. Dad had been more than furious of course, but when John came back – face shining, hair sticking up every which way -- his father’s eyes burned fiercely proud, even as he shook John and yelled. What in God’s name were you thinking, young man? Look at me. No, look at me. And wipe that grin off your face. What in Hell …

John was grounded for weeks, but Dave never forgot that look in his father’s eyes. It was worth it, John told him later. Felt like flying. Dave wanted to smack him.

And now he couldn’t look at his father. They stood there together and watched the colt until the trainer touched his cap at them and trotted the animal back to the stable.

“He’s MIA,” his father said suddenly, his eyes locked on the colt’s swishing tail disappearing into a stall. Dave felt the ringing in his ears start up again.

“Dad –”

“They won’t say where or when or how or anything else,” his father went on. “Some Goddamn covert military bullshit. I told him. When he enlisted --” His voice faltered a little. “I told him –” The old man’s body, always ramrod straight, sagged against the railing.

Dave thought his father might fall over. He reached for his arm but Patrick Sheppard pulled away like he’d been stung. Dave flinched and stepped back. He realized he was hugging the manilla folder against his chest like a security blanket.

His father pushed himself away from the fence rail and stood up straighter. He looked right at Dave and his eyes had that fierce look again. “He was a stubborn, idiotic fool,” his father said. “Threw his life away. What a fucking waste.” Then his father turned and headed back to the house.

The past tense shocked Dave as much as the bitterness, though God knew he was more than familiar with his father’s anger toward his brother. When it came to John, Dad’s pain was still too raw, even after all these years. He’d had too much hope for him, too much pride for anything less. When it was bad, it eclipsed a lot of things, including Dave. But this was something else.

Dave trudged back to the house still toting the stupid folder. When he got inside he tossed the whole thing in the trash. In a way, he should’ve expected something like this, he thought with numb resignation. He’d almost bought a bottle of Clos du Mesnil for when he presented the contract to his dad for him to sign, but had decided against it. He was glad of that at least. He’d wanted to be casual about it, wanted his father’s reaction to be the reward, not the formal pouring of an overpriced drink. Thinking about it now, he found himself almost laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of it all. But he also felt like he might puke.

***

His father was in his study. It was starting to get dark and he’d switched on the green-shaded reading lamp on his desk. He looked aged and broken in the puddle of greenish light, like he’d had his remaining years sucked out of him. Dave came closer and noticed his father had a drawer open and was holding something in his lap under the desk, staring at it.

It was a framed photo of John the day he’d left for his first deployment to Afghanistan. He was in uniform, but it wasn’t one of those posed pictures taken in front of a flag. Dave had taken it at the airport. John was sitting on his luggage, all lanky arms and legs, grinning like an idiot, like it was all some huge adventure, going off to war halfway across the world. God, he looked young, Dave thought, remembering.  

“Put this away the last time we –” Patrick Sheppard paused. “He – both of us – said things we should never have said. Things you can never take back. I called him a coward. Did you know that?” He looked up and Dave realized with an icy chill in his gut that his father’s eyes were full. He’d never seen his father cry. “I swore to myself I’d never forgive him,” his father went on. “But I always thought – I mean, I never thought …” Cautiously, Dave put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “He’s missing, Dad.” Dave said at last. “Not dead.”

“He’s dead,” Patrick Sheppard said.  

They stayed there for a while, Dave’s hand still squeezing his father’s shoulder tight. Eventually his father put his cold dry hand on top of Dave’s. Twilight fell, the room darkened around their little pool of light, and John’s younger self kept smiling inanely up at them both. Dave thought about the last words he’d spoken to his brother, maybe two, three years ago. Not angry, just empty. They’d had nothing to say to each other.

Eventually his father put the picture on his desk and they went to bed. There was nothing to do. No funeral to plan, nobody to call. Neither one of them felt like eating anything. Dave slept in his old room. John’s was a generic guest room now, not even a guitar pick left behind. But Dave didn’t go near it. He lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep, but avoided turning on the TV, half expecting he’d see John in some grainy video, gagged and bound, kneeling in front of masked terrorists carrying AK-47s and machetes. He was almost glad his father was convinced his brother was already dead, because in a way it was worse to think John wasn’t dead, yet.

When he finally drifted off, Dave dreamt about John. They were kids again and they were riding their bikes down the street in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize. They’d never lived in a neighborhood like that with cul-de-sacs and playgrounds, only in huge rambling houses with gates and formal lawns and tennis courts. John kept urging him over his shoulder to catch up, to go faster, but no matter how much he pedaled, Dave was always just behind.

Then John stopped. Dave pulled even with him, a little winded. They were at the top of a big hill. John looked over and grinned that crooked grin and Dave’s heart lurched in his chest. C’mon, John said. Don’t be afraid. But Dave was afraid. Feels like flying, John said, still grinning like a maniac. And then the next thing Dave knew they were racing down the hill together, wind whipping through their hair, pavement careening away under their wheels. Whooping, John lifted his hands off the handle bars and his feet from the pedals. Dave hesitated for a split second, then did the same. He closed his eyes and let go. The adrenaline rush, the mind-erasing speed, the release. He understood. He felt free. When he woke up his face was wet.

***

Two weeks later, they got a call from the Air Force telling them John had been found safe. For days his father barely left the house. Dave knew he was waiting for John. For the phone to ring, or the doorbell. But there was nothing. Not even a letter or an email.

Dave wondered if John deliberately didn’t contact them, or didn’t even think to do it. He saw how it was killing his father, but knew the old man would never pick up the phone himself and call Petersen. They were too much alike, Dave realized. And right then, he hated them both.

One day when he came over to take his father out to dinner, he noticed the picture was gone. Probably back in the drawer.

They never talked about John again.

***

When he saw his brother walking up to him at the wake, saw his hand reach up to rub back of his neck, saw him refusing to look Dave in the eye, he recognized the signs. He knew John was getting ready to run away again. He refused to let him get away with it. Not this time. So he said things he should never have said. Things he could never take back. And just as John spun on his heel to leave, maybe this time for good, he remembered their father. How nothing Dave could do or say could ever really comfort him, was ever enough.

Dad always regretted what happened between you two, he told John. He said it partly to punish his brother, maybe, but also because he knew it was the God awful truth. Right up to the end.

FIN

Comments

[trystings.livejournal.com]

Wonderful background story. I love Dave's point of view (and if I were him, I would've slapped John upside the head at the wake. My god.)

Great fic. I hope you'll write more.