Father's Day

by Ruralstar
http://www.angelfire.com/dragon3/rurals-zone/index.html

John tapped the off button and slammed the phone down on the countertop. Sarah did not deserve his anger. She had empathized with him and offered compromises, which ordinarily he would have happily discussed. The current situation was far from ordinary. Better to hang up before his tongue got the better of his limited self-control.

He wandered into the living room and slumped onto the sofa. Bright sunlight spilled across the floor and a warm breeze stirred the curtains. The scents of flowers and fresh-mowed grass filled his nostrils and birds squabbled in the hedge. John propped his cheek against his hand and closed his eyes, shutting out the riot of color and sound.

Three and a half years had passed since his awakening. He had lived a thousand lifetimes in that span-felt the silk of a lover's kiss, plumbed the mysteries of the human body, trembled in fear as familiars were torn away, tasted the ashes of an uncertain future and experienced the depths of rage that only revenge could spawn. Without Bruce's logical analysis, Sarah's quiet strength and Walt's trust even when he treaded on the sharp edge of reason, John would have been overwhelmed long ago. He partook of their support reluctantly at first and then later leaned without quarter as the world tilted crazily on the axis of his damaged brain.

The male friendships were as unlikely as the strange ability that plagued him. Gene Purdy called it a gift. When he could reunite the wayward, find the precious or comfort the hurting, the description was apt and heartening. In between these rare circumstances lay mayhem. Children maimed at the hands of impulsive paranoiacs, innocence bludgeoned into the dirt, people driven mad by greed. All of it coated in the fine ashes of a disaster that left him wracked with physical pain and the consuming urgency to stop what seemed inevitable. John massaged his temples with weak fingers. He got up every morning because of the people who worried, cajoled, harassed and loved him. He lived vicariously and wished for more with a jealous fervor that they largely forgave.

"Damn," his voice echoed hollowly in the quiet room.

JJ was attending a day camp for the entire week, which was a tradition for all fourth graders at his school. The termination of Mr. Talbot and the violent death of Derek Fitz had pushed back summer vacation by a full week. Adamant that nothing else would disturb the remainder of the school year, Principle Rowin renegotiated contracts with the camp and the school board. All parties were eager to offer the children the stability of routine. John wholeheartedly concurred. He did not think of how the activity might disturb his own intentions, only the benefit it would have on the school and the community.

Morally correct, the wishes of every upstanding citizen. John gingerly shook his head. Oh yes, the neighbors would be delighted to discover that my values are so firmly entrenched! The warning tingle of a migraine flashed a firebrand across the inside of his eyelids. John sighed shakily. Never mind that tradition is standing in the way of my first official Father's Day.

Jack Jericho's relentless degradation of John and his friends had forced all three of JJ's parents to re-evaluate their son's situation. After a rooftop catharsis, Jericho entered counseling and paid John an unexpected visit. His heartfelt, if stilted apology, had been the final prompt. JJ learned the truth and after some initial hesitation, he was gradually including John in his life. The steady progression from family friend to paternal figure would have been satisfying if not for the incident in the 6th Street Park.

John leaned his head against the couch cushions and absently massaged the healing cuts on his left arm. Christ, I nearly killed the guy-and for what? He swallowed hard as a dull throb erupted behind his eyes. Nearly killed him because of what could have happened to Bruce. What would the neighbors say if they knew how close I came to committing murder in a fit of uncontrollable rage? John grimaced and clambered unsteadily to his feet. The conversation between Walt and Mr. Murphy had undoubtedly been memorable. How many hoops did the Penobscot Country Sheriff's department have to jump through to ensure the traumatized man's silence?

John wobbled into the kitchen and found the ice pack in the freezer by touch rather than sight. The mounting roar of the headache obliterated the comforting tones of nature and twisted his stomach into a cold, hard knot. He stumbled to the stairs and began to climb, stopping twice before he reached the landing. He had one goal in mind-the bedroom. In the last few months it had become his haven and it was always dark, unless Rebecca was visiting. She insisted on open blinds and sunlight no matter how early the hour.

God, I'm glad she's not here!

John collapsed on the bed. He drew shallow breaths to quell the nausea and tried to ignore the flares of crimson that splashed across his eyelids. Ten seconds... twenty ... a minute. The ice pack warmed and condensation mixed with sweat and ran in rivulets from his temples onto the pillowcase. He turned on his side and listened to the metronome of his sluggish pulse count the minutes. Ten minutes... twenty... The queasiness subsided and chills crawled up his spine and surged outward. John shivered and pulled clumsily at the crumpled spread. Rebecca would have made the bed hours ago.

Damn, this hurts!

He knew the headaches scared Rebecca by the way she moved closer and allowed the heat of her body to wash over his in comforting waves. Her hand would hover near his elbow and her voice would sound smooth and low in his ear. John had never told her how much he appreciated even the smallest gestures in the midst of the agony. Lately, the thought of dying from an aneurysm or a seizure frequently crossed his mind. He dreaded leaving her with the desperate choice of whether to pull the plug or not should an unforeseen trauma send him back into a coma.

What if I never get the chance to tell Rebecca, or anyone else, how I really feel?

He resisted the idea of medication out of practicality as much as fear. He had to keep a clear head when dealing with Greg Stillson or Christopher Wey. John preferred the pain to the distorted, useless visions he received when taking analgesics. Nor did he have the heart to tell Bruce or Dr. Gibson that nothing short of unconsciousness would give him relief.

"Living on borrowed time." In his fragile state, the sound of his own voice was deafening. John bit his tongue to subdue a groan.

He had a healthy respect for the inevitable nature of death. What worried him was dying before he had completed the most damning piece of business presented to him since awakening. Stillson had to be stopped. Living life to its fullest extent often fell beneath that single-minded purpose. The incident with George Murphy in the park reminded John that saving the world would mean very little if there were no one left to share the victory with.

JJ... The thoughts came full circle and tolled bell-like through his pounding head. An evening with my son-miniature golf, pizza, some time at the arcade; is that so much to ask?

John's stomach flipped rebelliously and he gasped into the damp cotton of the pillowcase. Apparently it is.

JJ and Walt had been going on a two-day overnight up to the lake every Father's Day since the boy was five. The students' last day of camp was Friday, the day after tomorrow. Walt would pick JJ up directly from school and disappear until late Sunday evening. A traditional bonding experience Walt had shared with his own father into his late teens.

Except JJ was John's son and now everyone, including JJ, knew it.

How did everything get so screwed up?

John smiled weakly as the irony of the situation sank in. The first Father's Day following his coma was spent in the hospital. The Bannermans visited late in the evening and chastised him for being foolish enough to go comet chasing and fall down a cliff. JJ signed his leg brace and promptly fell asleep, apparently exhausted from a weekend outdoors with his 'dad'. John's accident had nearly aborted the trip. At the time he was too tired and embarrassed to apologize.

He had yet to do so.

John rolled onto his back and tentatively opened his eyes. The ceiling was a mass of shadows and lines awash in dull pulsating amber. He grimaced and closed his eyes again. Too soon.

The second Father's Day was equally dismal. Walt and JJ enjoyed their customary jaunt while John attended the funeral of Bruce's father. The pain of Kate Moore's death was still fresh in his head and heart. He felt utterly useless in the face of Bruce's confusion and grief. The unusual visions they shared ignited the firm resolve to pull back from anyone he might hurt by omission or plain old-fashioned stupidity.

Upon returning to Cleaves Mills, John declined Sarah's repeated dinner invitations and refused to speak to anyone unless it was a matter of necessity. Self-pity lay over John like a shroud. His volatile relationship with Dana Bright tumbled into ruin and tutoring summer-school science became his sole concession to the world at large.

Jesus, I am pathetic. Did Howard Hughes wind up like this? Is this why Hemingway shot himself? How often did they revisit the failures instead of the triumphs?

John threw an arm over his face to block the scant light from his fluttering eyelids.

No these aren't tears...it's too damn bright in here!

Memories flared in a dizzying kaleidoscope of imagery. JJ in the oxygen tent... Wey standing in his basement clutching a wrinkled magazine cover... Rachel's twisted features covered in dirt and blood... Katie Mercer and the flaming wreck... himself crawling through the wet grass, mangled and sobbing in agony...smirking comedy masks and Fernanda Lauer's limp body tied to a chair... Brian Hampton's anguished screams merging with Maria's tearful plea...Ted Keene's lifeless eyes as he crouched by the stream.... Gene's bloody hand and the gun... Bruce, battered, lifeless in his trembling arms... The last a vision that felt as real as the incessant drilling behind his gritty eyes.

No... Stop... Leave me alone!

John rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.

I've earned this time with JJ! How much am I supposed to take without asking for a little in return?

The blood roared in his ears and true darkness nipped at the edges of consciousness. He drew several deep breaths and willed his racing heart to a steadier beat. Calm was eventually restored and John forced himself to sit up. He scrubbed a hand over his face, banishing the salted sheen of unwanted tears. Recent weeks had brought his emotions perilously close to the surface.

So close, damn, I was so close to stepping over the edge...

Time was a precious commodity for everyone but the headaches, seizures and blackouts left little room for debate. John would die if something did not drastically change in the very near future. He did not question the assumption or share it with anyone. There was no point.

Sunday was possibly the last Father's Day he would ever see and JJ would be camping with his 'dad'. John cradled his throbbing skull as resentment flared cold and stark white.

Jesus, it isn't fair. The guy was there when I couldn't be...

For a moment John hated Walt and his quiet resolve to retain control of his life. The image of Sarah and him dancing at Maria's wedding drifted up from memory and ire softened into melancholy. Maria and Brian's situation illustrated what Bruce had been telling him for two years. "Sarah was your girl...that story is old...move on."

"I would have waited for you." Sarah was speaking to the man he was-not the man he had become. Pretending not to hear those fateful words was one of the most difficult things John had ever done

Walt was not an interloper, he was an innocent bystander swept up in John's life by default. By any acceptable definition he was JJ's dad. He deserved respect for that position and, along with Sarah, gratitude for the well-adjusted child that JJ had become.

John walked away and as the dancers flooded the floor he dialed Rebecca's number.

"I've been thinking about you."

"I've been thinking about you too."

Rebecca's warmth reached across the miles and encouraged John to look forward. He did so eagerly, with only a trace of regret to spoil the view.

John tentatively opened his eyes. The glare of sunlight on the hallway floor was still painful but the colors had returned to normal. He stood carefully and went into the bathroom. Leaving the lights off, he turned the hot water on and stripped. The shower suffused his chilled, aching body with heat. A half hour of steady pummeling left him relaxed and forced the headache down to a manageable rumble. He stepped out, dried off and returned to the bedroom. A couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep would bring him back to normal. He turned off the ringer on the bedside phone and crawled beneath the covers.

What was normal for Johnny Smith?

The distant buzz of the kitchen phone roused him from a leaden sleep. John blinked and fumbled groggily for the cordless unit on the bedside table. The house was truly dark. He glanced at the digital clock, mildly surprised to read 7:42 pm on the display. Two hours had turned into nearly six but at least the headache was gone. He snagged the phone and pressed ON. "Hello?"

"John?"

He propped himself up on one elbow and smiled against the cold plastic handset. "Hey Rebecca."

"I'm sorry... did I wake you?"

He considered a lie and rejected it out of hand. "Yeah."

"Headache?"

"Uh-huh."

"Honey, you can't keep going on like this. You need to see someone."

"So what's up?" he interrupted.

"Huh? Oh, nothing... I was just thinking of you. I'm sorry I can't get away until next week."

"I understand, don't worry about it." Rebecca had flown up the day after the attack and stayed the weekend. John was used to doing for himself but three days of pampering had kept his anxieties at bay.

God, I miss you!

"John, are you there?"

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Are we still on for next weekend?"

"Definitely," he enthused. Rebecca laughed and his skin tingled at the sound. "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Rebecca I..."

"What?"

I need you here. I need to hold you, touch your face and know that you are with me. I can't do this alone... John blinked rapidly and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Let's drive down to the coast," he whispered. "Get away for a while..."

"I'd like that." Her concern wrapped around his shoulders like a warm, knitted throw. "Take care of yourself, please."

"You too."

Rebecca hung up and John threw the phone down on the bed. There was nothing to be done about her professional commitments. She loved her work and gave it a high priority. Loyalty was one of the many qualities he admired in her.

Admired, respected, loved-God sakes say the word!

Even in thought the term sounded foreign and unjustifiably traitorous. On some level John had connected with Dana Bright but the mountain of their combined emotional baggage proved insurmountable. Kate's death had simply been the final brick in a very heavy load. Rebecca was different. She was drawn to the John Smith of the present. Not a phantom of the past or a story to exploit as a balm for a broken heart. She cared and she tried to assuage the emotional upheaval wrought by the visions. Calmly waiting until it was safe to hold him and never flinching when that moment was hours or days in coming.

John lay back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Sarah had apologized profusely for the timing of the day camp even though she had nothing to do with it. Wednesday was a half-day of school and the last before summer vacation. She offered to drop JJ off next Tuesday for a belated evening of gaming and pizza, which seemed the most viable alternative available. All he could manage was a half-hearted affirmation. The earlier phone call felt days and not merely hours old.

John needed to get a handle on his innate paranoia and conjure up some objectivity. He had visited the Sheriff's office a week earlier and knew Walt was looking forward to Father's day with child-like enthusiasm. Sarah was genuinely apologetic. She could not come by John's house over the weekend, as the Community Center was hosting a flea market to raise money for the Red Cross. She stopped short of asking him to help. Crowds were an unnecessary stressor at this juncture.

Local psychic pitches a fit whilst handling Aunt Louise's antique truss! Film at 11!

He rolled his eyes at the internal marquee. Yes that would bolster my image in a thousand new ways!

John sat up carefully and swung his legs to the floor. He had not spoken to Bruce since his fishing afternoon the week following the attack. It was not easy to accept Bruce's advice when the feelings of shame for what might have been were still so fresh. The need was instinctual after three years of unwavering support, however. John reached for the phone and punched speed dial two. The phone buzzed repeatedly and his thumb trembled above the OFF button. Come on...

"Hey, John."

"What's shakin', man?"

"Packing."

John stood and paced restlessly across the floor. "For what?"

"Your psychic radar on the fritz? Tina, remember?"

John stopped in front of the window and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Sure I remember Tina. Tall chick, green eyes, nice..."

"Yeah, that's her!" Bruce exclaimed. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Cut me some slack will ya'?" he grumbled irritably. "What about her?"

"Weekend in Boston ring a bell?"

John sighed heavily. He had forgotten, which was unusual and disturbing. "Vaguely."

"You okay?"

"No," he admitted with a brittle laugh. "Not really."

"I'm outta here at 9 am, man. Tina has to attend a seminar in the afternoon. I still haven't finished packing, never mind gassing up the car..."

"No problem. Enjoy your weekend and we'll catch up next week." "John..."

"Forget it, Bruce." Please. He nudged the curtain aside and pressed his fingers to the cool glass. Fireflies hovered above the lawn and a June bug pounded heavily against the screen. "Must be serious," he prompted.

Bruce snorted. "Maybe."

"You're a player my man." "Yeah, well playin' can get old." The metallic clink of a zipper followed by a solid thump sounded over the phone line. "Speakin' of players aren't you hookin' up with Rebecca next weekend?"

Not soon enough! John squelched the qualifier and let the curtain fall back into place. "Yeah, she called a little while ago." The catch in Bruce's measured breathing roused suspicion. "You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yeah I did." Bruce huffed a sigh. "She called here about an hour ago. She didn't want you to be alone this weekend. Hell, man, she's worried about you."

Not going down that road again, absolutely no point. "Just another day, right?"

"Yeah, right. Who do you think you're talking to?"

"The ebony stud of the East?" John quipped. He smirked at Bruce's indulgent laugh. "Enjoy your weekend and don't break any land speed records on the way down."

"You will have another chance at this, you know that, right?"

"I'll see ya, Bruce," John hung up and walked out into the hall. He felt weak and nauseous, which was not unusual in the wake of a migraine. The thought of rehashing his misgivings with Bruce only added to the sensation. He needed food and distraction. The nap ensured that he would not sleep until the wee hours, if at all. Resetting his internal clock was a surefire way to pass the time. The weekend would come and go in a melee of late-night television and take-out. John paused on the landing and shook his head ruefully.

Stunning plan, follow it up with indigestion and a hangover and the next four days could be mistaken for a rerun of my freshman year at Orono State College.

John ordered pizza and fell asleep on the sofa at 6 am following a series of B-rate horror films and a teen comedy starring a very young Molly Ringwald. The promised indigestion roused him in the late afternoon and the cycle began anew. With the exception of a rather enlightening vision of the pizza delivery guy and his middle aged manager, John was largely successful in avoiding the influence of the outside world.

The phone did not ring and his mail was a mundane mixture of advertisements and utility bills. Any 'fan' mail was redirected by the Post Office to Faith Heritage and sorted by a full-time employee. Interest in his talents had waned and only the most sensitive and sincere requests were forwarded to John. He appreciated the service, though he rarely spoke of it to Gene. The good Reverend's head was already swelled enough.

Friday morning dawned cool and foggy. John dozed on the couch, the remains of a midnight snack congealing on a plate in the center of the coffee table. He was exhausted and as his defenses lowered, images crowded the corners of the room and voices murmured at the edge of hearing. He recognized the semi-conscious meanderings as simple tricks played by a restless brain and not full-blown recollections of specific visions. Usually, he would give in and follow the dreams to their natural conclusion but he was beyond sleep. The sensations were an annoyance that eventually forced him to sit up and scrub roughly at his stubbly chin.

Coffee? Oh yes, brilliant, Sherlock. Maybe I should go for a full 24 hours without any measurable sleep? Let's be daring, how about 36?

"Shut up," John mumbled aloud. The inner voice obligingly faded and he choked on a maniacal giggle.

Keep it up and I'll be checking into the Happy Hilton in no time flat!

He sobered and climbed unsteadily to his feet. An asylum might be the quietest place on the planet for him. The sensory overload would be instantaneous and true silence would surely follow.

A terrific legacy for JJ...

John groaned and rubbed a hand over his stiff neck. The reminder left him cold and wishing fervently for human contact. What the hell do I do with myself until Tuesday?

He put on the coffee and decided to take a shower and shave. He could easily kill a half hour preparing for the day ahead. A long walk after breakfast might clear the cobwebs or put him under for the afternoon; he hoped for the latter.

The phone buzzed as he was stepping out of the shower stall. Dripping wet and annoyed despite the much-needed distraction, John stalked across the hall to his bedroom and snatched up the handset. "What?"

"No wonder you're such a popular guy," Bruce grumbled back.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

He scrubbed the towel through his wet hair. "Why?"

"Rained out."

"Translation; you said something really stupid and Tina booted your sorry ass."

"Something like that."

John laughed beneath his breath. Bruce's audible sigh made him laugh even harder.

"Awww shut up, man!"

"Sorry," he looked at the clock and winced. "So you thought you would call me at 7:03 in the morning. How did you know I would be up?"

"I didn't," Bruce retorted sarcastically.

"Very nice."

"Did you make any plans for the weekend?"

"I've got a few ideas."

"Sulking on the couch watching ESPN?"

"I don't sulk!" John denied sulkily.

"Call it what you will but you are the champion, my brother."

"Says the man flying solo this weekend!"

"You got plans or what?" Bruce asked pointedly.

John shrugged. "Not really."

"Fine. We'll drive up to Bangor tonight."

"Drown your sorrows?"

"Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Father Smith!"

John snorted at the characterization and glanced at the clock a second time. "The defrocking will commence in exactly 7 days and four hours."

"TMI!" Bruce protested vehemently. "You sound like shit, man. Get some sleep and I'll pick you up around 6."

"A little early don't you think?"

"Do you want to be drivin' back after a night of clubbing?"

"Well no..."

"Gotta find some place to crash and get a bite to eat."

"Good point. 6 it is then."

"Take it easy, John."

"Yeah, you too."

John hung up the phone, awash in mixed feelings of guilt and pleasure. Bruce would understand the incongruity better than most people and would encourage him to focus on the positive. His Zen philosophies would be kicking into overdrive as he tried to prod John out of melancholy.

Screw it!

John dressed in casual clothes and went downstairs for coffee and breakfast. An hour later the early fog was gone, replaced by clear azure skies and a stiff breeze. John sucked in a cleansing breath and pondered the quiet street from the vantage point of his front door. The kids were in school and most of the neighbors had left for work. Human interaction would consist of the mailman, garbage collectors or a stray utility crew. None of them would expect more than a polite wave or a smile. He hated being so reclusive and endured a flush of bitter nostalgia as he walked down the broad steps. As a teacher, he had reveled in student interaction. He touched shoulders and shook hands, eager to encourage or congratulate. The gift-curse-allowed only the most perfunctory of contact now.

Rebecca had been right, life wasn't fair.

He forced the depressing musings to the back of his mind and walked down to the sidewalk. The wide streets and well-appointed houses of his neighborhood stretched out in either direction. In the distance, a dog barked and someone called out in reply. He turned away from the sun and set a brisk pace.

Older homes gave way to big empty lots, many covered in a tangle of last year's grass. Smaller houses with dirt driveways appeared amidst a scattering of farms. The steady chug of tractors and the intermittent calls of cows and horses replaced the incessant throb of traffic. John eagerly drank in the sights and sounds. His skin tingled and flushed with the sun's vigor. He removed his jacket and clutched it in one hand, swinging it lightly in time to his stride.

The walk illustrated what should have been obvious; wallowing in a milieu of retrospection was not healthy. He needed to enjoy life, whether for fifty years or fifty days.

Exhaustion won out as he plodded reluctantly up his street. Ignoring the mail and the incumbent visions John entered the house and went directly upstairs. Phone messages could wait. For the moment he was happy and determined to fall asleep without the burden of a stranger's, or worse, a familiar's demand on his conscience. John stripped to his boxers, reset the alarm for 5 pm and crawled into bed.

Dreams flitted at the edge of reason as he sank towards slumber. He wandered through them feeling isolated but strangely free. The scene spun round and friends drifted past. He touched them and felt the customary spark as their experiences brushed his thoughts. Each image painted in warm, vivid shades of peace.

The buzz of the alarm yanked John abruptly back to consciousness. He slapped the clock and groaned.

It was so quiet there

The idea of fighting through a crowd of revelers gyrating to overstressed speakers suddenly sounded extremely unwise. John shook his head and grimaced.

Oh, terrific plan!

He could plead illness. His leg was aching from the lengthy walk, though he would not have given up the fresh air and pleasant dreams for anything. With the demise of his weekend plans Bruce would not be so easily deterred. In fact, he would likely offer a painful, albeit therapeutic, massage and insist on going out.

John climbed to his feet and padded across the floor to the bureau. He was committed, or committable, depending on one's perspective.

That was bad, really bad!

Chuckling to himself, John pulled out a lightweight sweater and a pair of black jeans. He fished in the top drawer for the appropriate undergarments and then found a pair of suede loafers in the bottom of the closet. Satisfied with his wardrobe for the evening, he packed a bag with more casual attire and proceeded to rewash his hair and dress.

The kitchen was draped in long gauzy shadows when he entered it twenty minutes later. A sharp yell caused him to lift the edge of the curtain and ease the window open. Through the hedge, he glimpsed a flash of color and heard the telltale grind of roller blades on asphalt.

I hope the hell you guys are wearing helmets!

The paternal nature of the musing caught the breath in his throat. John bit his lip and pushed the window down with unnecessary force.

Yeah, I needed that like a hole in my head.

He turned from the window and leaned against the counter. Reminders of what he did not have were everywhere. How did one avoid reality?

The steady rumble of an approaching car sounded in the driveway. John glanced at his watch. 5:35? "Feeling a little desperate, Bruce?" he mumbled dryly. The engine died and a door slammed. John plastered a smile on his face and walked into the foyer as the doorbell chimed. "I'm coming!" He grasped the latch and pulled. "Walt?"

"Hey, John, you got a minute?"

"Uh...yeah, sure," he peered over the other man's shoulder, expecting to see JJ's blond head in the passenger seat of Walt's SUV. The truck was empty.

"Can I come in or do I have stand on the stoop for some reason?"

John smiled sheepishly and stepped aside. "Sorry. I'm a little out of it."

"So I see." Walt walked passed and stopped in the center of the foyer. His dark brown eyes roamed around the small space seeming in search of a place to focus.

Nervous? What is this about? John glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Come on Bruce...

"You mind if we sit down a minute? I need to talk to you about something."

John gestured towards the living room. "Is this about a case?"

"No."

John sighed in relief and perched on the edge of the couch.

Walt paced the width of the room and paused by a corner table. He frowned deeply as he studied the picture of John and Vera Smith resting on top. Turning away from the picture, he crossed to the chair opposite John and sat down.

"Walt?"

"Sarah is worried about you. We all are."

"Well, thanks, but I'm doing okay."

"Bullshit."

John shrugged, only mildly surprised by the sharp rebuke. "Okay, what would you rather hear?" he muttered grimly. "That my head feels like someone has set up a construction zone in it most of the time? That my brains are more scrambled than a truckload of egg whites?"

Walt frowned, looking as miserable as John felt.

"I'm okay," he assured them both. "At least for the moment."

"Sarah is scared that something serious is going to happen if you don't get checked out."

The unspoken addendum and Walt's underlying concern spread an uneasy chill through John's tense frame. He smiled crookedly and looked at the floor. "Bruce is keeping an eye on me."

"If I know Bruce, he's kicking you in the ass harder than I am right now," Walt quipped good-naturedly.

John laughed.

"Look, I don't mean to stress you out. God knows you've got enough on your plate," he stubbed his toe into the short carpet. "I told Sarah I wasn't very good at this kind of stuff."

"What stuff?" John repeated quietly.

"It was her idea; hers and Bruce's," color spread up from his collar and Walt shook his head with an audible sigh. "I thought it was a good one too. Damn it John..."

He spread his hands helplessly. "What?"

Walt eyed his navy sweater and suede shoes. "Well you're not exactly dressed for it."

"Bruce is coming to pick me up. We're heading up to Bangor tonight."

"Bruce is in Boston right now."

"No, he called this morning."

"From Boston," Walt affirmed.

John rubbed absent fingers over his still tender arm. "So why the charade?"

Walt smiled wanly. "JJ is waiting for you at the house."

John sat back against the couch cushions and swallowed the sudden ache in his throat. "I don't know what to say."

A shadow flickered across Walt's face. He shrugged, seeming to dismiss the thought. John groaned inwardly. No, it couldn't be this simple... He bit back a resigned sigh. "This isn't right. I can't interfere."

Walt pushed a hand through his tousled hair. "Don't make this any harder, okay?"

"I'm not. I'm letting you off the hook." God I hate this... What the hell is wrong with wanting? With accepting? He caught and held Walt's dark eyes as guilt twisted through his tight chest. "You shouldn't have to do this."

"I shouldn't do a lot of things."

"It's not fair."

"When has any of this been fair?"

It would be so easy to say yes. Bitterness washed through John's body as he stood up "I appreciate the offer."

Walt shook his head, the smile turning to a wry grimace. "You are one stubborn S.O.B, you know that?"

"Do you think I want to turn you down?" John rubbed his forehead and turned away. The words had jumped free without conscious thought. The loss of control made him feel weak and foolish. "Go home."

Walt stood and moved into his periphery. "Hey."

I don't want to have this conversation. "You have plans," John managed hoarsely. "I'm not getting in the way of that."

The feel of the other man's hand on his shoulder was unexpected. John shuddered as waves of emotion spread out from the splayed fingers. Not a vision; instead, a feeling of warmth and trust as a montage of past conversations overlapped through memory. He glanced upwards and watched the images flicker across the shadowed ceiling. Colors mixed with texture and tone and he felt the tension roll back, leaving behind the acrid burn of un-shed tears.

"I know you're scared. I sure as hell would be." Walt said.

John nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Damn-it, why couldn't you have been a selfish bastard? He smiled faintly as Walt's hand fell away. The offer was more than he expected or deserved after his earlier feelings of resentment. "Go home," he faltered and blew a ragged breath. "Go home to your family."

"No. We're not going to do things this way, not now."

"Daddy's dying, so let's give him one last hurrah-is that it?" John flared defensively. "I don't need anyone's pity."

"Then how about a dose of realism?" Walt laughed shortly. "That's ironic, considering who I'm talking to."

At a loss for words, John walked to the window. Walt did not follow, but his calm, level tones carried easily across the short distance. "I've known you for over three years. In all that time we've always been straight with each other, whether we agreed or not. I respect you, John. More than that, you're a friend. I'm here as a friend."

"You said it was Sarah's idea."

"JJ's too," Walt said softly.

Startled, John spun around. My God! "I'm sorry."

"What for? He's old enough to know how he feels."

"But..."

"He's a smart kid. Must be something in the genes. And don't go getting a swelled head, I was talkin' about Sarah!"

John snorted, grateful for the levity.

"Take him up to the lake," Walt continued soberly. "Spend time with your son."

His friend's candor and consideration cut John to the quick. Walt would not pretend that it did not hurt to see JJ pulling away, nor would he deny the value of the bond forming between father and son. John swallowed a host of useless rejoinders, feeling distinctly unworthy. Fear and anger had been his twin shadows since the night in the park. This simple act of kindness served as a firm reminder that similar emotions had shadowed Walt's every step since the day John reawakened. "I don't know what to say."

"Just get changed. Where's your fishing tackle? I'll put it in your Rover along with JJ's gear and the camping supplies."

"Walt," he held out his hand.

Genuine affection softened Walt's features. He gave the proffered hand a firm squeeze. "You're welcome."

John gestured towards the foyer. "I'll be down in a few minutes. The keys are hanging on a peg by the back door and the fishing gear is in the garage." He started for the stairs. Sensing that Walt had not moved, he paused uncertainly in the doorway and turned back. "What?"

"You mind if I drive up Sunday afternoon?"

John smiled softly. "I think JJ would like that. So would I."

*THE*END*

Please post a comment on this story.