Blood is Thicker [O'Rourke Oneshot]
Sept 9, 2014 21:33:01 GMT -5
Post by Artemis on Sept 9, 2014 21:33:01 GMT -5
When Brody was born, Nolan wasn't the least bit ashamed to admit that he cried.
Girls ran strongly in the O'Rourke family. Nolan had many aunts, four sisters sandwiching him in age, and a handful of little nieces that made family gatherings more lively than they'd been since he'd been their size. And for the last five or six months, he had been patiently awaiting the arrival of a daughter; thinking of names, wondering what she was going to look like (he hoped she would be the spitting image of her mother), what she was going to be like.
And then the doctor had brought Nolan into his new wife's room, put the hours-old infant in his arms and told him he had a son.
Brody Casey O'Rourke had closed his tiny hand around Nolan's finger and looked up at him, eyes wide and an unmistakable blue. He had Nolan's eyes. And that was all it took for his new father to come undone.
Brody had inherited much more than his father's eyes. Nolan had quit his job at the quarry to take care of their son, and found himself chasing the blond-haired little boy all over the house and backyard, wondering at this and that. It turned out he'd inherited Nolan's sense of adventure, too. Even if Nolan let him toddle by himself around the safe confines of the backyard, Brody always came back to him, tugging on his father's hand to show him a rock or a bug or a fish that had jumped out of the lake just down the gorge.
That boy was fearless. But he always came back.
Nolan had finally gone back to the quarry when Brody was old enough to go to school, but he always got off his shift in time to get home just before his son. For a while, that was enough; his boy would be elated, as if he'd never expected to see Nolan again, throwing his arms around his father's neck and coming away with some of the quarry dust on his face.
One day though, something changed. Nolan had opened the door hearing the tiny hand knocking at it, to find his boy standing sullenly at the threshold, covered in dirt and bruises, blue eyes wide and glassy with tears but refusing to cry. His resolve had crumbled when Nolan held out his arms; Brody threw himself into them, burying his face in his father's shoulder, tiny hands fisting his shirt. When he finally got his son to look at him, there were unwilling tear tracks in the dirt and quarry dust on his face; Nolan had stroked his blond hair until he was all tuckered out, kissed his forehead and cleaned him up.
Bullies, he said.
Every fiber of Nolan's being wanted to hunt down and kill the little hellions who had deigned to lay their hands on his baby, his boy, his son. But that wasn't how the O'Rourke family did things. Nolan had taken Brody into the backyard, showed him how to put up his dukes, and after many tiny fists had collided with the huge palms of his father's hands, Brody had smiled again.
They're not gonna mess with me anymore Dad, he said.
They didn't.
The Reaping years were by far the hardest.
Nolan had taught Brody nearly everything that boy knew. Boxing, grappling, swordfighting, hand-to-hand combat and whatever survival techniques he knew; every year, Brody competed fiercely for the honor of representing District 2 in the Hunger Games. Every year, he was turned down, or was knocked out of the running during the Pre-Games. He had soothed his son's burning fury each time, assuring him that he would be chosen next year.
He never was. Nolan had never breathed a larger sigh of relief than he did when Brody was eighteen years old, and a different name had been pulled from the glass Reaping bowls. Brody had been furious; he had trained religiously for years, doing his best to emulate his father and intending to come home a Victor to make him proud.
Truth be told, Nolan never wanted Brody to be a tribute. It didn't matter how strong or smart or capable he was; his father would have feared for his life every moment, utterly terrified that for the first time, his boy wouldn't come back home.
Or rather, he would come home in a box.
But Nolan salved his son's anger, assured him that it wasn't the end of the world and that Brody didn't need to be a Victor to make him proud. It wasn't enough; Brody had inherited Nolan's eyes, his bravery, his strength, and he had also inherited his father's wanderlust.
One day, Brody had come home with a piece of paper in his hand.
Dad, I joined the Peacekeepers, he said.
Three months was a long time.
It was by the grace of some official at the Academy that the recruits were allowed to come home during the weekends. With the distance between basic training and the O'Rourke homestead, Brody wasn't able to visit every weekend, but when he did he often brought his fledging friend with him. A young man by the name of Marcus Roman.
Nolan would quiz him on his studies, they would spar in the backyard to keep his skills up and occasionally his father would slide him a beer. If you're old enough to serve your country, he'd say, you're old enough to drink. Brody would laugh and tell his father that he was being a terrible influence, and maybe he should arrest him once he got his badge.
You'd never be able to get the cuffs on me, Nolan would say.
And then they'd invariably grapple on the ground with Brody trying to prove he could, only to tap out when his father had him pinned.
When Brody came home in a beautiful, pressed white uniform with a gleaming badge on his chest, Nolan couldn't remember being prouder.
"I'll send you something for your birthday. Deployment got extended six more weeks, even for the highers-up."
Brody tried to make a point of visiting once a month, but the Peacekeepers had total reign over his schedule and had put him in another district for months at a time, on more than one occasion. District 4 had been Brody's first, but Nolan had been relieved to hear that his son was absolutely in love with the place.
"You'd like it here, Dad." or, "District 12 sucks, Dad." or, "The people here have such weird names, Dad. I'm so glad you didn't name me something stupid."
And when he did come home, Brody always came bearing souvenirs of his travels to give them; a necklace for his mother from District 1. A driftwood carving from District 4. A leather belt from District 10.
Nolan kept them of course, as mementos. But they were a poor substitute for the messenger that brought them.
"I miss you, Dad."
"I miss you too, son."
"I'll be home soon."
It was like thunder. The sound of rock collapsing, the screams of workers trapped in the tunnels, the air so thick with dust it managed to work its way into eyes, noses, mouths.
Nolan was no stranger to cave-ins. There was a scar hidden just at his hairline paying permanent testament to the tunnel collapse that had brought him face-to-face with the impossibly strong woman that was now his wife of nearly 20 years. He had been fortunate enough to avoid the worst of it, but his conscience would never allow him to merely save himself and never look back.
He spent nearly two days without sleep, hardly without food or water, helping unearth the men and women trapped within the mountain until the Peacekeepers finally reached their tunnel.
Covered head to toe in off-white quarry dust, Nolan looked like a ghost staggering exhaustedly through the tent city the military had set up. He needed food, he needed water, he needed sleep. But it would take much more than that for him not to notice a familiar voice almost frantically shouting his name.
Brody, pristine as usual in his white uniform and golden badge and sporting a shiny new chevron on his collar, flung his arms around his father the same as he had done for many years as a child and holding onto him as tightly as he could, as if he'd never expected to see Nolan again. Even though it was he who had been in the mountain, he stroked Brody's blond hair, reassuring him that he was alright.
His boy had tear tracks in the quarry dust on his face when Nolan had finally pulled away.
Nolan came to learn that news of the cave-in had reached the other side of District 2 almost as soon as it happened, and Brody had been giving the Peacekeepers around him absolute hell demanding to be part of the response, checking every hospital tent for him, digging through rubble looking for his father.
He was alive. Sleep-deprived and shaken, but he was alive.
But more importantly, Brody was there. Two days of thinking about nothing but seeing his son's face again, and here he was. He was home.
No one had cheered louder than Nolan during the final match of the Olympics.
Brody had been spectacular, the picture of a disciplined athlete taking down one opponent after another until the final match, when another young man had finally pinned him to take home the gold. Nolan had been trying for years to teach his son that there was room for sportsmanship in competition, and from the town square he could see the disappointment in his son's eyes.
To watch Brody shrug off the defeat and shake his opponent's hand had made him just as proud as seeing the silver medal draped around his neck.
His son had gotten a hero's welcome riding the train in from District 4, but when he arrived at the front door he was alone. Nolan opened the door for him, as he always did. And then Brody had taken off the medal, giving it to his father.
"I know it's second place, but..."
Brody didn't get to finish his sentence; the medal was temporarily forgotten, pinned between them as Nolan enveloped his son in a hug just the same as he'd always done.
It didn't matter that he didn't win gold. It wouldn't even have mattered if he'd brought home no medal at all. Seeing his son again, after making him so very, very proud, was the best prize he could ever have asked for.
At forty-seven, Nolan still works at the quarry. He comes home to a house that's often empty, as his wife of some 21 years now works odd hours. It never crosses his mind to take in a pet; it's hardly a substitute for the third (and sometimes fourth, Marcus was practically family now) set of footsteps padding around the house.
But that's alright. Because Nolan knows that as much as he misses his boy, eventually he'll come home.
Brody always comes home.
Girls ran strongly in the O'Rourke family. Nolan had many aunts, four sisters sandwiching him in age, and a handful of little nieces that made family gatherings more lively than they'd been since he'd been their size. And for the last five or six months, he had been patiently awaiting the arrival of a daughter; thinking of names, wondering what she was going to look like (he hoped she would be the spitting image of her mother), what she was going to be like.
And then the doctor had brought Nolan into his new wife's room, put the hours-old infant in his arms and told him he had a son.
Brody Casey O'Rourke had closed his tiny hand around Nolan's finger and looked up at him, eyes wide and an unmistakable blue. He had Nolan's eyes. And that was all it took for his new father to come undone.
Brody had inherited much more than his father's eyes. Nolan had quit his job at the quarry to take care of their son, and found himself chasing the blond-haired little boy all over the house and backyard, wondering at this and that. It turned out he'd inherited Nolan's sense of adventure, too. Even if Nolan let him toddle by himself around the safe confines of the backyard, Brody always came back to him, tugging on his father's hand to show him a rock or a bug or a fish that had jumped out of the lake just down the gorge.
That boy was fearless. But he always came back.
Nolan had finally gone back to the quarry when Brody was old enough to go to school, but he always got off his shift in time to get home just before his son. For a while, that was enough; his boy would be elated, as if he'd never expected to see Nolan again, throwing his arms around his father's neck and coming away with some of the quarry dust on his face.
One day though, something changed. Nolan had opened the door hearing the tiny hand knocking at it, to find his boy standing sullenly at the threshold, covered in dirt and bruises, blue eyes wide and glassy with tears but refusing to cry. His resolve had crumbled when Nolan held out his arms; Brody threw himself into them, burying his face in his father's shoulder, tiny hands fisting his shirt. When he finally got his son to look at him, there were unwilling tear tracks in the dirt and quarry dust on his face; Nolan had stroked his blond hair until he was all tuckered out, kissed his forehead and cleaned him up.
Bullies, he said.
Every fiber of Nolan's being wanted to hunt down and kill the little hellions who had deigned to lay their hands on his baby, his boy, his son. But that wasn't how the O'Rourke family did things. Nolan had taken Brody into the backyard, showed him how to put up his dukes, and after many tiny fists had collided with the huge palms of his father's hands, Brody had smiled again.
They're not gonna mess with me anymore Dad, he said.
They didn't.
The Reaping years were by far the hardest.
Nolan had taught Brody nearly everything that boy knew. Boxing, grappling, swordfighting, hand-to-hand combat and whatever survival techniques he knew; every year, Brody competed fiercely for the honor of representing District 2 in the Hunger Games. Every year, he was turned down, or was knocked out of the running during the Pre-Games. He had soothed his son's burning fury each time, assuring him that he would be chosen next year.
He never was. Nolan had never breathed a larger sigh of relief than he did when Brody was eighteen years old, and a different name had been pulled from the glass Reaping bowls. Brody had been furious; he had trained religiously for years, doing his best to emulate his father and intending to come home a Victor to make him proud.
Truth be told, Nolan never wanted Brody to be a tribute. It didn't matter how strong or smart or capable he was; his father would have feared for his life every moment, utterly terrified that for the first time, his boy wouldn't come back home.
Or rather, he would come home in a box.
But Nolan salved his son's anger, assured him that it wasn't the end of the world and that Brody didn't need to be a Victor to make him proud. It wasn't enough; Brody had inherited Nolan's eyes, his bravery, his strength, and he had also inherited his father's wanderlust.
One day, Brody had come home with a piece of paper in his hand.
Dad, I joined the Peacekeepers, he said.
Three months was a long time.
It was by the grace of some official at the Academy that the recruits were allowed to come home during the weekends. With the distance between basic training and the O'Rourke homestead, Brody wasn't able to visit every weekend, but when he did he often brought his fledging friend with him. A young man by the name of Marcus Roman.
Nolan would quiz him on his studies, they would spar in the backyard to keep his skills up and occasionally his father would slide him a beer. If you're old enough to serve your country, he'd say, you're old enough to drink. Brody would laugh and tell his father that he was being a terrible influence, and maybe he should arrest him once he got his badge.
You'd never be able to get the cuffs on me, Nolan would say.
And then they'd invariably grapple on the ground with Brody trying to prove he could, only to tap out when his father had him pinned.
When Brody came home in a beautiful, pressed white uniform with a gleaming badge on his chest, Nolan couldn't remember being prouder.
"I'll send you something for your birthday. Deployment got extended six more weeks, even for the highers-up."
Brody tried to make a point of visiting once a month, but the Peacekeepers had total reign over his schedule and had put him in another district for months at a time, on more than one occasion. District 4 had been Brody's first, but Nolan had been relieved to hear that his son was absolutely in love with the place.
"You'd like it here, Dad." or, "District 12 sucks, Dad." or, "The people here have such weird names, Dad. I'm so glad you didn't name me something stupid."
And when he did come home, Brody always came bearing souvenirs of his travels to give them; a necklace for his mother from District 1. A driftwood carving from District 4. A leather belt from District 10.
Nolan kept them of course, as mementos. But they were a poor substitute for the messenger that brought them.
"I miss you, Dad."
"I miss you too, son."
"I'll be home soon."
It was like thunder. The sound of rock collapsing, the screams of workers trapped in the tunnels, the air so thick with dust it managed to work its way into eyes, noses, mouths.
Nolan was no stranger to cave-ins. There was a scar hidden just at his hairline paying permanent testament to the tunnel collapse that had brought him face-to-face with the impossibly strong woman that was now his wife of nearly 20 years. He had been fortunate enough to avoid the worst of it, but his conscience would never allow him to merely save himself and never look back.
He spent nearly two days without sleep, hardly without food or water, helping unearth the men and women trapped within the mountain until the Peacekeepers finally reached their tunnel.
Covered head to toe in off-white quarry dust, Nolan looked like a ghost staggering exhaustedly through the tent city the military had set up. He needed food, he needed water, he needed sleep. But it would take much more than that for him not to notice a familiar voice almost frantically shouting his name.
Brody, pristine as usual in his white uniform and golden badge and sporting a shiny new chevron on his collar, flung his arms around his father the same as he had done for many years as a child and holding onto him as tightly as he could, as if he'd never expected to see Nolan again. Even though it was he who had been in the mountain, he stroked Brody's blond hair, reassuring him that he was alright.
His boy had tear tracks in the quarry dust on his face when Nolan had finally pulled away.
Nolan came to learn that news of the cave-in had reached the other side of District 2 almost as soon as it happened, and Brody had been giving the Peacekeepers around him absolute hell demanding to be part of the response, checking every hospital tent for him, digging through rubble looking for his father.
He was alive. Sleep-deprived and shaken, but he was alive.
But more importantly, Brody was there. Two days of thinking about nothing but seeing his son's face again, and here he was. He was home.
No one had cheered louder than Nolan during the final match of the Olympics.
Brody had been spectacular, the picture of a disciplined athlete taking down one opponent after another until the final match, when another young man had finally pinned him to take home the gold. Nolan had been trying for years to teach his son that there was room for sportsmanship in competition, and from the town square he could see the disappointment in his son's eyes.
To watch Brody shrug off the defeat and shake his opponent's hand had made him just as proud as seeing the silver medal draped around his neck.
His son had gotten a hero's welcome riding the train in from District 4, but when he arrived at the front door he was alone. Nolan opened the door for him, as he always did. And then Brody had taken off the medal, giving it to his father.
"I know it's second place, but..."
Brody didn't get to finish his sentence; the medal was temporarily forgotten, pinned between them as Nolan enveloped his son in a hug just the same as he'd always done.
It didn't matter that he didn't win gold. It wouldn't even have mattered if he'd brought home no medal at all. Seeing his son again, after making him so very, very proud, was the best prize he could ever have asked for.
At forty-seven, Nolan still works at the quarry. He comes home to a house that's often empty, as his wife of some 21 years now works odd hours. It never crosses his mind to take in a pet; it's hardly a substitute for the third (and sometimes fourth, Marcus was practically family now) set of footsteps padding around the house.
But that's alright. Because Nolan knows that as much as he misses his boy, eventually he'll come home.
Brody always comes home.
All aboard the Feels Train ;___;
