Crash

Author: Allykat D.

Email: allykat_d@hotmail.com

Rating: PG

Summary: The Saturday morning after "Causality"


Author's Note: I was going to wait until after "Privilege" to post it,
but what the heck. A huge, gigantic thanks goes out to Molly for her wonderful
beta reading/editing of this story. This story wouldn't be half what
it is without her.

--+--



"Burton, all this, it's going to kill me! I can't take it." She
slams the phone down; her shoulders shake with silent sobs. She dabs
at her eyes with the back of one hand. "That man is going to kill
me!"

Nick had been asleep when he heard the angry voice of his mother. He
peers out from the doorway of the front room and watches her. He
wants to hug her, but his feet feel frozen to the floor. It scares
him to see his mom cry, and he's angry at his fear. She turns and
sees him, hesitates and takes a deep breath. A sheen of unshed
tears brightens her eyes as she crosses the room and touches the soft
head of her son.

"What are you doing out of bed, sweetie? She straightens his pajama
top, her warm fingers brush against his bare skin. He finally moves
close to her, not touching her yet still seeking comfort and her
familiar scent. He wants her arms around him and needs her, but what
he's witnessed confuses him.

"I... couldn't sleep," he lies.

She stands and takes his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Come
on, I'll tuck you back in."

He stays, not following and stares up at her. "What did you mean
that Dad was going to kill you?"

She sniffs and looks down, her smile not reaching her eyes. Since
Daddy left, she's been unhappy all the time. It must be Dad's
fault.

"It's nothing, Nicky." And Nicholas knows that she is lying. "It's
way past your bedtime and you have school tomorrow."

His mom takes him to bed and tucks the blankets around him like when
he was a little boy, then leans over and kisses his cheek. He wants
to hug her but he grips the blankets instead. He needs to be strong
for both of them. "Sweet dreams," she says.

"Goodnight, Mom." She leaves. "I love you," he whispers into the
darkness

Nick lies in his bed and thinks about what his mother said. `That
man is going to kill me'. Why would Dad kill Mom? He snuggles into
his bed, his body warm and comfortable, but his heart is not. A tear
trickles down his cheek. He doesn't like to hear them argue. They
used to argue a lot before Dad left.

He listens to his mom cry from the other room, long and painful
sobs. Nicholas curls into a tight ball, fists pressed against his
forehead.

"Don't kill Mom," he whispers into the darkness and blinks away the
tears. "I hate Dad.

Hate Dad….

Hate....

Nick stands at the gravestone. Clouds race across a bloated gray
sky. His mother's name is engraved in cold stone. Rain falls from
the sky like tears and patters softly on the stark landscape. The
rains stops. The tree next to the grave blooms, leaves grow, full of
life, then turn yellow and drop away. Dead. The sun streaks across
the sky. The seasons change. But the seasons never touch his
mother. She is dead, and Nick remembers. Because the memories are
all that remain.


****************

Nicholas struggled to consciousness in stages, the dream drifting
away like gossamer strands, leaving him feeling hollow and empty.
First, he became aware of dim light through closed eyes. He licked
his lips and found his mouth dry and cottony. Then images and sounds
cluttered his mind like pieces of a puzzle scatter on a floor. He
began to connect them, and what they implied was too painful to
contemplate. Mentally, he shoved them away, and reached for the
pillow but his arm halted midway.

Pain shrieked down one side of his ribcage. Pieces of his memory
from last night fit together. He had been on the floor in the bar,
one guy kicking him, another punching him. His hand balled into a
fist, and rage twisted in his chest. Nick's eyes snapped open and
the light stabbed into them. His head hammered and someone groaned.
It took a moment to realize that he'd made the sound. The pain and
discomfort dissolved the anger. They couldn't coexist. He rolled
over to his side and his stomach gurgled, protesting over last
night's over-indulgences. He opened one eye, slowly this time and
for an uncomprehending moment, he contemplated the leg of a carved
mahogany coffee table. It was familiar.

This was his father's apartment.

"Oh, shit," he croaked. It has been Burton who helped him out of the
bar last night. Burton who scared off the guys kicking the hell out
of him.

He didn't want Burton to do anything for him.

Nick swung his legs to the floor, and cradled his head in one hand in
a vain effort to ease the pounding. His stomach rolled dangerously
on the combination of drugs and alcohol and no food. He stared
blearily, blinking to clear his vision. He couldn't open one eye all
the way; it was swollen shut so he squinted. At first, the
significance of a familiar, small square object on the tabletop
didn't register. Then, for two heartbeats, he stopped breathing. On
the table lay a small plastic baggie containing white powder.
Opposite the couch, Nick focused on a pair of polished leather shoes
and legs encased in slacks. And found himself looking into the face
of his father, the mustache emphasized the frown.

"What time is it?" Nick asked, hardly recognizing that croaking voice
as his own. He couldn't face his father's disapproval and he looked
down, studying his feet.

"Past time for you to get your life in order," Burton said. "I hope
you're feeling as bad as you look."

"Is there any question?" Even talking hurt.

Burton gestured toward the baggie. "What's that?" he asked in a
deceptive mild tone.

"Did you go through my pockets?" The half-hearted attempt at anger
helped him to momentarily overlook his discomfort.

"I didn't have to," Burton replied in a flat voice he used at the
negotiating table. He leaned back in the chair and laced his hands
in his lap. "It fell out of your jacket pocket when I helped you get
undressed."

Nick didn't remember that. He then realized he was in his t-shirt
and underwear. He remembered now. Everything. Every raw detail.
Last night, unable to help himself, unable to coordinate his limbs, a
blubbering drunken mess, his dad had helped him undress, brought him
aspirin and put him on the couch with a blanket and pillow.

"I thought you were smarter than this," Burton said.

Burton was right. He'd been stupid, but he wasn't going to admit
it. He wasn't going to let Burton win. "It's none of your
business," Nick managed, his voice stronger this time.

"Whether you like it or not, you are my son, and you are my
business." Burton rose from the chair and took the baggie of white
powder. "This," he tightened his hand into a fist, "will ruin you.
Get a handle on it, Nicholas."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Nicholas, let me help—." Burton stood and reached toward his son

"No!" Nick shouted, moved away and tried to sit up. The room spun,
bile from his stomach bubbled up in his throat. He leapt from the
couch, pressed the back of his hand over his mouth, placed a
steadying hand on the couch arm and headed toward the bathroom. He
staggered in, bumped his shin on the vanity, and vomited into the
toilet. He heard Burton come in behind him.

"Get out!" His head throbbed.

Something sailed past his cheek and landed in the toilet. It was the
baggie of coke.

"Pull your head out of it, Nicholas. If you can't do it for me, if
you can't do it for yourself, do it for the memory of your mother."

Nick pressed a hand to his head, shutting out his father. "Go away."

"I'm sorry." Burton left, closing the bathroom door softly behind him.

"Son of a bitch," Nick said to the closed door. He curled on the
floor, head resting on his arm. Tears welled in his eyes and he
laughed at them, cursed his weakness. Hated Burton.

Loved his dad.

"Dad," he whispered. Longing tightened in his chest. "Dad!"

The door opened. An arm went around him, lifted him up, reassuring.

"I'm here, son."


The End