Rituals of Denial

Author: LAAdolf

Rating: PG (language, situations)

Summary: In the aftermath of the
Incline brawl, Burton looks after his son.

Author's Notes: This is all for Pallas,
whose idea most of this was, who encouraged
me to write it and beta'ed the story. Thank
you my friend, I will always be grateful to
The Guardian for bringing us together.



They had gone no more than a few feet, Burton
supporting most of Nick's weight, when the younger
man stopped abruptly. Burton tightened his grip
around his son's body, steeling himself for what
he anticipated would be a total collapse.

"Nicholas, come on, hang in there now." Burton
urged. The boy stayed upright, after a fashion.
Burton started to move forward once again, but
Nick, obstinate, refused to follow his lead.

"No, Dad." his son''s voice was raspy, as though
drawing breath enough to speak was beyond him.
"Coat...phone..." Nick gestured woozily back
to the booth where his overcoat had been abandoned
some time before, and now, nearly forgotten.

The elder Fallin nodded. He was removing his son
from the premises to avoid police inquiry into
the brawl that had just taken place, it really
wasn't prudent to leave belongings of Nick's
behind which might be used to trace him after
the fact. If he thought about Nick's cell phone
separation anxiety he gave no sign. Instead Burton
glanced over to the bartender, who still stood,
transfixed, behind the bar, and pierced him
with his most commanding stare.

"My hands are, uh, a little full here.
Would you mind? My son needs his overcoat."
Burton's tone was somewhere between a polite
request and an order.

The bartender, who was still recovering from
having witnessed the estimable Burton Fallin
wielding a broken bottle at two yuppie thugs,
fairly leapt from behind the bar and moved
to do his bidding.

Soon, overcoat thrown over Nick's shoulders,
phone located and secure in one of its pockets,
they resumed their progress out of the bar and
towards Burton's car.

They were within four yards of their goal,
when Nick stumbled, staggering against his
father, then suddenly attempting to reel
away from him. Burton did not relinquish
the hold he had on his injured son, instead
the arm that grasped Nicholas around his
shoulders tightened.

"Nick, son...?" Burton began, noting a
sudden and extreme pallor of his son's
face in the light of the street lamp
they had paused under.

Nick shook his head violently and pushed
off again, this time retching. Burton
understood.

As Nick stooped over and heaved, Burton
steadied the younger man, never relinquishing
contact and support. Awkwardly, he rubbed Nick's
back for the length of time it took for the
spasms to stop, helped his son straighten back
up and urged him toward the waiting car.

As Burton eased his son into the passenger
seat of his car he could hear sirens in
the distance. He finished settling Nick,
then swiftly moved to climb into the driver's
side and started the engine.

He paused a moment, switching on the dome
light briefly, regarding Nick with sober concern.
His son's pallor had not improved, and he was
breathing with shallow breaths. Witnessing what
he had of the beating his son had withstood,
he had no doubt that Nick's ribs were traumatized
to the point that the necessary act of inhalation
was a form of exquisite torture. At the very
least the ribs were bruised, at worst they
could be fractured.

Burton killed the dome light and pulled
the car away from the curb.

"We should get you checked out," he said aloud,
"you could have some broken ribs there."

Nick shook his head, immediately looking
as though he regretted the action.

"No hospital. 'm fine," he said through
gritted teeth, giving lie to his own words.

"Yeah. Well. We'll see." Burton turned his
full attention to the
road.

*

If Nick was surprised when the car stopped
in front of his father's house, he gave no
indication. In fact, as Burton bundled him out of
the car and they made slow painful progress into
the house, Nick said nothing, his face,
as always masked, inscrutable.

The silence continued as Burton helped his
son to the couch in the sitting room off
the kitchen, easing Nick gently down and covering
him with a fringed throw.

Nick closed his eyes and did not immediately
open them again. Burton studied his son's
face for a long minute. Then creating some
space between himself and the injured
young man, he picked up the kitchen
phone extension and dialed a familiar number.

Burton and Bob Brady had broken out of
Donora together, both leaving behind their
working class origins. Burton had chosen law,
Bob Brady medicine.

It was an accepted fact that doctors
didn't make house calls. And Doctor Robert
Andrew Brady was no exception. For anyone,
that is, but Burton Fallin.

*

Burton paced the length of the hallway
adjoining the kitchen and sitting room,
distractedly measuring out how many steps
it took before he had to turn and pace back
in the opposite direction.

In that maddening way all physicians had,
Bob Brady had requested that Burton leave the
room while he conducted an exam of Nicholas, who
still lay on the couch, eyes now open and glaring.

Burton had nearly argued to stay, then thought
better of it. At least the hallway was within
earshot of the sitting room, except there was
nothing to hear. Oh, there was the occasional
low moan from Nick when Brady pressed too hard,
either here or there, and the usualunenlightening
doctor-speak questions that were always asked during
an evaluation.

Burton was becoming frustrated. Hell, he was
long past frustrated and he knew it.

Just when he thought he could stand no more
and was on the verge of bursting back into
the room beyond, Brady ducked his head into the
hall and fixed his gaze on his old friend.

"Well?!" Burton demanded, rather more sharply
than he intended.

Brady stepped fully into the hall, glancing back
briefly at his patient. He took Burton's arm, and
led his old friend towards the study down the hall.

"He's fine, Burton. Ribs are probably bruised,
but don't appear to be cracked or broken."
the doctor said once they were inside the room,
"I'll expect you to watch him for signs of
concussion tonight, just to be safe. Any recurrent
dizziness, unconsciousness, nausea, or if
his pupils become unequal, get him to a hospital.
Likewise if there is any sign of blood in his urine.
I'm as sure as I can be without the equipment available
at the hospital that none of this is likely to present--
but I don't want you suing me for malpractice
because I didn't warn you."

Brady paused, expecting Burton to react to
the ironic tone he had assumed for the last
sentence of his speech. The elder Fallin,
however seemed distracted. Brady had no doubt
he'd heard his words and noted them, just that
his attempt at humor had been beyond Burton's
ability to appreciate at this particular
moment in time.

"Burt? Did you get all that?" the doctor
prompted.

"What? Yeah, I got it. What about pain--
he's going to be hurting, can you prescribe
something?" Burton's voice held an edge as he
spoke, which intrigued the doctor.

"Umm, could, I suppose. Although if
he has pain severe enough to warrant a
'script for Vicodin, I'll expect you to take
him to the hospital, pronto. You sure you want
to go there, Burton? I'm the one you called
when he was arrested, remember." Brady had never
pulled punches with Burton Fallin in the past,
and wasn't about to start now.

The eyes that his old friend raised to meet
his own gaze were almost haunted--and certainly
held an amount of pain that took Robert Brady
back a few years. Back to when they, young men
pursuing their dreams, had collected Fallin's
father from bars where he'd either imbibed
himself into a stupor, or gotten himself into
drunken brawls.

"Yeah, after I tried calling his mother...
Jesus!" Burton commented, miserably, "And
if it will keep my son out of prison, yes,
I'll go there. Write the prescription, will
you Bob? I won't use it unlessI have to."
Fallin said finally, his voice quiet, his tone
inviting no argument.

Brady fished a prescription pad out of his
coat pocket and complied, deciding to keep
his counsel. He knew what his old friend was
about, asking for codeine, and if he hadn't,
the use of his own personal pronoun in Burton's
last sentence would have tipped him. If Nick
tested positive for drugs at his next mandatory
urine testing, Burton would have the prescription
to show that it was all perfectly legal.

Brady tore the prescription off the pad and
handed it to Burton without further comment.
It was Burton who broke the silence a few
moments later.

"So he is okay then?" Burton sounded less
the stern patriarch, more the worried parent.

"Yes. He's gonna have a beauty of a shiner,
and there isn't going to be much of him that
isn't black and blue for the next few days. And,
he's going to have the mother of all hangovers
come morning. But physically he's really all
right. Just keep an eye on him, make sure
he stays well hydrated and gets some rest.
I'd tell you to do that too, but I know you won't."

"I'll get some sleep," Burton promised absently.

"Yeah. Like you'll wake up and have a real
good talk about hismom... It's only been 20
years, Burton...why not keep a lid on it 'til
Nick's your age. Can't rush these things..."
Brady knew he was treading on thin ice, but also
knew that he was one of the few people on the
planet who would dare speak so frankly to Burton
Fallin.

Burton raised an open fisted hand, pausing
it in midair, then gestured dismissively
as though pushing the subject out of the
conversation. "Mind your own business, Bob,"
he warned. But without bite.

Brady made a show of checking his wristwatch,
"Any son-of-a-bitch who demands my services
at three in the morning makes me a part of his
business, old pal. I could be drummed out of
the AMA for making a housecall, you know."

The elder Fallin smiled ruefully, "Point taken.
Thanks you old son-of-a-bitch." Burton extended
his hand to Brady.

The doctor took it and the two men shook warmly.

"I can find my way out, Burt." And he did.

Even so Burton Fallin shadowed his old friend,
following at several paces, watching Brady
let himself out the door. He then stood and
kept watch as his friend walked to his car,
paused to fish his keys out of his pocket,
climb in and drive off. It was only after the
taillights of Brady's car disappeared down
the driveway that Burton turned and walked
back to the sitting room. He came to stand a
few feet from where Nick lay on the couch,
snoring softly.

Burton looked at his son, features peaceful
for once in repose. He remembered his utter
panic at seeing Nick on the floor of the Incline,
the two yuppie troublemakers circling him and
kicking him viciously, remembered the white hot
anger that had seared through him at the
sight. Fortunately the pair of thugs had
heeded his advice to leave after he'd waved
the broken bottle at them, if they hadn't
Burton did not know if he would have been able
to prevent himself from killing them outright.
Father-love, an emotion he'd once thought he
lacked, had robbed him of all reason when he'd
seen Nicholas--always so contained and self
sufficient--gasping for breath on the floor.
Had nearly broken his heart when Nick confessed,
open and vulnerable as Burton had never seen him
since childhood, to having screwed up.

He would now do whatever it took to protect his
son, to honor the privilege he'd been given to
see Nick vulnerable and needing. To be reminded
of the little boy he'd been so enchanted by and
proud of from the very moment of his birth.

He'd start with getting him cut loose from Kirk
and McGee. Nick would come back to his rightful
place at Fallin and Associates.

Things would be different between them from now
on. There would be no more rituals of denial.
Burton was determined to build an accord
between them going forward. It wouldn't make up
for the lost yearsof distance, but it would be a start.

Burton moved closer, picking up the fringed throw
again, tucking it carefully around his sleeping son.
He stepped back, moving an armchair nearer to the
couch, taking his eyes off his boy for only the
merest of seconds.

He sat down to keep vigil through what remained
of this long night. Tomorrow would be a new day,
and a fresh start.


END