Unsettled

Burden

Legionnaire's Disease. Fatality rate as low, they said, as 5%.

They are words meant as a kindness. Assurances meant to give him hope. But there's always those poor souls, and their families, that end up in the 5%.

Tom has learned to live with regret - a notion his younger self would have scoffed at.

Regret? Never!

But that was before Max, before he met her, before all of it.

He is a changed man. Some try to argue that he is just expanding his repertoire - that his choice to move behind the camera or away from the camera entirely stems from a desire to become the next Redford, Howard, or Hanks.

Those close to him see it with better clarity. The damage that he is incapable of keeping buried, the pain that bleeds from him, always rising to the surface to be captured by the lens. He does try, try to put on a happy face for those he interacts with...

Particularly Max. Above all others, with Max.

Little Max, who has only ever known separate houses and thinly veiled barbs hurled from parent to parent. Nights at one house or the other, sometimes a few day long adventure with a single parent.

The little boy that doesn't understand the abrupt cession of long days spent in hospital hallways; who squirms in his father's lap in the chamber that echoes the labored breathing of others, protests the restrictive miniature version of his father's suit, and having to wear it.

Max, who has his father's eyes, ruddy complexion, and blonde curls - but has his mother's nose and sharp tongue - the latter developing into a trait he doesn't hesitate to utilize. Ever.

The tantrums from Max's twos make a resurgence in his teens, though it is arguable that everyone is petulant in their adolescent years. Tom weathers the slammed doors and stomped feet. He's had practice with dealing with such ire, after all... something again counted among the things he wishes he could change. He knows the root of Max's acting out. He feels it, too. Grief that bubbles into anger, frustration.

He's never had to give Max the life's not fair speech. Max knows it, has always known it. Lives it. Though sometimes he tests Tom's patience...

There's always a line they don't cross, or didn't - until Max decided that one night he would completely disregard curfew. And every phone call. And then saunter in the backdoor with a grin on his face.

"Where've you been?!" Tom demands, standing so abruptly that the kitchen chair jumps across the floor to settle some distance behind him.

Max hunches just a bit, the smile falling from his face as he shuts the backdoor, "Out."

"Right. Yes. I asked where?"

"Out."

Tom arches one of his eyebrows at his son. Max may have already started inching up but Tom still has him on height. "With?"

"My mates."

An answer, of sorts. Max has a good group of friends. It's hard not to let this seething anger take hold, feeding off the fear over not knowing. He settles on glowering at his teenager, who is deliberately avoiding his gaze and sulking over to the refrigerator to find something to drink, taking his time in doing so.

Most children would slink from an angry parent, beg forgiveness. Not this child.

Tom speaks with clear intention, "You know the rules. You clear after school activities, even time spent with your mates, with me. First."