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Two and a half months ago.
It's hard to see someone you care for hurting, especially when all they do is hurt you.
Rafe Cameron's relationship with his father has never been something of ease. It's never been simple. It hasn't ever been smooth.
But seeing him like this, wounded and beaten down on the shit cushions of a suspicious cargo ship—it's nauseating. Despite all the times he's wounded Rafe.
He shouldn't feel bad. He shouldn't worry. But he does.
It's his dad.
The tall boy walks with cautious steps towards his horribly still father. Ward's face is black and blue, void of emotion despite his watery irises. There's a bandage wrapped around his skull. Rafe sits before him silently, he's tearing at his nails with his teeth. Like a dog.
Their eyes of blue meet. Ward says nothing.
"Hey, Dad." Rafe whispers. "You're gonna be okay. It's all gonna be good, all right?"
Ward turns his head from his boy, more tears weld in his aged eyes. "We did it," Rafe carries on. His own eyes fat up with tears he won't let fall. He won't feel like a little boy right now. "All this, it's over. Alright? It all worked out. I got the cross. We got the gold." Ward's sullen gaze carries back over to his son. So many, yet no words are sitting on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't speak. He can't. It isn't in him. He has lost everything today despite his son's words.
Ward Cameron has ruined his daughter today. He's sullied her.
"We got everything." Rafe has it in him to smile, it's watery. Despite it all, he's proud of himself. He's got the things his sister has been clawing for—and he did it for his family. For his father. For Wheezie. For Theodora and Talia. He's done it. He beat a bunch of fucked kids. "We're done. I got everything."
Ward's silence is worse than when he is speaking. He silently shakes his head. It's such a small shake, you'd probably miss it. But Rafe knows it's there, it's always there. His father shaking his head at him knowing he's wrong, it's always fucking there.
Rafe is always wrong concerning Ward.
Something deep in the fruit pit of Rafe's stomach sours, goes old, rotten. His watery smile fades, his jaw clenches. Ward can't stand to look at him. He isn't. He's too angry with himself. With his son. With everything.
