Ficlet: "Kin and Kind" (Brothers & Sisters)
Postep fic for "States of the Union"...or, well, mid-ep fic. Comes after that one scene. Oh, come on, GUESS which one, you know I'm easy for Kevin. :\ Spoilerish.
The thing to do now, most likely, is to drink or curse or cry. Jason might pray, but Jason's ways were still alien to Kevin when Jason left, and getting more so by the day, now, as distance grows and his own life and habits reassert themselves. He envies Jason his faith, the anchor and grounding it gives, now more so than usual. He wishes Jason were here, just to offer his presence, as if the steadiness and reassurance could seep through his skin and wrap around Kevin like a blanket.
He wishes Jason were here for more than that. He wants him here to hold him, kiss him, tell him that he's loved and has a place in someone's life, now that he's again had a door closed in his face to remind him of where he belongs and where he is out of place even within his own family.
He takes a careful breath and goes to his bedroom, strips down to his boxers and puts his clothes away, everything in its place. He's not going to drink, not until later, anyway, and he's certainly not going to cry, and he really just can't pray, not with any honesty.
He lies on his back on the bed, cups his hands over his face, and listens to his breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, refusing to allow it to hitch or waver. Nothing is as easy as it seems. He knows that. He's a lawyer and a Walker and both of those things have taught him that there are complexities, there are circumstances to consider, there are layers upon layers.
His breath catches despite himself and he bites down on his tongue for distraction. He is at peace. He is meditative. He is a leaf on the goddamn wind. If he turns his head an inch to the left he can see his answering machine light flashing, informing him of all the calls he's missed and screened from his mother and his sisters, the enfolding siren song of his family. He'd planned to return them, he really had. Maybe even tonight. Not now, though. Not when he's still stinging, burning all over with the scraped-raw boundaries, the lines that he has been reminded not to cross, where he doesn't belong. His mother's concern and sympathy would burn like salt on the wounds.
And besides, there's a certain obligation here, a required solidarity. Not to speak until permission is given. No, more than that. Not to speak until Saul has spoken himself, and then he may raise his voice in support, in harmony.
When he was eighteen, he sang a fucking solo. A Capella.
He pinches the base of his nose hard, holding back the sting, the threat of shaming himself. No. He can clean, he can cook, he can work. But this is not something to cry over. It's nothing at all, really, not a big deal. It is what it is. It's nothing.
He should be grateful that they allow him in this much, after all. As spake William, so shall it be, forever and ever, amen.
Jason isn't there and can't be reached, not until the scheduled phone call a week from now. Scotty is at work and he shouldn't call him now, anyway, not like this. Not feeling like this. Acting like this. It would be wrong and worse than wrong. Dangerous.
And he can't stand the thought of hearing any one of their voices right now. Not his family.
He sits up and takes another breath, deeper, not quite a sigh. Maybe he'll have a drink after all. And he has work he brought home. There must be something awful on TV. Plenty of distractions and by the morning he'll be on his feet again.
It is what it is. What it always is. Always has been, always will be. He knows better than to forget.
The thing to do now, most likely, is to drink or curse or cry. Jason might pray, but Jason's ways were still alien to Kevin when Jason left, and getting more so by the day, now, as distance grows and his own life and habits reassert themselves. He envies Jason his faith, the anchor and grounding it gives, now more so than usual. He wishes Jason were here, just to offer his presence, as if the steadiness and reassurance could seep through his skin and wrap around Kevin like a blanket.
He wishes Jason were here for more than that. He wants him here to hold him, kiss him, tell him that he's loved and has a place in someone's life, now that he's again had a door closed in his face to remind him of where he belongs and where he is out of place even within his own family.
He takes a careful breath and goes to his bedroom, strips down to his boxers and puts his clothes away, everything in its place. He's not going to drink, not until later, anyway, and he's certainly not going to cry, and he really just can't pray, not with any honesty.
He lies on his back on the bed, cups his hands over his face, and listens to his breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, refusing to allow it to hitch or waver. Nothing is as easy as it seems. He knows that. He's a lawyer and a Walker and both of those things have taught him that there are complexities, there are circumstances to consider, there are layers upon layers.
His breath catches despite himself and he bites down on his tongue for distraction. He is at peace. He is meditative. He is a leaf on the goddamn wind. If he turns his head an inch to the left he can see his answering machine light flashing, informing him of all the calls he's missed and screened from his mother and his sisters, the enfolding siren song of his family. He'd planned to return them, he really had. Maybe even tonight. Not now, though. Not when he's still stinging, burning all over with the scraped-raw boundaries, the lines that he has been reminded not to cross, where he doesn't belong. His mother's concern and sympathy would burn like salt on the wounds.
And besides, there's a certain obligation here, a required solidarity. Not to speak until permission is given. No, more than that. Not to speak until Saul has spoken himself, and then he may raise his voice in support, in harmony.
When he was eighteen, he sang a fucking solo. A Capella.
He pinches the base of his nose hard, holding back the sting, the threat of shaming himself. No. He can clean, he can cook, he can work. But this is not something to cry over. It's nothing at all, really, not a big deal. It is what it is. It's nothing.
He should be grateful that they allow him in this much, after all. As spake William, so shall it be, forever and ever, amen.
Jason isn't there and can't be reached, not until the scheduled phone call a week from now. Scotty is at work and he shouldn't call him now, anyway, not like this. Not feeling like this. Acting like this. It would be wrong and worse than wrong. Dangerous.
And he can't stand the thought of hearing any one of their voices right now. Not his family.
He sits up and takes another breath, deeper, not quite a sigh. Maybe he'll have a drink after all. And he has work he brought home. There must be something awful on TV. Plenty of distractions and by the morning he'll be on his feet again.
It is what it is. What it always is. Always has been, always will be. He knows better than to forget.