for suicidemission

[striker_eureka]

It had been jarring, to lose the Drift mid-fight like that. Herc had been left reeling, feeling like a rubber band that'd been snapped back into place too quickly, his synapses left stinging and raw. The silence in his head where Chuck's constant low-level mental grumbling had been is oddly oppressive. To cover for his discomfort, he had fallen back on old, somewhat stupid habits, looking a no-win scenario right in the eye and then shooting it there with a flare gun because fuck you there was no goddamn way he was going to let some ugly bastard like Leatherback destroy half of Hong Kong and kill millions of people, not if he had anything to say about it.

Herc knew they were going to die, but they were going to die with a snarl on their face and flare guns in their hands, their sacrifice would allow the people of Hong Kong maybe a few more minutes to get to safety and it would be worth it.

But then Gipsy Danger arrived at the eleventh hour (typical Americans, god) and their imminent demise was averted.

Which meant a lot of time wasted waiting for the choppers to come pluck them off of Striker's bowed head.

"So," Herc begins, cradling his hurt arm to his chest. Time to needle Chuck to distract him from the searing pain spreading across his chest and shoulder. "You and that pretty little scientist, huh?" 

Comments

[suicidemission]

Fucking Americans. They would come and save the day, wouldn’t they?

Course, Chuck’s alive and he can’t really complain much, so instead he just sits there sullenly on top of Striker, helmet dangling from his fingers between his knees as he leans back.

He’s got a lot on his mind – all of it is still tumbling around because of the abruptly severed drift and he can’t seem to get his shit in order so that he can focus on any one thing. At the moment, he’s not even mad at his idiot old man for disengaging and getting knocked halfway across the pod and breaking his arm because that, along with a billion other thoughts – not all of which are even his - are rattling around his brain.

So when his dad needles, Chuck’s initially confused.

“What?” Then it registers.

“…Stow it. There’s nothing to talk about, I helped her once.”

[striker_eureka]

See, Chuck, that kind of argument would work a lot better if Herc hadn't just been in your head, seen how she looks through your eyes, felt how she made you feel every time she smiled at you.

The realization that Chuck has his first girlfriend — or at least, his first real chance at a girlfriend even if they aren't official yet — is a bittersweet one. His son is a man in almost every sense of the word, but this is just another way he's growing up right in front of his eyes.

"You're got a very thorough way of helping..." he teases, his lips curling in a smirk.

[suicidemission]

His fave flushes red in annoyance and he scowls at Herc, clutching the helmet in still gloved hands.

"I said stow it."

But the venom that usually edges his words isn't there; he likes Rhoda. Likes how she looks and smells and how she feels in his arms. He likes the way she teases and pushes all his buttons, the way she doesn't tolerate his shit. The way she's not after him because he's a notch on the belt, because he's a famous pilot. He likes how he feels like he shoul watch his mouth around her because she's a proper lady and he respects her.

[striker_eureka]

Hercules would be lying if he said he wasn't a little concerned once upon a time that Chuck would grow up to be like his uncle, womanizing and arrogant. He'd have every right to be, really, famous and rich and successful, but apparently Chuck went the other way and became basically celibate.

To see him opening up a little feels good.

"Stargazing was a good choice," he says idly, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

Chuck seems totally infatuated with her, if the slideshow of her stellar qualities Herc got to see was any indication. And he can't really fault his son for his taste; she's a pretty girl, and smart to boot. And she doesn't seem to take any of Chuck's shit, which is always nice to see.

"Girls love sentimental crap like that."

[suicidemission]

He’s arrogant enough – but not a womanizer. Never. He respects them – they’ve beat his ass enough times in training that he knows better than to make assumptions based on sex. Gender just is not really a relative factor to Chuck – not when you’re in the piloting program. He didn’t think Mako had it in her because she fucked everything up in the testing, but that was because of Raleigh. Chuck’s comment in the halls had been more geared towards the blond buffoon – not Mori.

“Yeah?”

He looks over and up at him; his dad, the person that he never talks to, that he has virtually no relationship with, and smiles, just a little bit.

“Almost screwed it up. Had to fix it, fast. Only thing I could think of.”

[striker_eureka]

"Yeah."

His arm is still fucking killing him, but that doesn't stop Herc from smiling fondly down at Chuck, a softer expression than he's worn for a very long time around his son.

"A lot easier than getting her flowers in the middle of base," he continues. "Though if you ever fuck up off base? Flowers are a pretty safe bet." Never underestimate the power of a beautiful bouquet of flowers, they can get you back into your house in the dead of night after you've been kicked out by an angry woman. "You'll still have to apologize, though, but the flowers help."

[suicidemission]

"Flowers."

Idly, he wonders about getting them anyway, to just leave them sitting by her door to wonder - or maybe not so much wonder - who they came from. How hard would it be to get some, he's not sure - and he also has no fucking clue who to talk to about that.

He'd figure it out.

"Right. I'll remember that."

[striker_eureka]

Herc lets the silence stretch between them for a little while, not really knowing where to go from here; except he can't help digging a little more. He's curious, so sue him.

"So the mistletoe thing really happened, eh?"

He has to take his hat off to her, not many of the girls on base would have taken a potentially embarrassing experience like that and just ran with it, ending up, according to the story he heard, the victor in that little bout.

[suicidemission]

"Eh?"

He'd assumed the conversation was over and promptly lost himself in though again.

But then he's reminded of that and he barks a laugh.

"Yeah. It did. Dunno who the hell put that shit up in the hall."

[striker_eureka]

Thought of her? Oh Chuck. He may be a man but he's also such a typical boy.

"Probably someone who wanted to humiliate you, or anyone else who got stuck under it. Doubt they wanted to play matchmaker, though."

But Hercules is glad of it, because while Chuck still isn't being exactly communicative, this is one of the first conversations they've had that isn't about Drifting or the war that hasn't immediately devolved into shouting. And his son seems happy. Bewildered, but happy.

Herc's pretty used to that feeling.

[suicidemission]

...Danmit Dad, get out of his head.

"Prank," he agrees, rolling the helmet in his hands. His thumbs brush over it, smoothing raindrops away and he's reminded how his fingers smooths so easily over her cheeks and he drops the helmet and coughs, feeling awkward.

"Where--"

It's really hard to talk to someone about something like this when you've spent the last ten or so years pushing them out.

"If I wanted flowers, just because..."

He'll let Herc fill in the rest.

[striker_eureka]

"Just because you felt like having some flowers," Herc continues for him, letting Chuck trail off to save face, the warm wash of fondness coursing through him almost enough to take his mind off his arm completely. "Lydia Martinez up in the LOCCENT always manages to have something fresh and living at her station. She'd be a good person to ask."

Herc hasn't needed to buy anyone flowers since Angela died; she didn't even get a proper gravestone, just her name carved into a monument in downtown Sydney. There's nowhere for him to leave flowers even if he had them.

"I can do it for you if you'd prefer..."

[suicidemission]

"No."

He says this immediately because no he doesn't need help from his father.

But then he's thinking better of it, because how the hell is he supposed to ask some woman about flowers when 99% of the 'Dome hates him? He's not exactly well liked.

"Or -- well..."

Fuck.

[striker_eureka]

He's not, no, but Hercules loves him even if they can barely stand to be around each other most of the time, and if this girl makes Chuck happy, then Herc's going to do what he can to help him keep her around.

"I won't even tell her they're for you..."

[suicidemission]

This is the first time in years they've talked. Like, actually just talked and Chuck can hardly believe they've gone longer than a minute without resorting to a shouting match.

"Yeah. Don't say my name."

It's the best he can do without outright asking for help.

[striker_eureka]

"Okay."

This means that Herc will have to come up with a fake girlfriend story or something, which will be weird and a little awkward, but whatever. He's a grown-ass man, he can handle asking a coworker for some flowers for his pretend girlfriend.

"Any ideas what kind she'd like?"

[suicidemission]

Chuck has no idea what kind of flowers that she's like.

"She's...old fashioned, in a way. Reminds me of it, anyway, those pictures you see. A real...yesterday's girl. Daisies?"

He shrugs, a little helpless.

[striker_eureka]

Chuck's assessment of his girlfriend seems fairly accurate from what Hercules knows of her; that is to say, not a whole lot. But still, he knows enough to guess what she'd appreciate, and yes, Chuck has the right idea.

"Daisies would be nice," he agrees. "Plain white or those big colored ones?"

[suicidemission]

"...White."

He almost said colors because she's fancy, she's got good taste, but white seemed...classy. Like her.

"White daisies."

[striker_eureka]

"White it is, then."

Oh man, this should be really interesting.

Still, if it'll make Chuck happy, then what the fuck has Herc got to lose? Nothing.

"I'll talk to Lydia about it, see what I can do."

[suicidemission]

"...Good. That'd be good."

He exhales and leans back against a plate of metal, letting rain splash on his face and wash the sweat away.

He should say something - like 'thanks' or 'I owe you'. Something. They just don't have that kind of relationship though, they'll never spill emotions or confessions with any kind of ease.

So instead he just sits in silence nad lets his head rest against Striker's metal, and sighs.

[striker_eureka]

Carefully, because he's a little off-balance with his arm aching like it is, Herc lowers himself to Striker's helmet with a clang of metal.

"Your mother liked daisies," he says quietly, after a long, drawn-out moment of silence.

"She always said the simple things didn't get enough recognition." God, sometimes Herc misses Angela so much, he feels like his chest is missing something it aches so bad. He wishes she was here for this, that she could see Chuck blush and get all awkward because he wanted to make this girl like him but he was too embarrassed to ask for help. He wished she could still be here so they could wave Chuck and his girl off on their date and then cuddle on the couch and reminisce about their first date and she could tease him for how nervous he'd been.

He just really misses her. That's all.

[suicidemission]

Chuck pulls in a long, deep breath because this is the kind of conversation that triggers arguments and angry bouts of rage and sometimes, on a very rare occasion, blows when they felt pissed off enough to go down into the kwoon and duke it out.

By some miracle, Chuck keeps his mouth in check -- if it's because he doesn't feel like fighting or if it's got something to do with this girl, it's hard to say. But instead of provoking his father he just listens and looks away, picking his helmet back up and smacking at it with his hand.

He knows how much his dad misses his mom. He knows. He knows, because he can feel it, and it instills enough doubt in him that it makes him hate his Dad all the more.

He should've just saved his mother. That would've been the right choice, wouldn't it?

"'S a good point," he hears himself say, now twirling his helmet. "Simple's classy, and all that shit."