[ this was glorified camping and nobody could really call it otherwise. a rose by any other name, and all that; though on more than one occasion it was less sweet and more thorny— particularly the way Raleigh and Chuck would go at one another. his boy looked up to them in a fashion, Yancy in particular, but the kid would never admit it. one thing was for sure, it definitely brought out the best and worst in you, forced into tight quarters.
Chuck has a habit of sleeping in the cab of the truck instead of in the camper or in the tents they set up. he'd become a solitary kid after his mother died; Herc had grown accustomed to sleeping around other people before he'd left the Air Force to raise his kid (a few years late, but he'd pulled out, he hopes, before it was too late).
they don't talk much, but they're getting better. Herc's eyes flick passed the silhouettes of Mako and the Beckets catching fireflies, or whatever they are, before cutting to his son. he's whittling a piece of wood down with the survival knife Herc had given him into something like a spear.
[ he doesn't have a plan for it, whatever the stick in his hand was going to be. he just needs something to do with his hands. it's the kind of impulse that gets him into trouble more often than not. the kind he doesn't pay much attention to because it's just in his nature to want and want and want.
the bark comes away in his hands like the skin of an apple. calloused, but soft underneath. shavings like in a pile between his feet- stick to the worn out boots and equally worn out laces wound twice around the top. it gets cooler at night on the coast. not anything to write home about, but it's just enough for pentecost and his father to set to the occasional brew of hot chocolate- or, when they think no one's paying attention, some shit instant coffee with whatever's left in whatever bottle they have kicking around.
the firelight throws them into gold relief against the rock face at their backs. a world that just doesn't exist beyond where the campfire can reach. it lights up the hairline scars that criss-cross chuck's hands. dot his knuckles, trace his fingers. a fight here. a smashed glass there. learning a new knife or climbing a fence he has no business being on.
there's a marshmellow offered up on his right, and chuck doesn't take it right away (there are rules to this game they've started up. the one where they play at being a family and getting along). instead he just looks up, watches his old man's face as the knife works up the length of the wood- pressed against the pad of his thumb. ]
[ Chuck looks at him like he's grown a second head and, really, it isn't the first time his boy has leveled this particular expression at him. he gets it more, now, ever since Herc had started trying. attempting to slot himself into all the jagged places that Chuck keeps trying to force him out of. most of the time it's fine— sometimes Herc just wants to slap him up side the head.
after a few heartbeats wherein no gesture to take the treat is made, his mouth purses and he gestures with it. take it]
Christ, it's not a rattler. Just take the damn thing.
[ there's a tease in his voice, despite the roughness of the words. ]
[ the stick he's been working at, the one that's gotten nice and sharp but isn't much of anything in the grand scheme of it- poke through the flat end of the marshmellow with a look that's more blustering defiance than anything else. there's no alright that hits the air, nothing articulated anyway, but it passes through their space just the same. chuck hasn't moved beyond the hurt that's knotted up in his chest- he hasn't made his peace with it. but it's spread out- filled every pore and poisoned every interaction. there's a growl beneath the words of every conversation just because it's in him, part of him. he isn't always looking for a fight, despite the frequency with which he faces them down. it just turns out that way.
chuck's expression wrinkles up and turns away. moves to the fire where he pushes the stick into the brightest part of the flame and watches the thing burn up. ]
[ it seems like a lot of fuss over a marshmallow, but Herc doesn't comment on it when Chuck finally takes the bundle of sugar. the corner of his mouth twitches, satisfied, maybe a little pleased, when even with the scowl on his face he forces the treat into the fire. ]
You wanna hold it over the fire, where it's hottest. [ he advises, and he doesn't see the look Chuck will undoubtedly throw him for offering his two cents, but he knows it'll be there regardless. instead, Herc threads two marshmallows over his own stick and holds it out well over the spot Chuck has decided to incinerate his marshmallow at. ]
[ it happens in a matter of seconds, and chuck doesn't tear his gaze away enough to angle the glare in his father's direction, but it creases over his features as predictably as the sun rises in the east. the marshmellow moves from yellow to brown to black- scorched and bubbling around the edges- before the heat is too much, and the treat melts off the stick entirely. lands in a seeping heap on the logs before it goes up in flames.
chuck appears oddly satisfied by the result, despite the absence of a smile. he keeps the stick over the fire, burns off the remainder of the marshmellow. he might be sulking. it's difficult to say for sure. ]
[ there are some battles you just won't win, Herc has learned this over the course of his lifetime, but not so often as in his stretch in fatherhood. in a fight, you could track an enemy and make an educated guess. there were certain rules that were they would abide by, even without consciously making the effort to do so. Herc can navigate a battle and fly a jet with much more confidence and grace than he can figure out precisely what his son might want from him.
(but he knows what he wants, he wants his mother back, he wants the name Hercules not to be a lie, but Herc can't give him that)
he doesn't roll his eyes but it's a damn near thing; he grunts, and it's almost a sound of amusement but even then, it's hard to tell. his own marshmallows are golden when he pulls them from above the fire, and he slides the far one off the end in a string of sticky sugar before handing it to his son. ]
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( chuck )
Chuck has a habit of sleeping in the cab of the truck instead of in the camper or in the tents they set up. he'd become a solitary kid after his mother died; Herc had grown accustomed to sleeping around other people before he'd left the Air Force to raise his kid (a few years late, but he'd pulled out, he hopes, before it was too late).
they don't talk much, but they're getting better. Herc's eyes flick passed the silhouettes of Mako and the Beckets catching fireflies, or whatever they are, before cutting to his son. he's whittling a piece of wood down with the survival knife Herc had given him into something like a spear.
Herc hands him a marshmellow. ]
no subject
the bark comes away in his hands like the skin of an apple. calloused, but soft underneath. shavings like in a pile between his feet- stick to the worn out boots and equally worn out laces wound twice around the top. it gets cooler at night on the coast. not anything to write home about, but it's just enough for pentecost and his father to set to the occasional brew of hot chocolate- or, when they think no one's paying attention, some shit instant coffee with whatever's left in whatever bottle they have kicking around.
the firelight throws them into gold relief against the rock face at their backs. a world that just doesn't exist beyond where the campfire can reach. it lights up the hairline scars that criss-cross chuck's hands. dot his knuckles, trace his fingers. a fight here. a smashed glass there. learning a new knife or climbing a fence he has no business being on.
there's a marshmellow offered up on his right, and chuck doesn't take it right away (there are rules to this game they've started up. the one where they play at being a family and getting along). instead he just looks up, watches his old man's face as the knife works up the length of the wood- pressed against the pad of his thumb. ]
no subject
after a few heartbeats wherein no gesture to take the treat is made, his mouth purses and he gestures with it. take it]
Christ, it's not a rattler. Just take the damn thing.
[ there's a tease in his voice, despite the roughness of the words. ]
no subject
chuck's expression wrinkles up and turns away. moves to the fire where he pushes the stick into the brightest part of the flame and watches the thing burn up. ]
no subject
You wanna hold it over the fire, where it's hottest. [ he advises, and he doesn't see the look Chuck will undoubtedly throw him for offering his two cents, but he knows it'll be there regardless. instead, Herc threads two marshmallows over his own stick and holds it out well over the spot Chuck has decided to incinerate his marshmallow at. ]
no subject
chuck appears oddly satisfied by the result, despite the absence of a smile. he keeps the stick over the fire, burns off the remainder of the marshmellow. he might be sulking. it's difficult to say for sure. ]
no subject
(but he knows what he wants, he wants his mother back, he wants the name Hercules not to be a lie, but Herc can't give him that)
he doesn't roll his eyes but it's a damn near thing; he grunts, and it's almost a sound of amusement but even then, it's hard to tell. his own marshmallows are golden when he pulls them from above the fire, and he slides the far one off the end in a string of sticky sugar before handing it to his son. ]
Here.