Chapter Text
Nobody had ever told him sunshine could be so warm.
Even filtered through a window, obscured by half-lidded blinds lazily hanging halfway, its warmth still pools in his body, warms his stomach. Spots of dappled light float across his back, wavering across outstretched fingers, swaying in tandem with the wind and rustling leaves.
It’s nice, having a backyard with a white picket fence, a tree tall enough to cast shadows into their second-story bedroom. It’s nice, going to the grocery store and being able to pick out whatever cereal his kids want—no consideration for what’s on sale, no plain Wheaties Crunch. It’s the small things that get to him, these minute details. They make everything worth it—the scars, the pain, the work. Anything, everything for his kids.
His kids.
He smiles softly, head propped up on a pillow, watching Tanya snore. He hesitates before her slumbering form, hand hovering over her blanket. He’s tempted to pull the blanket up and pull her closer, but Tanya’s eight now, and won’t have that sort of nonsense anymore. Besides, he’s also scared of waking her, so his hand remains outstretched, caught in a strange limbo between decisions.
Beautiful, beautiful decisions. He’s reminded every day, of what a privilege it is, to choose. Before, his life was nothing but orders—right, left, flank, charge, push, retreat. Now, it’s which toy car to buy Tommy, which princess crown Tanya’d like best. He savors each and every choice, like snowflakes dissolving on his tongue, tiny, sweet sources of joy. Giddy warmth floods him every time he spoils his children, gap-toothed grins looking up at him, love in watery eyes.
He feels it now, gazing at Tanya, serene, sweet, happy. Finally, he identifies the warmth he's feeling. Affection, not the beaming rays of the Sun. It's pride welling to the surface, a love so tender it aches. ‘How?’ he wants to ask, desperate, disbelieving, ‘How have you grown so strong?’. How has he raised such perfect children, pearls of joy and pride in his life?
It seems impossible; he’s bound to have fucked up, sometime, somewhere—but no, they’re perfect mischievous angels of his own making. Maybe they were made perfect, he muses, maybe all children are born at their best. But it can’t be all children, because no other child can ever compare to his—not in his eyes, at least. His kids will forever be his kids, and that’ll never change. He’ll always love them. He’ll always be there for them. No matter the circumstance, no matter the situation.
It’s a personal vow he made years ago, 14 and clutching his dog tags, crouched and crying in a dark corner. Heaving sobs, the kind that sound like ragged breaths, a dying man’s gasps. But he’s not a man, he’s a boy, suffering his first heartbreak—without a father to guide him. He swears up and down, between sniffles and snot, that when he has kids, it’ll never be this way. They’ll never feel this pain, a dull, throbbing ache forever lodged in the back of his mind. A constant game of ‘what-if’.
So far, he thinks he’s done a pretty good job.
Though sometimes, doubt stretches across his mind, taints his confidence. Single fatherhood is hard. But on days he feels down—such as this one—simply looking at his children, at sleeping Tanya, slight smile on her face, clutching her mangy rabbit, worn with love—oh, it’s impossible to think of himself as a failure, to imply in any way that his children are "less-than”. Because his children are "more-than”, more than himself, his life, his universe.
All his life, he’s chased a grand, cinematic romance, lifelong companionship (someone who would stay)—only to find a different, fiercer love than he envisioned possible. It overwhelms him, this level of adoration. The light of his life, to fall in his lap wholly by accident, no scheme or design necessary.
He’d never think this would be his future a decade ago. Hell, barely five years ago, back when his eldest were still babes and toddlers, crying maniacally, keeping him from even a lick of sleep every night. He’d nearly gone insane then, sheer exhaustion transforming him into a waking zombie. But now, with more experience under his belt, kids stabilized—he’s sure of it, in his heart. He was born to be a father, put on this Earth not as God’s gift to women, as his younger delusions of grandeur would have him believe—but to raise his kids, love his children with all he’s worth.
And that’s what he’ll do. Light dances across their forms as Tanya shifts, rolling closer, well within arm’s reach.
"Papa,” she mumbles, still asleep.
Jeremy only smiles, pulling her in closer, stroking her hair as she frowns in her sleep; his attempt at comfort, something he remembers his own father doing eons ago. A calm smile sneaks across her face, chest rising and falling with each loud snore. She must’ve gotten the snoring from him, an unfortunate trait passed down to each Willis. It’s kept him awake countless times—today, being a prime example, the edges of exhaustion fuzzing his vision. He’s been awake before dawn, jolted awake by a particularly loud snore.
He used to sleep like a log, (a natural adaptation from sharing a base with eight other violent, insane mercenaries), but that all changed when he had kids. The slightest noise wakes him now, a breath too loud, the beginning of a cry. Tanya especially—she’s always been noisy, particularly as a baby.
He remembers the handful she was when she was first born. Crying, mewling for attention nonstop, like a siren. Children, he’d cursed, after his fourth migraine of the week. Devilspawn— surely he wasn’t ever this bad as a child. Having children of his own had lit newfound appreciation for his own mother, reaffirming her spot as the strongest woman he knew. How the hell had she managed to raise eight unruly boys, crammed in a two-bedroom apartment stuck in the south side of Boston? He could barely manage four kids of his own.
He can’t fault them for it though, can’t fault them for being kids. At first, they were burdens, put upon him by deadbeat mothers. An obligation— one he’s grown to love, one that’s made his heart fuller than thought possible. Blessings in disguise.
He looks at Tanya, mid-reminisce, and for a second he sees her: six years younger. A toddler back then, chubby hands reaching, round, pudgy cheeks. Her hiccupping laughter, bubbling forth from her lips, easily granted. Now, it’s a chore to get her to crack so much as a smile.
He sighs, slight, barely a breath, still scared of waking her. A frail ache chokes his throat, nostalgic pains haunting his arms. He misses back when could still lift her with one hand, when she was still small enough to cradle in the crook of his elbow. Time seems to fly when you have kids, rushes forward and trips over itself in the rearview mirror. They grow so fast.
Soon enough, she’ll be a young woman, ready to take flight and blaze her own trail through the world. He can see her in his mind’s eye, bold and bright. The type of girl who can read and fight. The sort of lady that’d never be impressed by the boy he’d been at twenty. No “fried-chicken” sort of guys for her future, no siree. He’s determined to raise her with better standards than that.
He’s determined to do a lot of things. When he thinks of the future, a creeping anxiety sneaks up his chest, its thorns prickling his sides. ‘Will it be enough?’ he thinks, panicked. ‘Will he be enough?’ But in the early morning light, his fears seem so silly, illuminated by a soft glow, washed away by the fluttering of Tanya’s eyelids as she shifts, stretches, wakes.
“Dad,” she calls groggily, still tangled in fleeting dreams, “I’m hungry.”
He chuckles, ruffling her hair. “Me too, kiddo. Lemme whip up somethin’ for us to eat.”