Chapter Text
*
A few days into the summer, Cappy comes to Tucker's room to talk to him.
“Father's Day is coming up,” he says. “I was wondering if you wanted to go visit Quentin's grave on the day. You know, take some flowers, spruce it up a bit. Say hello...”
He trails off when Tucker pulls his knees up unconsciously. Tucker has been trying not to think of his pop that much, still unsure of how he feels about him. Cappy reaches over and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“It's okay if you don't want to go,” he says. “You have to do these things in your own time. There's no shame in not wanting to go. Just let me know what you decide, okay?”
Tucker nods; Cappy squeezes his shoulder once more before departing. After he's gone, Tucker pushes to his feet and paces his room, fiddling with the things on his shelves to distract himself. He adjusts his books and dvds, moves his action figures around to different positions, and fusses with things in general- anything to take his mind off of his father, and visiting his grave.
He picks up an action figure to move it to another shelf and finds himself standing there for several minutes, staring down at the figure in his hand with a numb sort of feeling. Pop gave him this, he remembers. Back when he was a little kid- one of the few things he'd held onto through multiple group homes and foster parents. He hadn't even liked it much when he got it, since Pop had either misunderstood or not cared one, when he'd asked his son what he wanted for his birthday. Tucker had only kept it over the many moves because clinging to the things that were his were important.
Tucker puts the figure back on the shelf with shaking hands and moves on, turning his attention to his desk when he reaches the end of his shelves. The top of his dresser a mess- discarded mail, half-read magazines, empty soda cans, candy wrappers, clothing... he sets things on his desk to forget about them, and then immediately does.
Well, he wanted a distraction, right? He grabs a trash bag from the roll in his desk and gets to work, tossing things in indiscriminately. It's all garbage anyway, and it'll be nice to be able to use his desk as a desk again- he freezes when his hand lands on a paper with his name on it, folded in such a way that it becomes its own envelope. His breath hitches a little as he recognizes the handwriting on the paper. It's Pop's letter, the one his friends passed on to him at Pop's funeral.
(They had been the only ones at the funeral who had seemed to genuinely be in mourning for Pop. That had stung a little- Pop might not have been much, but he had at least deserved to have people care about him at his funeral, of all things.)
Tucker never opened the letter, before. He'd set it on his desk and let it get buried under the pile of junk that had accumulated. He opens it now, unfolding it with shaking hands. What could Pop have had to say to him? And if he'd wanted to say it so badly, why didn't he just let Tucker visit again so he could say it in person?
Vern , the letter starts. Tucker rolls his eyes. Not even a dear. Pop never was one for sentimentality. I'm not really sure what I'm suposed to say here, or even what I'm trying to acomplish. I have a lot of things I want - the word want is barely legible, having been scratched out in favor of squeezing the word 'need' up above it. - to say to you, but I can't tell them to you in person. I wish you would understand. I know you don't, I know you - the word 'probably' was here, but it's been scratched out as well. -hate me for it and I don't really blame you. I'd hate me to if I were you. But please try to lok at it from my pov.
I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, Vern. Things the law- this, too, has been scratched out; Tucker has to squint to read it. -The police never even scratched the surface of the things I did. I can't begin to explain- the things I did for- I've had to live with- All three are so scratched out that Tucker gives up on deciphering them after a moment. I'm never gonna leave this place. I don't have a chance for early parole, and even if I do get lucky and make it out of here alive, what's the point? I don't know how to live a straight life. I don't know how to be anything but a crook.
I want better for you, Vern. Better than I can give you, better than I could ever - the word ever is underlined and written in bold strokes. - give you. And you've got that! Cap is a good man, he loves you and he can take care of you, he can give you all the things I wish I could have, the things I wanted to. He can be the kind of father you deserve, and that husband of his, I've never met him but he sounds like a stand up guy too.
Sometimes I think the best thing I ever did for you was get locked up in here.
I was eighteen years old when your mom left you with me and I was stupid and scared and I made some really bad decisions. I messed up- Tucker can't even read the paragraph he wrote after that; it's completely scribbled over and the ink is smudged. It picks back up on the next paragraph. - I wasn't a very good father too you and I know that. I tried but I don't think I was ever meant for it. At least this way maybe I can start doing right by you.
I'm gonna miss you, though. Your visits are the only thing I've had to look forward to in this dump. I love you, son. I won't ask you to forgive me for what I've done, but I hope one day maybe you can at least understand why.
The letter ends there, with no notice beyond a cramped -Q squished into the corner.
A tear slides off Tucker's nose and lands on the page, followed by another and another. Tucker sets the letter aside on his desk and scrubs at his face with one sleeve, but it's no use, more tears just follow. He blows his nose unceremoniously on his shirtfont. It's just hit him- just really hit him- that his Pop is gone, for real, in the not coming back way.
He sits there for awhile, hunched over in his desk chair while his tears fall freely, until they finally stop. When he's sure they're gone, he slips into his bathroom and washes his face until it's not so obvious he's been crying at all- Cappy will probably notice, but he'll probably also be polite enough to not say anything- and heads into the kitchen.
The house smells like stir-fried vegetables and rice, and it leaves Tucker's mouth watering. He follows the smell to find Cappy and Gary in the kitchen making dinner together. He leans on the doorframe to watch them, not willing to interrupt them or get in the way. While he waits, Cappy hands Gary a stack of plates and silverware to set the table; when he squeezes by Tucker into the dining room, Tucker unthinkingly ruffles his hair fondly as he goes by.
“Everything all right?” Cappy asks. “Did you decide about your dad?”
“Yeah. I'd like to go see him, I think it'd be nice.”
“All right. We'll make plans, then.” Cappy reaches up to tuck a stray braid behind Tucker's ear. “I'm glad you decided to go. You know your dad really loved you, right?”
Tucker gives him a small smile. “Yeah. I'm starting to figure that out.”
*
o/o