He’d stopped having dreams about his father a long time ago. It felt like a different lifetime, really, when those were the dreams that haunted his subconscious. Perhaps that trauma didn’t rank high on the lift of trauma’s that Bobby had endured in the past fifty-odd years. His father had the main spotlight in his dreams for at least a third of his life. The fire, his father dying. That spot had been taken over by his mother’s suicide when he first become a fire fighter – unable to watch another loved one go down that same ill-faded path. No amount of praying could save him, and in turn her.
At least for a while, the pills and alcohol chased it all away. Tim Nash should have been the proof that masking your pain and trauma always failed in the end. His wife and children bore the brunt of his fall: dying alone from smoke inhalation and the burning whisps of fire. He could still hear them playing firefighters: when Marcy would yell daddy’s coming to save us! Surrounded by Bobby Jr. and Brooke’s giggles as he made his way across the cushions on the floor.
Sometimes he wondered if he heard echoes of her saying these exact words as the floor fell out from underneath him.
These were the memories that haunted him like a shadow for years until his date with Athena. Sure, the nightmares and memories were still there but were further away. At least, they had felt further away. They were always lurking under the surface though. This realisation coming to him when he met her children, May’s homecoming, when Athena asked him to move in. Everything was suddenly so real. This was when the memories of the fire in St. Paul infiltrated his current life. Suddenly it wasn’t Brooke and Bobby Jr.’s bodies that were being carried away but those of May and Harry’s. Where it wasn’t Marcy coding in the burn unit, it was Athena.
He'd told May once, after her first on call death, that the guilt never truly leaves. Not really. It just lessons until one day you learn to live with it. To acknowledge it when the time comes and move on. Had Bobby ever acknowledged it, though? The idea of confronting pain was never more real than when his worst nightmare had come to life. When the pain he thought he deserved for so long was finally there. He was going to burn alive, just as he should have at that apartment fire ten years before. He was going to feel what his family felt, understood their last moments more than he ever could in his dreams.
But… there was a part of him, a large part of him, that wanted to live. Athena, she didn’t deserve to die. Didn’t deserve the pain. And deep down, he knew he didn’t deserve this either. He had a chance. A chance he didn’t have the opportunity to take back then. So, he stormed the bedroom, got his wife out, brought her back to life.
A life for a life.
He would die, so she could live.
Bobby wasn’t expecting hell to be the old dive bar he went to in St. Paul. The same dive bar that had its own death not long after he’d left the city; the liquor-soaked floors the perfect accelerant and the wood paneling the kindling. The counter was as sticky as he remembered, the foul stench of cigarette smoke and weed permeating every corner. The pool table that he never sat at but watched as other first responders, also held down by the weight of their mistakes, playing with the broken cues – now sat abandoned.
He was alone now with only his thoughts for company. Well, he thought cynically, not completely alone. It was him and his tormenter – the amber liquid that stared down at him from the glass decanters lining the mirrored walls. The familiar burn that only whisky and bourbon could cure was there at the back of his throat. He was here now, alone, he could drink without repercussions of causing those he loved more pain. He was where he belonged.
Even so, with the knowledge that he could now indulge in his greatest downfall, he stayed rooted to the stool he sat on. Stared at himself in the dusty mirror – his LAFD sweater was stained with soot, one arm with a hole in it from the fire.
“Looks like you could use a glass.” The sound of a liquid filled glass sliding across the rough counter caught Bobby’s attention. Turning his head, his eyes widened a fraction at the sight of the man who had warned him in the first place.
Tim Nash nodded towards the glass of whisky he had slid in front of his son, tipping back the last dredges of his of his glass down his throat before pouring out more from the bottle. The amount there were dwindles, and Bobby figured this was his punishment: a never-ending supply of temptation. He stared down at his own glass, reflection dimmed.
“You’re an adult now. Strong enough to take it like a man.” Bobby remembered his first sip at his father’s party: sputtering around the sharp taste and burn. He hadn’t understood then why his father willingly drank something so disgusting. Then his father died and suddenly he understood: it dulled the pain enough to make it bearable.
Bobby wasn’t sure if he wanted to pain to be dulled now. He deserved the pain he got as he coughed. The pain in his lungs from the smoke, the pain in his back from taking part in activities he was getting too old for.
“What are you doing here?” Bobby asked. He wasn’t a naïve child anymore; he knew his father was far from the perfect hero that he’d made him out to be. The addiction the man went though, that killed him, was an illness: but that didn’t mean he was given a free pass to bear his mom. Didn’t mean he should have hit his brother. Be so cruel to them both.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” Tim replied with a question, pulling out the stool beside Bobby. “Can I sit? I’ve been working all day. Can’t even count how many people I’ve saved.” He smirked at his own words, shooting back the sloshing liquid before pouring more. Memories of the scrapbook he had made for his father came back to his mind. All the reasons his dad was a hero. The school presentation Bobby Jr. has done, apply named: My Dad, a hero. Harry a couple years ago: Why my stepdad is my hero.
Perhaps he was more like his father than he’d ever thought. Everyone had always compared him to his mom: maybe that had been an attempt to save him from who he really was.
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“It’s a celebration!” his father’s voice is exuberant, grinning at him from behind his glass. “You saved your wife! She’s alive.”
The thought should have brought him immense relief, joy. But this was hell, after all, and all Bobby felt was anguish. Because yes, he did save his wife. His beautiful, strong, smart wife. His soul mate. The woman he loved with all his heart was now going to feel the pain that he felt for so long: the pain of losing the person you love.
“Son, you should be so proud of yourself. A hero! Look at us.”
“I’m not a hero.” Bobby said adamantly, shaking his head. “All those people died because of me. I killed them.”
“Do you know how many people have died on my watch?” Tim asked, looking over at his son, hand reaching up to rub his mustache. “Son, we can’t save everyone. We aren’t God, and we’re foolish to think that we can.”
Buck had been distraught over the first person he lost. That man from the roller coaster. Bobby remembered, remembered talking to him to try and reassure that it wasn’t his fault. To try and explain that they may lose people, but that doesn’t take away from those they’d saved.
His wife – she could compartmentalise it all. Talked about how when the uniform came off, her badge and gun put away, she was no longer that person. She wasn’t Sergeant Grant but Athena Nash. She didn’t let those deaths get to her. But… they can tell themselves that they’re separated from it all, tell themselves that lie enough that they believe it’s true until they’re blue in the face, but in the end they aren’t separate from the tragedies that they surround themselves with. Bobby watched her as she remembered it, the lost look on her face as she was haunted by memories of people in their worst moments. The way those moments lived on in her memories as she slept. Replaying over and over just as his own losses played over and over in his own sleep.
“I know that.” He felt almost annoyed, like a teenager listening to their parents tell them something they knew logically but weren’t ready to accept yet.
“Do you?” his father took a sip of his drink, contemplative. “You are fifty-four years old, still hung up on events your own children would say aren’t your fault. Numbing the pain in a way you promised not to.”
“I’m not even-“ the glass was cold in his hands when he looked down. It was no longer beside him, but right in front. Posed, ready for him to drown his sorrows. “I can’t do this.”
“I won’t tell your mother.” Tim promised. “Just a secret between you and me.
Secrets were what had gotten him there in the first place. “I don’t– can’t–“ Bobby let go of the glass as though it burned him, stumbling off the stood and backing away. “I need to go. I can’t be here.”
Hell was supposed to be solitary, his own torment. He supposed this was. His father there, watching him with knowing eyes. A mirror of the path he was going down. The offer to become just like him. Once upon a time, Bobby would’ve taken him up on that. Back when he believed his father was pure good and a hero. He was still a hero, but now Bobby knew the price that title came with.
He opened the door, hoping to make his escape. The bell jingled merrily as the hinges screeched. Bobby halted though, when he got to the threshold, and stared out as the vast space of nothing. It wasn’t dark like he’d expected, there were no burning fires of hell or the devil waiting for him. Instead, it was bright – like the world was made of the pure white light.
“You aren’t ready to go out there, yet.” He turned at the new voice, stomach dropping when he saw the woman standing in front of him. Someone he thought he would never see again when she had to go to heaven and him to hell.
“Marcy?” he asked in disbelief, stepping away from the light and not noticing the way the door swings shut behind him, the bell silent. His heart pounded as he took her in. She was preserved the way he remembered her, just as she had been that night; blonde hair loose and green eyes knowing more than he thought. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” she asked rhetorically, but not unkindly. “Making sure you don’t repeat the same mistakes.” She didn’t move any closer, but also didn’t back away as he stepped forward. One, two, until he was in front of her. Hand moving up, touching her face, shoulder, arm, hand, until his fell away back to his side. “You’re in quite the predicament, Bobby. I mean, another fire?”
“I know.” He looked behind her at the empty bar beyond. “Marcy, where’re the kids?”
“It’s not time to see them yet.”
His heart broke, but what did he expect? He was supposed to atone for his sins before he died, and that hadn’t happened. He didn’t deserve his children. Their pure light, innocence, joy. He took that away. So, he nodded stoically, shifting his weight from what foot to the other.
“I failed you, again.” His eyes were wet, tearful as he looked at his wife. She died not knowing how much he loved her. How much he regretted his actions. How he could be strong, withstand temptation. But perhaps he was only strong because he had to be.
“You didn’t fail me, baby.” Her voice was soft, understanding. “It was an accident.”
“An accident I caused.” He responded, his anguish evident. “I caused the fire that killed you and our children. And I will never make up for that.”
“The you were before, and you who you are now, are not the same person.” Marcy reached out, grabbing his hand from where it hung limp. “We can’t change the past. All we can do is look forward to doing better in the future.”
“I’m trying.” He says desperately, “I had the list – but then I met Athena and thought that maybe I could have a little bit of happiness. That if I made up for everything in other ways, I could still have that little bit.”
“Bobby, you’re too busy saving everyone else to save yourself.” Marcy said knowingly. “The people in your life, those that love you, have forgiven you. It’s time for you to forgive yourself.” She squeezed his hand.
“I killed you.” His voice broke, “I killed the kids. I killed my dad.”
“You didn’t kill me, son.” The man in question spoke up from the bar where he still sat, drink in hand but not taking a sip. “I killed myself. I couldn’t think straight, see straight. I failed you. You’ve always been empathetic, taking on others pain for yourself. That was my pain, my demons, and I ill advisably handed them onto you.”
“I wanted to help–“
“That shouldn’t have been on you. You were just a child; I was an adult.” His father looked at him earnestly. “I was supposed to save you. You saved yourself and your wife once, and now I need you to save yourself again.”
“But I can’t– I’m in hell. All I can do is repent, think about what I’ve done.”
“Bobby.” Marcy’s voice caught him again, and he looked back at his first love. The sudden need to hold his current love, his Athena, in his arms. “You have so much to live for.”
“You, the kids–“
“We’re still here.” He said kindly. “As long as you are living, we’ll live on with you.” She paused. “You have a beautiful family. Athena, May, Harry, the 118. You need to live for them.”
“My second chance is over. I failed.”
“God gives us unlimited chances.” Marcy reminded him. “If we counted how many chances we had, we would only ever be living in fear for when they ended. You need to live, Bobby.”
“The bar closed at 10.” His father stood up, motioned to the clock that blinked back at him. 2am. “They’re waiting for you, son.”
He wakes with a jolt, fighting to stay up. The pain of the tube down his throat, his lungs as they expanded, the old injury in his back, told him he was alive. He was surrounded by nurses and doctors, all speaking over each other. Athena, his thoughts went to his wife. The way she gasped for air before everything went dark. Athena. The commotion dies down at they finish checking him, taking his vitals, telling him what day it is and what happened. He can see his team watching through the window. The worry is still evident on their faces, but also the relief at seeing him alive.
It feels like hours before the team is allowed into the room. The doctors say his lungs appear to be working fine but keep the oxygen mask beside him just in case that changes. The medical professionals file out of the room as his team, family, files in.”
“We’re glad to see you, Cap.” Chimney tells him.
“Athena?”
She’s okay.” Hen reassures him, though from the look on her face he can tell there is something else. “And you’re going to be okay, too.” He looked at the group, brow furrowing as wife doesn’t appear.
“Where’s my wife?” they all share a look at the worry evident in his voice. The desperation to see her, to prove that she is alive.
“I would say you should sit down, but you’re already in bed.” The group turns to shoot Buck a look, the young man holding up his hands in surrender. “What?”
“Athena’s okay.” Hen repeats. “You got her out in time. She just had done business to take care of, but I’m going to call her now. Let her know you’re awake.” His wife’s friend stepped out of the room, and he looked over at the others confused.
“Let’s just say, nobody hurts Athena’s family on her watch.”
