Summary: An unexpected encounter between David and his father leads him to reflect on their relationship.
Contents: SFW, fluff, angst, canon dialogue, movie spoilers, father-son relationship, father-baby bonding, kangaroo care, introspection
Word count: 1.583
Author's note: it's Father's Day in Brazil and I just wanted an excuse to write one of Hamish's characters being a dad 🍼
Read on AO3
The hospital had never been a pleasant place for David. The smell of alcohol in the air, the beeping of monitors, sick patients coming and going, the stretchers, the IV fluids. And that, in particular, was a heavy atmosphere—Abigail had just seen her own dead mother on her deathbed. David left her alone with her mother to give them some privacy and walked down the hallways to the reception desk, hoping to get out of that ominous place.
Until he realized that the hospital reception area looked familiar—it was the maternity hospital where he had been born. People were wearing strange, outdated clothes—they looked like the styles that were in vogue in the late ’70s. The hospital itself looked different—smaller, before the renovation that expanded it in the mid-2000s. Then David spotted an even more familiar figure: a tall man in a knitted sweater, holding a bunch of balloons and a teddy bear, a look of distress on his face.
“Dad…” David thought.
David’s father nervously entered the hospital reception area and sat down in one of the chairs. David sat down right in front of him.
"Is everything okay?" David asked.
"Yeah... Yeah..."
The father paused, looking away distressed
"No, not really. But... It's just... My son. My son, uh, was born prematurely."
"Well... I'm sure he's gonna be okay." David tried to reassure him.
"There's some complications. We were just told this morning."
"What complications? What's wrong?"
"His heart. There's some problems with his heart. It's called PDA. Patent ductus arter... Something."
"Did they if say it's fatal?"
"Yeah, it can be."
"Hey, he'll survive."
"Well thank you for saying that."
Pause. Uncomfortable silence.
"Seeing my... Son trapped into that incubator... If he dies in there, and if I'm not able to hold him, I don't know what we'll do..."
David felt the need to sit beside the father and pat his back reassuringly.
"It's gonna be alright, Dad. It's gonna be alright."
"Dad?"
"You... You're a dad, right?"
The father chuckled at the question.
"Actually, I am. We tried to have a child for a long time. And then we were fine with it. And then she got pregnant. At forty. And the next thing you know, our little David was born. Do you have children?"
"No, I don't."
"My friends tried to explain what it's like, but... It's impossible. And annoying. The minute that I saw my boy... My world changed."
The father looked at the verge of tears, choking back so much pain. David had never seen his father look so emotional, so vulnerable. To him, his father was a stoic man, always powering through life with a stiff upper lip, never showing any pain. But in that moment, he was as broken as a child who just lost its favorite toy.
"Do you think that you'll tell him about all this?" David asked. "You know, the complications."
"My wife and I made a promise. If he survives, we'll do everything we can to protect him from shite like this. Excuse my language." The father paused. "Nah, nah. We won't tell him. He'll only know that he was perfect, and that he's everything we ever wanted and hoped for. That he's..."
"Special..."
The conversation was interrupted by a nurse coming in and calling the father's name:
"Mr. Longley, your wife is asking for you."
"I need to go. Thanks for listening." he thanked David and stood up.
"Hey" David called him. "You're a good dad."
"That's all I want. Just a chance." the father smiled and walked away.
Curious about how it all ended, David followed his father until the neonatal ICU. They arrived at the softly lit room that smelled of a mixture of rubbing alcohol and breast milk, the constant beeping of monitors in the background merging with the weak cries of the infants inside the incubators.
David watched as his father entered the room hesitantly, his expression of pure desperation. Sitting at a chair near the incubators, there was a familiar woman – unmistakably, David's mother, holding him skin to skin against her chest. The father stared at his son – so small and fragile, with tubes and wires that towered over his tiny body.
"Do you wanna hold him now?" the mother asked softly.
"Can I...?" the father asked, uncertainly.
"Of course, darling. Skin-to-skin contact is very good for premature babies, and he needs to get to know you. Get used to your scent."
"Okay then... I want to."
He prepared himself, taking off his sweater and unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his chest. He sat in the armchair and held out his arms. The nurse took the baby from the mother's chest, and little David let out a weak, shrill, heartbreaking cry – like the mewls of a kitten. Finally, the infant was placed against his father's chest, skin to skin. He grumbled and squirmed a little, until settling down. A warm blanket was then placed on top.
The father looked at the baby, his eyes brimming with tears, and whispered:
"Shhh, daddy's here, daddy's here with you, little David. You're safe..."
And then, the baby calmed down and stopped crying. Finally, he got to know his father: his warmth, his smell, his heartbeat lulling him. The father who had waited anxiously for months to meet him, watching him grow inside his mother's belly, was finally holding him in his arms. A tear rolled down his face, a mixture of joy, sadness, and fear.
The mother, beside him, watched with teary eyes.
"You're doing this so well," she whispered.
The father didn't take his eyes off his son. He only replied, his voice trembling:
"I'm scared."
"You don't need to be," she said. "Look at him. He's much calmer now."
In his father's arms, little David nuzzled his chest. The father took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and just felt. The weight of his son, the warmth, the tiny breathing.
"Daddy loves you so much, little one. Daddy will take care of you with all the love in the world." He whispered.
David watched the scene with a lump in his throat. He had never seen this deeply human side of his father, even though he had been a loving and present parent throughout his life. He was a man hardened by life: grew up poor in a small town in Ireland, survived the Troubles in the late ’60s, came to try his luck in America with little more than the clothes on his back and a dream, fell in love with David’s mother, and became a father in his forties. David thought about his relationship with his father: when he was a child, the man was his hero, the coolest guy in the world, and also a safe haven in whose shoulder he always found comfort when he was crying. But when David hit his teens, his father became the annoying, embarrassing old man who was always there to give him unsolicited advice and crack cringeworthy “dad jokes.” Thirteen-year-old David didn’t enjoy his father’s company quite as much anymore.
Except on that fateful night after the school play, when fifteen-year-old David had his heart broken for the first time—that night, all he wanted was a hug and words of comfort from his parents. But his father, exhausted from work, could only offer him a pat on the back and a “you’ll get over it” before collapsing into bed. Young David cried in the dark, feeling lonelier and more helpless than ever. Little did he know that this was one of his father’s greatest regrets.
Years went by, life took David in other directions, and he and his father lost touch for years. His now-elderly father tried in vain to reconnect with his son, but this time, it was David who was always too busy and too tired to pay attention to him. The relationship had grown distant, but a longing remained deep within both men. They just wanted an opportunity—the right moment—so they could reach out to each other and be father and son again, spending quality time together, but that moment never came.
It’s not known how long David stood there, in front of that neonatal ICU, watching his newborn self fall asleep on his father’s chest. In that parallel universe within the portals, time passed differently. In what might have been minutes, hours, or even days, David’s father gently returned the baby to the nurse’s arms, who placed him back in the incubator. He buttoned his shirt and put on his sweater.
He picked up the balloons and the teddy bear that were tied to the side of the incubator, walked over to the adult David, and hugged him. Tightly. A bear hug, one that took his breath away. And then David broke down in tears.
When his father broke the embrace, he handed the gifts to his son, smiled, and said:
“David, I won’t be here—alive—forever. I know you’re waiting for the right time, the ideal conditions to start talking to me again, but the ideal conditions don’t exist. Think about that. Daddy loves you very much.”
The neonatal ICU faded away like smoke, vanishing into thin air. David’s father and mother, the nurses, the babies—all slowly evaporating before the eyes of the adult David. And then he found himself alone in a dimly lit room, holding the balloons and the bear. His father’s words echoed in his mind like a broken record player.
If I had a nickel for every time Hamish Linklater was a well intentioned but ultimately destructive force on a horror show about an island in New England I would have two nickels. Which is not a lot but it is weird it’s happened twice.
