“Let go!” Stan yelled, clearly taken off guard as he tried to wrestle the gun back.
Filbrick grunted, focused on trying to keep any fingers away from the trigger as he pried the gun from Stan.
“I said let go!” Stan growled. “You can get—”
The moment Stan realized who he was was obvious; his son went wide-eyed and still, shock painting his face.
Filbrick used the opportunity to free the gun from Stan’s grip. He flicked the safety on and paused, chest heaving from the adrenaline. He eyed his son, who was also breathing raggedly, staring at him like he’d seen a ghost. Stan did not look good; his clothes were ratty and his hair messy and greasy.
And he’d just tried to blow his own brains out. Right in front of his father.
Impulsively, Filbrick whacked Stan over the head with the butt of the gun.
“Ow!” Stan complained, hands flying up to his sore head. “What the hell, old man?! Why did you stop me? I thought you’d want—”
Filbrick stopped listening. Stan was distressed, his eyes were shiny and his face distraught. Defeat lined the slouch of his shoulders. He had been about to kill himself. Stanley had been about to kill himself.
Filbrick didn’t know what to say. He was not a man of many words on an ordinary day, and such a situation as this had him entirely lost—not a feeling Filbrick Pines enjoyed. But Stan (his son) was upset, and had been about to kill himself, and Filbrick had to do something.
At a loss, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Stan, pulling him into a stiff hug.
Stan froze immediately, going dead quiet.
It was awkward. Filbrick couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged any of his children. Not since they were very little kids, surely. He was not a naturally affectionate man, something Stan had not inherited from him. But he could feel the warmth of his son in his arms, the rise and fall of Stan’s chest, and it was like an arrow to his heart.
He’d almost lost this forever. He’d almost lost Stanley forever.
Filbrick had already lost this boy once, years ago when he threw him out. At the time, he’d felt justified in doing so. He’d sent Stan away to become his own man. Now the man Stan had become had just tried to take his own life, and Filbrick wondered if maybe he had messed up.
He wondered if maybe he didn’t really want to lose Stan again.
Stan trembled in his arms. “P-Pa?” His voice came out weak and quavering.
Not knowing what to say, Filbrick held him tighter.
It seemed to be the right thing to do. Stan collapsed against him, curling up like he was a little boy again, clutching at Filbrick’s jacket desperately and sobbing.
“Pa… Pa…” Stan cried for him like he had as a child. “Papa!”
Tears were… not Filbrick’s forte. Men shouldn’t go about crying all the time, in his opinion. But he said nothing about it, because his son felt fragile and small in his arms, and Filbrick didn’t want to break him anymore than he seemed to already be broken.
So he just held him, and he let Stan cry. A crying son was far better than a dead one. And Filbrick was not going to have any dead sons. Not if he could help it.
