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linndechirTitle: Names forgotten and reinvented
Fandom: Pacific Rim
Pairing: Herc Hansen/Chuck Hansen
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3345
Warnings: consensual father/son incest, tons of angst
Summary: Chuck stopped calling Herc 'dad' the moment he realised that he was only alive because his mother wasn't anymore. Years later, when Chuck starts coming to Herc's room in the middle of the night, they don't talk about it, and they most certainly don't talk about the fact that Chuck starts calling him 'dad' again.
A/N: Written for the following![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
pacificrimkink prompt: “The only time Chuck calls Herc "Dad" is when they're having sex.” But since I'm apparently incapable of writing a short kinky PWP, this turned into a gigantic mess of angst and pain and issues with some porn in it. Also, if you haven't seen Pacific Rim yet, GO WATCH IT. It's epic and gorgeous and every single character is awesome and the Hansens will make you bawl your eyes out because they're tragic and also GIANT EPIC ROBOTS BEATING UP ALIENS.
Technically Chuck had never really called Herc 'dad'. It was always 'daddy' when he had been a little boy, before the world went to hell, before their home got torn to pieces and their family along with it. 'Daddy' when Herc came home from deployments or even just from regular days at work, and there was no word in the world that Herc had loved more, one word filled with all the love and admiration that little boys had for their fathers because they still thought those fathers were heroes, unerring demi-gods who could do anything.
It had still been 'daddy' in the first few days after the attack on Sydney, helpless and yet hopeful, still with a sliver of that old belief that his father could fix things again. 'Daddy' when Chuck had been terrified and clinging to his father, not quite comprehending yet that his mother was truly gone forever.
It had been 'daddy' until the realisation hit him that the reason he was still alive was the reason she wasn't.
But Herc had been too wrapped up in his own grief to think much of it when his son had started spitting his name at him, 'Hercules' with all the resentful, helpless hatred of an 11-year-old. Prepubescent spite, nothing more, a phase that would pass, though if he was quite honest with himself Herc hadn't even noticed at first. He hadn't really paid attention to his son for far too many years, and though that angry snap of 'Hercules' eventually simmered down to a somewhat less hostile 'Herc', his son never called him 'daddy' again, nor 'dad', nor even 'father'. By the time Herc had fully understood what had happened, it had been too late to mend bridges, and the last thing his already strained relationship with his teenage son had needed was a growled demand that Chuck call him 'dad'.
Over the years his anger at Chuck's stubbornness, at the pointedness with which he said 'Herc' on the rare occasions that they talked at all, turned into muted resignation. After all it could be worse. Chuck could refuse to talk to him at all, so Herc took what he could get and never realised that his acceptance only made things worse, that Chuck wanted him to get angry, that Chuck ended up thinking his father just didn't give a damn if he was 'Herc' or 'dad', that the main reason Chuck called him 'old man' half the time once they started working together was because that at least got a rise out of his father.
“Were you already in bed, old man?” Chuck joked that night as he shouldered his way past Herc into his room, pushing inside the moment Herc opened the door to make sure his father couldn't slam it shut in his face.
It was close to midnight, and they should have been sleeping, but something had kept Herc up, an odd sort of headache, that feeling he got sometimes that somehow Chuck was still there, right there in his mind even when they were not drifting. He didn't know if it was real or just some form of phantom pain, a bizarre side effect of being connected to someone else so often that his mind protected him from the separation by simulating that he wasn't actually alone. Herc had drifted with more people than anyone else alive, but this had never happened to him with anyone else. But whatever it was, there were nights when he simply got restless, driven by a feeling that something was about to happen.
Those were the exact same nights that Chuck showed up in his room uninvited, sometimes early in the evening, sometimes closer to the morning hours, depending on how long his stubbornness remained stronger than his need for this thing they didn't talk about.
“What do you want, boy?” Herc said, sharply and carelessly, and like everything he said to his son without giving it too much thought, it came out all wrong, the wrong tone and the wrong words and he saw hurt flashing through Chuck's eyes, the pain of a little boy who had heard the words “I don't have time for this now” (I don't have time for you now – I don't have time for you ever) far too often. And as quickly as always hurt turned into defiance, and Chuck shrugged because he liked to provoke his father, and if Herc got annoyed, well, that was just what he wanted, wasn't it?
But that lasted barely a minute before he looked down, awkward and embarrassed and he was still so young, for all the scars and skills and bravado, for all that he hadn't had a proper father in almost ten years he sometimes still looked like a little boy, lost and alone. This was probably the moment when any good father would hug his son, but Herc hadn't been a good dad since before his son had stopped calling him that.
“Wasn't tired,” Chuck said, and that was all there was to say, really. If one of them couldn't sleep, chances were neither could the other, and if Herc was a better father maybe he wouldn't always put the burden of coming to him on Chuck's shoulders, maybe he'd go to him instead of waiting for Chuck to gather his courage and come to him. Then again, if Herc was a better father, none of this would ever have happened. If Herc was a better father, he wouldn't let his son come to his room in the middle of the night, pretending that he had no clue what Chuck wanted when there was really only one thing Chuck could want from him at this time of night, because it was not like they ever just sat down to talk and joke and laugh and whatever else it was that fathers and sons did.
But as it was, he didn't even say 'come here' now, he didn't reach out for him and pull him close and make him feel like he was welcome despite Herc's harsh words; he just stood there and waited and didn't quite meet Chuck's eyes – not that Chuck was trying to meet his. Waited while Chuck shifted from one foot to the other, his hands twitching; usually he would bend down now to scratch Max's ear, but he had left the dog in his own room, as if to make sure that nothing kept him from going through with his reason for being here.
Chuck made one step forward, fast and determined, then stopped again, and this was ridiculous, there was no doubt where this was headed, it was merely a question of how many minutes would pass in awkward tension, both of them shuffling and not looking at each other and pretending that this would go any other way than it always did, until Chuck finally made that second step and crashed into Herc more than anything else.
Even though Herc saw it coming, it still knocked the breath out of his lungs, the way Chuck slammed him into the wall as if he was starting a fight, rough hands bruising Herc's shoulders, with a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and raw hunger. Herc remembered the little son who had always hugged his daddy whenever he could, jumped into his arms the moment he saw him, but Chuck didn't hug Herc; all Chuck knew was how to turn everything into a fight.
But Herc didn't fight back, not here. He let Chuck push him and shove him and crowd him against the wall because every attempt to push back would feel as if he was pushing Chuck away. So he drew him close instead, one hand on Chuck's hip, the other curling at the back of Chuck's neck, the touch too rough even as he let Chuck spend his anger on him. They never punched each other here, never that, but Chuck's hands were bruising Herc's hips, his fingers tore through the fabric of Herc's shirt, and their kisses tasted metallic and bitter. Herc went along when Chuck's grip on his hips tightened and he started shoving at him again, away from the wall and towards a bed that was barely large enough for one of them, let alone for both. He held on to him when Chuck pushed him down, pulled his son on top of him even though Chuck's weight made his chest feel tight – just his weight, only that, not the fact that his son looked like he would break if Herc did anything but wrap his arms around him now.
“Fuck,” Chuck groaned as Herc's thigh pushed against his groin; it sounded helpless and needy and yet there was still a simple, almost innocent joy in his voice that Herc had heard far too rarely in all those years.
Herc loosened his grip on Chuck's neck, let his touch turn into something that was almost tender, and he felt Chuck's muscles relax under his palm. Chuck's touches no longer felt as if he was trying either to hurt Herc or to hold him so close he could never leave, and turned into the awkward caresses Herc had grown used to during those nights they spent together – Herc hadn't counted them, he most certainly hadn't. There was no skill, no finesse in the way Chuck's hands slipped under Herc's shirt and slid up his sides. Chuck had never been with anyone else, too focused on his work to waste his time with other people, too rough and abrasive to let anyone close. It was only Herc, had only ever been Herc, and Chuck squirmed on top of him as if he was trying to dig into Herc's body and disappear in him, meld their bodies the way their minds did, a last desperate attempt at closing the rift between them that even drifting together for years hadn't repaired.
“Dad,” Chuck said then, his voice a hoarse whisper against Herc's scruff. 'Dad' as he let Herc turn their angry biting into a softer kiss, 'dad' as he went pliant under Herc's hands, 'dad' as he allowed his father to roll them over, and instead of pushing him Chuck finally just pulled him closer.
The first time Chuck had called him that – the first night they had stumbled into each other as if the ground had been pulled out from underneath their feet – Herc had wanted to punch him for it, but it was he himself who deserved that punch, for doing what he was doing now, for ruining his son to the point where this was the only way they managed to be close. And he had started to yearn for it, for Chuck desperately gasping 'dad' against his skin, for that moment when Chuck's constant anger and hatred seemed to disappear completely and he just clang to Herc. It was the only time Herc could offer anything to Chuck that his son would accept, and it would have taken a stronger man, a better father, to deny himself the only moment of intimacy he and his son ever managed outside the drift.
Even so this was never languid and tender, more of a desperate madness, an adrenaline-fuelled haze, like they were running and running until they would collapse into each other, because that was still easier than stopping and dwelling for too long on what they were doing. Clothes were torn off too quickly, hands clung to the other's body, groping and grasping while Herc ground against him. They never fucked, not as such, and Herc could count the blowjobs they had given each other on one hand. Most of the time it was just this, his body rubbing against Chuck's while Chuck squirmed underneath him, hips bucking up for more friction, legs spread wide and Herc had no doubt that in this moment Chuck would have let him do so much more than this, but that would have felt too premeditated, too much like something they did on purpose rather than a freak accident that kept repeating itself (again and again and maybe at some point they'd have to acknowledge that it wasn't an accident anymore, but they had never been good at that sort of thing).
Chuck's fingers dug bruises into his hips – they both bruised so easily, and their bruises would turn the same shade of purple on the next day, and much as Herc tried to hate himself every time he saw those marks on himself or, more rarely, on Chuck, the sight never failed to make his breath catch.
“Dad,” Chuck's voice had turned soft and as close to pleading as it ever got, the syllable ending in a loud moan as Herc's spit-slicked fingers wrapped around both their cocks, a clumsy attempt at more friction, and Herc tried not to dwell too much on how Chuck liked it just the way he did, on how Chuck maybe only liked it that way because he had never really known anything else.
Chuck's lips tasted of blood and toothpaste and that disgusting cherry candy he loved all the more because his father hated it – Herc had never been able to keep him from eating candy after brushing his teeth –, of breathless hunger and need, and his voice broke when he moaned, “Daddy”.
His eyes were closed, and maybe Herc loved him so much in that moment because this was so raw and genuine, no performance, no bravado, no desperate need to impress and excel, no thought wasted on what anyone would think of him. Maybe Herc loved him all the more because for once Chuck wasn't trying to hate him, and if he wasn't already going to hell for all of this, his own whimper when Chuck breathed another 'dad' against his lips would have sent him there for sure.
“It's all right, boy, I've got you,” he mumbled in a voice that didn't sound like his own, not to his own ears at least, but it was all it took to make Chuck come, with a rare smile on his face, relaxed and calm and safe. Herc buried his face against Chuck's neck, slicked his fingers with Chuck's come to stroke himself more easily. Tried to get himself off as quickly as possible, before Chuck could recover and pull himself out of his blissful haze and back into his usual state of resentment and anger. Whenever that happened Chuck would turn this into another competition, another attempt at proving himself, at showing Herc that he was good at this, that he was good at everything. Those had been the only times Chuck had ever blown him, all the while staring up at Herc with a smug defiance that barely masked his need for approval, and as good as Chuck's mouth had felt, that look in his eyes had filled Herc with so much self-loathing that he ended up lashing out at Chuck twice as often for days after that. So he made do with his own hand, with the slide of his cock against Chuck's abs, with the soft pressure of Chuck's hands against his back and the way Chuck lazily nuzzled his cheek. His moans were muffled against Chuck's neck when he came, shivering in Chuck's arms while part of him wished his son had whispered 'dad' a last time into his ear.
They didn't linger. Not even a minute passed before Chuck shifted uncomfortably underneath him, and Herc quickly rolled off him before his son could say anything. They both sat up at the same time, perfectly in synch, but then Chuck reached down to grab some of their scattered clothes, and he didn't even pretend it was an accident when he grabbed Herc's shirt to wipe himself clean. Herc angrily snatched the shirt from Chuck's hands, but it was too late already and all it earned him was a lopsided grin.
“Not like that shirt was clean before,” and Herc wasn't in the mood for another pointless argument and spending the next ten minutes insisting that, yes, his shirt actually had been clean until Chuck decided he couldn't be arsed to clean himself up like a civilised person. He watched quietly as Chuck got dressed, the usual quick military efficiency somewhat hindered by having to pick his clothes off the floor, or the lamp on the nightstand in the case of his underwear.
“Training in the morning? If you're up for it,” Chuck quipped once he was dressed. It was a meaningless provocation, because Herc had never not been up for it, but it still grated, all the more because things had been so much easier just minutes ago. Chuck was pushing again, and that alone made Herc angry enough to pretend he couldn't see the hopeful look in Chuck's eyes (do you have time for me now?). Something told him their sparring in the morning would be even rougher than usual – for all that other pilots insisted their work-out was more of a dance, all coordination and compatibility, the Hansens always seemed to fight for real, always pushing the other to his limits. Chuck was convinced it was the reason they were the best, and although Herc wouldn't admit it, the boy was probably right.
“Go to sleep, if you don't want to get your arse handed to you in the morning,” Herc snapped, and if it sounded harsher than he intended, he didn't feel too sorry for it; the way Chuck talked to everyone around him, he could use the occasional dose of his own medicine. So Herc stared him down when Chuck faltered a little, just for a second before he straightened up again.
“We'll see about that.” The softness was gone from his voice now, from the way he looked at Herc. He turned to leave and was already at the door by the time Herc called him back.
“Chuck?”
His son glanced at him, face carefully blank, his hand lingering on the doorknob in a hardly subtle show of impatience. Herc felt like he should say something, but he hadn't said anything about this the first or the second or the third time it had happened; like with everything else between them he had missed the right moment to talk. He cleared his throat.
“Did Max eat all right? He seemed a bit under the weather this morning.”
Chuck relaxed again, actually smiled a little.
“He's fine. He probably just couldn't sleep last night because of your snoring.” For once the words sounded good-humoured rather than malicious; just thinking about Max always seemed to put Chuck in a better mood. Herc nodded; this was easy, safe. Not much he could do wrong when it came to their dog.
Chuck waited for another moment, but when Herc didn't reply he quickly opened the door and left, closed it behind him with a bit more noise than was strictly necessary, but at least he hadn't slammed it shut.
Herc looked down at the sticky shirt in his lap, then closed his eyes with a sigh. Allowed himself to cling for a moment to the memory of Chuck's body underneath his, Chuck's hands holding him close, Chuck's voice saying 'dad' over and over again as if to make up for years of not saying it at all. They'd stumble over this memory again in the drift, of this night and others like it, and Chuck would be embarrassed to see himself like that through Herc's eyes, but the memory was still theirs, shared like so many years of their life were shared now, to the point where they sometimes couldn't even pinpoint anymore whose memory it had been in the first place.
And maybe, if Herc could just give Chuck enough memories of how much he cared about him, maybe Chuck would one day forgive him for not ever saying it.
Fandom: Pacific Rim
Pairing: Herc Hansen/Chuck Hansen
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3345
Warnings: consensual father/son incest, tons of angst
Summary: Chuck stopped calling Herc 'dad' the moment he realised that he was only alive because his mother wasn't anymore. Years later, when Chuck starts coming to Herc's room in the middle of the night, they don't talk about it, and they most certainly don't talk about the fact that Chuck starts calling him 'dad' again.
A/N: Written for the following
pacificrimkink prompt: “The only time Chuck calls Herc "Dad" is when they're having sex.” But since I'm apparently incapable of writing a short kinky PWP, this turned into a gigantic mess of angst and pain and issues with some porn in it. Also, if you haven't seen Pacific Rim yet, GO WATCH IT. It's epic and gorgeous and every single character is awesome and the Hansens will make you bawl your eyes out because they're tragic and also GIANT EPIC ROBOTS BEATING UP ALIENS.Technically Chuck had never really called Herc 'dad'. It was always 'daddy' when he had been a little boy, before the world went to hell, before their home got torn to pieces and their family along with it. 'Daddy' when Herc came home from deployments or even just from regular days at work, and there was no word in the world that Herc had loved more, one word filled with all the love and admiration that little boys had for their fathers because they still thought those fathers were heroes, unerring demi-gods who could do anything.
It had still been 'daddy' in the first few days after the attack on Sydney, helpless and yet hopeful, still with a sliver of that old belief that his father could fix things again. 'Daddy' when Chuck had been terrified and clinging to his father, not quite comprehending yet that his mother was truly gone forever.
It had been 'daddy' until the realisation hit him that the reason he was still alive was the reason she wasn't.
But Herc had been too wrapped up in his own grief to think much of it when his son had started spitting his name at him, 'Hercules' with all the resentful, helpless hatred of an 11-year-old. Prepubescent spite, nothing more, a phase that would pass, though if he was quite honest with himself Herc hadn't even noticed at first. He hadn't really paid attention to his son for far too many years, and though that angry snap of 'Hercules' eventually simmered down to a somewhat less hostile 'Herc', his son never called him 'daddy' again, nor 'dad', nor even 'father'. By the time Herc had fully understood what had happened, it had been too late to mend bridges, and the last thing his already strained relationship with his teenage son had needed was a growled demand that Chuck call him 'dad'.
Over the years his anger at Chuck's stubbornness, at the pointedness with which he said 'Herc' on the rare occasions that they talked at all, turned into muted resignation. After all it could be worse. Chuck could refuse to talk to him at all, so Herc took what he could get and never realised that his acceptance only made things worse, that Chuck wanted him to get angry, that Chuck ended up thinking his father just didn't give a damn if he was 'Herc' or 'dad', that the main reason Chuck called him 'old man' half the time once they started working together was because that at least got a rise out of his father.
“Were you already in bed, old man?” Chuck joked that night as he shouldered his way past Herc into his room, pushing inside the moment Herc opened the door to make sure his father couldn't slam it shut in his face.
It was close to midnight, and they should have been sleeping, but something had kept Herc up, an odd sort of headache, that feeling he got sometimes that somehow Chuck was still there, right there in his mind even when they were not drifting. He didn't know if it was real or just some form of phantom pain, a bizarre side effect of being connected to someone else so often that his mind protected him from the separation by simulating that he wasn't actually alone. Herc had drifted with more people than anyone else alive, but this had never happened to him with anyone else. But whatever it was, there were nights when he simply got restless, driven by a feeling that something was about to happen.
Those were the exact same nights that Chuck showed up in his room uninvited, sometimes early in the evening, sometimes closer to the morning hours, depending on how long his stubbornness remained stronger than his need for this thing they didn't talk about.
“What do you want, boy?” Herc said, sharply and carelessly, and like everything he said to his son without giving it too much thought, it came out all wrong, the wrong tone and the wrong words and he saw hurt flashing through Chuck's eyes, the pain of a little boy who had heard the words “I don't have time for this now” (I don't have time for you now – I don't have time for you ever) far too often. And as quickly as always hurt turned into defiance, and Chuck shrugged because he liked to provoke his father, and if Herc got annoyed, well, that was just what he wanted, wasn't it?
But that lasted barely a minute before he looked down, awkward and embarrassed and he was still so young, for all the scars and skills and bravado, for all that he hadn't had a proper father in almost ten years he sometimes still looked like a little boy, lost and alone. This was probably the moment when any good father would hug his son, but Herc hadn't been a good dad since before his son had stopped calling him that.
“Wasn't tired,” Chuck said, and that was all there was to say, really. If one of them couldn't sleep, chances were neither could the other, and if Herc was a better father maybe he wouldn't always put the burden of coming to him on Chuck's shoulders, maybe he'd go to him instead of waiting for Chuck to gather his courage and come to him. Then again, if Herc was a better father, none of this would ever have happened. If Herc was a better father, he wouldn't let his son come to his room in the middle of the night, pretending that he had no clue what Chuck wanted when there was really only one thing Chuck could want from him at this time of night, because it was not like they ever just sat down to talk and joke and laugh and whatever else it was that fathers and sons did.
But as it was, he didn't even say 'come here' now, he didn't reach out for him and pull him close and make him feel like he was welcome despite Herc's harsh words; he just stood there and waited and didn't quite meet Chuck's eyes – not that Chuck was trying to meet his. Waited while Chuck shifted from one foot to the other, his hands twitching; usually he would bend down now to scratch Max's ear, but he had left the dog in his own room, as if to make sure that nothing kept him from going through with his reason for being here.
Chuck made one step forward, fast and determined, then stopped again, and this was ridiculous, there was no doubt where this was headed, it was merely a question of how many minutes would pass in awkward tension, both of them shuffling and not looking at each other and pretending that this would go any other way than it always did, until Chuck finally made that second step and crashed into Herc more than anything else.
Even though Herc saw it coming, it still knocked the breath out of his lungs, the way Chuck slammed him into the wall as if he was starting a fight, rough hands bruising Herc's shoulders, with a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and raw hunger. Herc remembered the little son who had always hugged his daddy whenever he could, jumped into his arms the moment he saw him, but Chuck didn't hug Herc; all Chuck knew was how to turn everything into a fight.
But Herc didn't fight back, not here. He let Chuck push him and shove him and crowd him against the wall because every attempt to push back would feel as if he was pushing Chuck away. So he drew him close instead, one hand on Chuck's hip, the other curling at the back of Chuck's neck, the touch too rough even as he let Chuck spend his anger on him. They never punched each other here, never that, but Chuck's hands were bruising Herc's hips, his fingers tore through the fabric of Herc's shirt, and their kisses tasted metallic and bitter. Herc went along when Chuck's grip on his hips tightened and he started shoving at him again, away from the wall and towards a bed that was barely large enough for one of them, let alone for both. He held on to him when Chuck pushed him down, pulled his son on top of him even though Chuck's weight made his chest feel tight – just his weight, only that, not the fact that his son looked like he would break if Herc did anything but wrap his arms around him now.
“Fuck,” Chuck groaned as Herc's thigh pushed against his groin; it sounded helpless and needy and yet there was still a simple, almost innocent joy in his voice that Herc had heard far too rarely in all those years.
Herc loosened his grip on Chuck's neck, let his touch turn into something that was almost tender, and he felt Chuck's muscles relax under his palm. Chuck's touches no longer felt as if he was trying either to hurt Herc or to hold him so close he could never leave, and turned into the awkward caresses Herc had grown used to during those nights they spent together – Herc hadn't counted them, he most certainly hadn't. There was no skill, no finesse in the way Chuck's hands slipped under Herc's shirt and slid up his sides. Chuck had never been with anyone else, too focused on his work to waste his time with other people, too rough and abrasive to let anyone close. It was only Herc, had only ever been Herc, and Chuck squirmed on top of him as if he was trying to dig into Herc's body and disappear in him, meld their bodies the way their minds did, a last desperate attempt at closing the rift between them that even drifting together for years hadn't repaired.
“Dad,” Chuck said then, his voice a hoarse whisper against Herc's scruff. 'Dad' as he let Herc turn their angry biting into a softer kiss, 'dad' as he went pliant under Herc's hands, 'dad' as he allowed his father to roll them over, and instead of pushing him Chuck finally just pulled him closer.
The first time Chuck had called him that – the first night they had stumbled into each other as if the ground had been pulled out from underneath their feet – Herc had wanted to punch him for it, but it was he himself who deserved that punch, for doing what he was doing now, for ruining his son to the point where this was the only way they managed to be close. And he had started to yearn for it, for Chuck desperately gasping 'dad' against his skin, for that moment when Chuck's constant anger and hatred seemed to disappear completely and he just clang to Herc. It was the only time Herc could offer anything to Chuck that his son would accept, and it would have taken a stronger man, a better father, to deny himself the only moment of intimacy he and his son ever managed outside the drift.
Even so this was never languid and tender, more of a desperate madness, an adrenaline-fuelled haze, like they were running and running until they would collapse into each other, because that was still easier than stopping and dwelling for too long on what they were doing. Clothes were torn off too quickly, hands clung to the other's body, groping and grasping while Herc ground against him. They never fucked, not as such, and Herc could count the blowjobs they had given each other on one hand. Most of the time it was just this, his body rubbing against Chuck's while Chuck squirmed underneath him, hips bucking up for more friction, legs spread wide and Herc had no doubt that in this moment Chuck would have let him do so much more than this, but that would have felt too premeditated, too much like something they did on purpose rather than a freak accident that kept repeating itself (again and again and maybe at some point they'd have to acknowledge that it wasn't an accident anymore, but they had never been good at that sort of thing).
Chuck's fingers dug bruises into his hips – they both bruised so easily, and their bruises would turn the same shade of purple on the next day, and much as Herc tried to hate himself every time he saw those marks on himself or, more rarely, on Chuck, the sight never failed to make his breath catch.
“Dad,” Chuck's voice had turned soft and as close to pleading as it ever got, the syllable ending in a loud moan as Herc's spit-slicked fingers wrapped around both their cocks, a clumsy attempt at more friction, and Herc tried not to dwell too much on how Chuck liked it just the way he did, on how Chuck maybe only liked it that way because he had never really known anything else.
Chuck's lips tasted of blood and toothpaste and that disgusting cherry candy he loved all the more because his father hated it – Herc had never been able to keep him from eating candy after brushing his teeth –, of breathless hunger and need, and his voice broke when he moaned, “Daddy”.
His eyes were closed, and maybe Herc loved him so much in that moment because this was so raw and genuine, no performance, no bravado, no desperate need to impress and excel, no thought wasted on what anyone would think of him. Maybe Herc loved him all the more because for once Chuck wasn't trying to hate him, and if he wasn't already going to hell for all of this, his own whimper when Chuck breathed another 'dad' against his lips would have sent him there for sure.
“It's all right, boy, I've got you,” he mumbled in a voice that didn't sound like his own, not to his own ears at least, but it was all it took to make Chuck come, with a rare smile on his face, relaxed and calm and safe. Herc buried his face against Chuck's neck, slicked his fingers with Chuck's come to stroke himself more easily. Tried to get himself off as quickly as possible, before Chuck could recover and pull himself out of his blissful haze and back into his usual state of resentment and anger. Whenever that happened Chuck would turn this into another competition, another attempt at proving himself, at showing Herc that he was good at this, that he was good at everything. Those had been the only times Chuck had ever blown him, all the while staring up at Herc with a smug defiance that barely masked his need for approval, and as good as Chuck's mouth had felt, that look in his eyes had filled Herc with so much self-loathing that he ended up lashing out at Chuck twice as often for days after that. So he made do with his own hand, with the slide of his cock against Chuck's abs, with the soft pressure of Chuck's hands against his back and the way Chuck lazily nuzzled his cheek. His moans were muffled against Chuck's neck when he came, shivering in Chuck's arms while part of him wished his son had whispered 'dad' a last time into his ear.
They didn't linger. Not even a minute passed before Chuck shifted uncomfortably underneath him, and Herc quickly rolled off him before his son could say anything. They both sat up at the same time, perfectly in synch, but then Chuck reached down to grab some of their scattered clothes, and he didn't even pretend it was an accident when he grabbed Herc's shirt to wipe himself clean. Herc angrily snatched the shirt from Chuck's hands, but it was too late already and all it earned him was a lopsided grin.
“Not like that shirt was clean before,” and Herc wasn't in the mood for another pointless argument and spending the next ten minutes insisting that, yes, his shirt actually had been clean until Chuck decided he couldn't be arsed to clean himself up like a civilised person. He watched quietly as Chuck got dressed, the usual quick military efficiency somewhat hindered by having to pick his clothes off the floor, or the lamp on the nightstand in the case of his underwear.
“Training in the morning? If you're up for it,” Chuck quipped once he was dressed. It was a meaningless provocation, because Herc had never not been up for it, but it still grated, all the more because things had been so much easier just minutes ago. Chuck was pushing again, and that alone made Herc angry enough to pretend he couldn't see the hopeful look in Chuck's eyes (do you have time for me now?). Something told him their sparring in the morning would be even rougher than usual – for all that other pilots insisted their work-out was more of a dance, all coordination and compatibility, the Hansens always seemed to fight for real, always pushing the other to his limits. Chuck was convinced it was the reason they were the best, and although Herc wouldn't admit it, the boy was probably right.
“Go to sleep, if you don't want to get your arse handed to you in the morning,” Herc snapped, and if it sounded harsher than he intended, he didn't feel too sorry for it; the way Chuck talked to everyone around him, he could use the occasional dose of his own medicine. So Herc stared him down when Chuck faltered a little, just for a second before he straightened up again.
“We'll see about that.” The softness was gone from his voice now, from the way he looked at Herc. He turned to leave and was already at the door by the time Herc called him back.
“Chuck?”
His son glanced at him, face carefully blank, his hand lingering on the doorknob in a hardly subtle show of impatience. Herc felt like he should say something, but he hadn't said anything about this the first or the second or the third time it had happened; like with everything else between them he had missed the right moment to talk. He cleared his throat.
“Did Max eat all right? He seemed a bit under the weather this morning.”
Chuck relaxed again, actually smiled a little.
“He's fine. He probably just couldn't sleep last night because of your snoring.” For once the words sounded good-humoured rather than malicious; just thinking about Max always seemed to put Chuck in a better mood. Herc nodded; this was easy, safe. Not much he could do wrong when it came to their dog.
Chuck waited for another moment, but when Herc didn't reply he quickly opened the door and left, closed it behind him with a bit more noise than was strictly necessary, but at least he hadn't slammed it shut.
Herc looked down at the sticky shirt in his lap, then closed his eyes with a sigh. Allowed himself to cling for a moment to the memory of Chuck's body underneath his, Chuck's hands holding him close, Chuck's voice saying 'dad' over and over again as if to make up for years of not saying it at all. They'd stumble over this memory again in the drift, of this night and others like it, and Chuck would be embarrassed to see himself like that through Herc's eyes, but the memory was still theirs, shared like so many years of their life were shared now, to the point where they sometimes couldn't even pinpoint anymore whose memory it had been in the first place.
And maybe, if Herc could just give Chuck enough memories of how much he cared about him, maybe Chuck would one day forgive him for not ever saying it.
