Emergency Medical Dad

LXVI: present, november 15

JESSIE 

He looks different than he did a month ago, just like he looked different then than he did six weeks beforehand. Maybe this time I'm looking at him through a different lens, or no lens at all. I can't tell.

He's still tall, still looks tough and professional in his tactile pants, this time the shirt tucked into them is black and simple, with WOLVES written up by the collar. His jacket is longer and puffy and the same shade of black, dark blue trim around the zippers and hood, his name on the sleeve. Connor looks cozy up on his back, head lazily tucked against his shoulder.

And his eyes are watering, a little red in his ears, clearly more emotional than he's showing outwardly.

I haul the bag closer, "sorry, I would've come over and said hi but I saw our bag going around and-"

He pulls me into him, tucking me right into the front of the open jacket against his chest, my head settling right against his collar where it normally does. The hug is firm and solid and everything I've been missing, the smell of him is covered a little by antiseptic, like it was most of the summer, familiar and clean and Jorgen. It positively melts the knot of anxiety sitting in the base of my stomach from the long day. Just his arm around my back and the reassurance that we made it. We made it to Canada. We made it to Jorgen. We're safe now.

"Hi," he mumbles, sweet and soft against my head.

"Hello."

"Welcome to Canada," his voice is a little husky, trying to fend off emotion. "Your son is a menace, I love him dearly." he says it right into my ear so that said son can't hear what he's saying.

I pull back, concerned about the way his voice is catching on itself. I know what I'm doing, reaching for his cheeks, pulling him down so I can inspect, tipping his head so he's looking me in the eyes, deep brown and a little watery around the corners, a flush over his cheeks, the scruff of a beard under my fingers.

"Mom, you know how you told me that I shouldn't tell him right away?" Connor is hiding behind Jorgen's shoulder, just his eyes peeping out at me. "Sorry, it kind of slipped and-"

"Oh," I can't help but smile. "That would explain why he's fighting crying."

"He what?" Connor wiggles, climbing up his Dad's back and craning his head around to see his face. Jorgen turns away from him, breaking into a smile, swatting a single errant tear off his cheek.

"I'm alright," he says, then clears his throat, straightening up and blinking a couple times to clear his vision, snapping back to reality. "Okay, I'm fine, let's get out of the airport so you two can relax. Today has been rough from what I've heard."

Connor stays perched up on Jorgen's back and I follow him out to the parking lot, not at all surprised when his car is a beat up old truck fit in with a hundred other beat up old road-salt covered trucks in the back of the parking garage.

"You have a truck?" Connor seems awed by this.

"I do," Jorgen responds, setting him down on the ground and popping open the back door to let him climb in. He shuts the door, the noise echoing in the parking garage a slight bit, and comes around back, helping me lift our suitcase into the back under the bed cover.

"Are you alright, seriously," I stop him, hand on his arm, before he hops back into the truck. "I didn't mean for Connor to spring that on you and-"

"I'm okay," he nods, smiling, "I didn't think people actually cried out of happiness but here I am."

"Thank god," I breathe out. "I thought you were scared or mad or something."

"No, no, 'course not." He brushes back my hair, kissing me on the forehead. "I didn't expect to get called Dad for the first time in the international terminal at the airport here but I honestly don't think anywhere else would've been better. I'm just surprised I didn't start fully bawling my eyes out in there. That would've been a little awkward."