#dad jax

[ignores all my plot threads to write more standalone pieces] TW: aftermath of abuse.

Taglist <3 @bloodybrambles,@wildfaewhump,@ishouldblogmore,@lektric-whump,@that-one-thespian,@raigash,@burtlederp,@rosesareviolentlyread,@eatyourdamnpears – and @ashintheairlikesnow is the writer of Jax’s children and their unmentionable mother.

“Basically…” he says, sitting on his hands on the folding chair, “I can’t do it on my own.”

Hari looks at him over her reading glasses. She hadn’t paid much heed to his appearance when he sat down, and she rectifies that now at hearing such an unusual response to how can I help?

Mr Gallagher looks to be between thirty and thirty-five. His face shows haggard signs of wear, but her instinct tells her this is not from the simple trials of life, and he is likely younger than he appears. His hair is cropped short, but with a longer part on top that sits shaggy over his forehead to one side. He has a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and two studs in his visible ear. He’s wearing a denim jacket with a wool collar and a black bandanna around his neck.

“Can you tell me more?” she says, keeping her voice kind. She has learned not to judge people in this job, and more importantly, never to seem like she could be. It’s hard enough to come and seek advice; one wrong word and some people never try again.

“Uh, yeah.” Mr Gallagher scratches the back of his head, avoiding her gaze. “I have two kids. They’re great. They’re my whole world. But they’re getting bigger, and we’re all living in my dad’s flat with him. They don’t have their own rooms. My eldest, she’s…uh, she’s started school. I figure she’s going to ask, soonish, about everyone else having their own rooms.”

This is a concern Hari has heard many times, from parents with limited finances, making do in houses they can’t afford to leave. “You think she’ll want her own space?”

“No.” He glances at her, measuring her reaction. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, and his eyes shift away. “She doesn’t. But that’s its own problem, you know? It’s not good for her to be around when I‘m… I have my own stuff that I don’t want her to see, to have to see.”

“You need your own space,” Hari says. “I see, yes. That is just as important. It is immensely difficult to focus on yourself when your children are present.”

The reassurance doesn’t seem to affect him. “Sure,” he replies, not going as far as to agree. “And my dad, he’s put up with – my baby boy, he’s running around now. He keeps my dad up at all hours.”

She nods. She wonders, as she always does, where the mother is. She never asks. There is always something, if the other parent is not mentioned.

“What can we do to support you?” she asks, when it seems he has explained his situation to his satisfaction.

“I dunno really. I don’t know what you can really do. Just thought you might have – some ideas.”

He isn’t asking for the moon, which is always her fear. She’s been working with the charity for four years now, and some parents come in demanding, or simply desperate for a magic fix. To them, Hari, in her cardigan and reading glasses, is an austere being of immense power. She is a font of peerless wisdom. She is more than a volunteer with a few training courses under her belt.

“That’s alright. I know more about what we can offer than most – I hope.” The gentle humour, like the kind words, seem not to scratch his stony surface. She imagines him with his children, serious and careful. “Why don’t you tell me what your ideal outcome is?”

It’s odd to watch a grown man talk with his eyes on his knees, sitting on his hands, but that’s what he does. There’s a slight ripple in his nose from this angle. “I guess… The kids having their own space they can grow up in. But also, being able to make that work. I can’t do it alone, but dad isn’t moving out for it, and mam can’t either, she’s got her whole life out in the sticks. So it’s kind of impossible.”

“Impossible is fine,” she reminds him. “The ideal is a larger house, enough bedrooms for everyone, and support for you?”

His mouth lifts at the corners, but it’s not a smile. Perhaps it was once, before time hammered it into a different shape. “Sure,” he says again, enigmatic. “As long as the kids are happy.”

Hari smiles a little more sincerely, beyond her default polite pleasantness, to hear that phrase. It’s one of her favourites. Parents and carers alike have that driving principle.

“Of course. But in an ideal world,” she returns carefully to that word, to the reminder that they are talking simply about what he would want, if he could disconnect from crushing realism, “I hope you would also be happy, Mr Gallagher.”

He looks away again, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly, still sitting atop his hands. “Sure.”

Nothing more follows the word, and Hari finds her smile stuck for a moment as she tries to think of what to say next.

He’s difficult to read, she realises. That’s why she feels so nervous, overanalysing his every gesture and word. She can’t pin him down.

Deep breath. She’s had reticent parents before.

“I’m going to ask another question, and it may sound judgemental, but I want you to know it is not said with that intent. This is a genuine question, not a judgement.” She pauses, resting her hands on her knees. “What makes you feel that you can’t do this alone?”

He snorts, arms twitching like he wants to fold hem. “Well, that’s easy. I have PTSD, night terrors, chronic pain, I can’t keep to a schedule, I lose track of time constantly, ADHD basically, although without all the other shit it wouldn’t be so bad, oh, and I was fucking stalked so I’m kind of paranoid.”

Again, he hits her with a direct look, searching for something in her response. She frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He coughs a sudden laugh, empty of humour. “Yeah, people usually are.”

She gives him a moment, but he’s done. He’s finally opened up and given her the real problem, and she’s relieved to hear it.

“Mr Gallagher,” she says slowly, settling back into her kind, professional manner, “let me reassure you that you are not the only parent we work with who has experienced trauma. Parents often come to us feeling as though they are failing their children simply by having their own needs as human beings. I’m not saying I have worked with someone who has had your exact experience, but I can say that I have heard and helped families many times where the person who needs help the most is not the child. What we can do—”

“How many times?”

Hari’s mouth hangs open for a moment before she gathers herself. “I can think of a dozen with the service now, half of which I have met personally.”

“And they have – what, PTSD?”

“PTSD, anxiety, depression, agoraphobia, gender dysphoria…”

“ADHD?”

“Not currently, but many times in the past.” She finds herself smiling, really smiling. Underneath the aggression, she is starting to get a sense of the vast fears he has been hiding. “Parents do not simply cease to have their own lives and their own struggles when children are born.”

He breathes another, very different laugh. “Yeah.”

She gives him another moment.

“…So, what would you do?” A look. A measure of her response. Is he assessing her for competence, she wonders, or for risk? “With someone like me.”

Hari meets his gaze without judgement, without threat, simply acknowledging him. His eyes are hazel with a glimmer of sunlight from the window to their left. He looks tired, as parents here always do. “I would suggest they join our mental health support group, where they can meet other parents experiencing similar difficulties. I would refer them to the Play with Meaning scheme, where you and your children can attend workshops to help build secure relationships. And I would also strongly recommend that they seek one-to-one counselling—”

“Got that one,” he interrupts. When she blinks, he grins. “Yeah. For me and for the kids.”

She smiles back. “Then you are already ahead of the curve, Mr Gallagher, and I’m glad to hear it. I have one other suggestion, or question, really. Do you have friends who are parents?”

“Uh.” She’s surprised him. “Uh, no. I’m kind of a young dad, if you hadn’t noticed. And we didn’t exactly… Go out much. Still don’t, really.”

“I think it may help,” she says gently. “All parents doubt they are doing the best for their children. Again, I’m not saying your experiences are directly comparable to anyone’s, but – some aspects of what you’ve told me about are, in my experience, something everyonefeels.”

She can see it now, with the shock of hearing those words cutting past the barriers. She can see the vulnerability, the genuine need for help, the fear that he’s a failure. For whatever reason – and parents, she knows, will always find one – he believes his every need subtracts from his children’s own.

Then he recovers, and the shutters go back down. “That’s…” Life-changing, she thinks. She hopes. “Okay. That’s good to know.”