"Best Revenge" - Chapter 1. Blood
May. 21st, 2021 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breakinglight11King of the Hill:
"Best Revenge"
by Phoebe Roberts
Summary: Hank comes to support Dale as Joseph recovers from a nasty motorcycle accident, and ends up revealing a secret he thought he’d never speak of.
Set several years down the line, when the kids are in their teens, and based off a certain famous King of the Hill green text.
Chapter 1 - "Blood"
Hank was normally the scheduled, early-to-bed, early-to-rise type— the better to be fresh for a day handling propane, God’s chosen gas —but this evening he hung around in the kitchen, nursing a coffee to keep himself awake. Peggy had already retired, and Bobby had finally gone down after the shot of NyQuil she’d slipped into his cocoa. Dale didn’t carry a cellphone, in order to keep the government from spying on him, so he couldn’t call and check how things were. So Hank waited up, casting occasional glances out the window, until he heard the garage door open on the neighboring house.
He made it over in time to see Nancy just as she was about to disappear inside. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but her hair— Peggy told him she’d taking to wearing a wig since some hair loss had set in a few years back —was as impeccable in a way a windstorm couldn’t move.
She squeezed his hand, the relief in her voice palpable. “He’s going to be okay, shug. God heard our prayers, and he’s going to be okay.”
“Thank Jesus,” Hank said. “Didn’t want to turn in for the night until I heard for sure.”
She went off to bed as Hank followed Dale into his basement lair. Usually he preferred not to spend any time in his friend’s underground bunker of a show turtle tank, but given the circumstances he was going to make an exception. “How are you holding up there?”
“By a thread, Hank.” Dale lit a fresh cigarette exhaustedly, the weariness putting bit of a damper on his usual bullshit. “It was touch and go for a while there. Took three surgeries in the end. But Joseph was wearing a helmet, which probably saved his life. They aren’t going to be able to cut that motorcycle out of the truck’s grill. Now he’s just got that wicked case of road rash and two and a half units of blood.” He paused briefly for a puff. “Told them they could take anything I had in the basement fridge. But no, they said they’d rather waste valuable time and call the blood bank.”
Hank chose to ignore that, as he often did the more asinine things Dale said, and focused on the important part. “I’m real glad he’s going to be okay. We’ve all been praying for him.”
“Yeah.” Dale reached under his ubiquitous cap to rake his hand over his scalp, not caring for once at the momentary reveal of his bald spot. “I’m not going to lie to you, Hank, I was scared for a minute there. Especially when they said neither Nancy or me could donate.”
Hank’s hackles rose, as they always did when the circumstances of Joseph’s genetics arose. “Because of… all the smoking, I guess, right?”
“That’s what I would have thought. But no— we weren’t compatible. You never saw a bunch of doctors so confused since I had Sir Shellington take that urine test for me.”
He tapped two fingers on one of the turtle tanks for emphasis. Hank hurried to divert. “So they called the bank and got what they needed?”
Dale shook his head. “Didn’t have to. John Redcorn stepped up. Thank God he was there.”
Hank tensed. “John Redcorn was there?”
“Yeah, when he heard what happened, he came right over. And damn lucky he did, because he was Joseph’s exact blood type.”
“Uh, wow,” Hank stammered. “That, uh, that was a lucky break.”
Dale took a quivering breath. “God, Hank. You can’t imagine what it was like. Seeing my boy in that hospital bed, all ripped up like that, and not being able to do the one thing I needed to help him. It was like my heart was the one that truck knocked off its bike and dragged a city block like a bag full of garbage.”
Hank felt himself shy at this frank outpouring, but did his best to hold himself firm. “No, buddy. I can’t imagine.”
His friend dragged a pallid hand over his face. “Think about it. One guy was the difference between my son pulling through or bleeding out on the table. Out of everybody who came by, John Redcorn was the only one. What are the odds of that?”
Hank stared. “I don’t know.”
“If he hadn’t been there— if they had to go all the way to the blood bank— who knows what would have happened? What if the wait was too much?”
A wave of guilt rose up in Hank, as he pictured Joseph torn up and broken there in that hospital bed. “Don’t think about that now. You’ll only borrow trouble—”
“But how could I let that happen? Bad enough I couldn’t donate. But how could I not know how to help my boy in an emergency?”
The wave rose higher, against the wall it had been chipping away at for seventeen years now. “You— you can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known—”
“But I should have! He’s my son and I’m responsible! How could I have let this happen?”
The guilt washed over him now, enough that he thought he might drown. All at once, after all this time, the dam finally broke. “Because he’s not your son, Dale.”
Dale froze, looking at him. It pierced Hank like a knife, and the truth came pouring out like blood from the wound. “It’s why he doesn’t look like you, it’s why he was conceived while you were away. It wasn’t aliens, it wasn’t conspiracies. Joseph isn’t your blood. Nancy didn’t have headaches, she was having an affair. He’s John Redcorn’s son. That’s why he came to the hospital, that’s why he had the same blood type. John Redcorn is Joseph’s biological father.”
He met Dale’s gaze as his friend stared wordlessly back at him, smoke rising off the cigarette in his hand. Hank sucked in a breath.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have kept it from you so long. I swear to God, it was because we didn’t want it to hurt you. We… we didn’t know if you could handle it. But it’s the truth, and you deserve to know it. So… I guess I can’t keep it from you anymore.”
He waited a long moment for Dale to respond, every fiber in his body braced. But the other man was still and silent, expression unreadable behind his mirrored shades.
Hank’s brows drew in frustration. “Damn it, Dale, don’t you hear me?”
Finally Dale reacted, by lifting his cigarette and taking in a deep pull. He blew out smoke in a long stream, slowly, deliberately, as Hank stared him down. At last he glanced up over over his glasses. “Seventeen years. Took you seventeen years before you cracked. Almost thought you never would.”
He regarded Hank evenly as he drew another placid drag, his turn to wait for a response.
"Best Revenge"
by Phoebe Roberts
Summary: Hank comes to support Dale as Joseph recovers from a nasty motorcycle accident, and ends up revealing a secret he thought he’d never speak of.
Set several years down the line, when the kids are in their teens, and based off a certain famous King of the Hill green text.
Chapter 1 - "Blood"
Hank was normally the scheduled, early-to-bed, early-to-rise type— the better to be fresh for a day handling propane, God’s chosen gas —but this evening he hung around in the kitchen, nursing a coffee to keep himself awake. Peggy had already retired, and Bobby had finally gone down after the shot of NyQuil she’d slipped into his cocoa. Dale didn’t carry a cellphone, in order to keep the government from spying on him, so he couldn’t call and check how things were. So Hank waited up, casting occasional glances out the window, until he heard the garage door open on the neighboring house.
He made it over in time to see Nancy just as she was about to disappear inside. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but her hair— Peggy told him she’d taking to wearing a wig since some hair loss had set in a few years back —was as impeccable in a way a windstorm couldn’t move.
She squeezed his hand, the relief in her voice palpable. “He’s going to be okay, shug. God heard our prayers, and he’s going to be okay.”
“Thank Jesus,” Hank said. “Didn’t want to turn in for the night until I heard for sure.”
She went off to bed as Hank followed Dale into his basement lair. Usually he preferred not to spend any time in his friend’s underground bunker of a show turtle tank, but given the circumstances he was going to make an exception. “How are you holding up there?”
“By a thread, Hank.” Dale lit a fresh cigarette exhaustedly, the weariness putting bit of a damper on his usual bullshit. “It was touch and go for a while there. Took three surgeries in the end. But Joseph was wearing a helmet, which probably saved his life. They aren’t going to be able to cut that motorcycle out of the truck’s grill. Now he’s just got that wicked case of road rash and two and a half units of blood.” He paused briefly for a puff. “Told them they could take anything I had in the basement fridge. But no, they said they’d rather waste valuable time and call the blood bank.”
Hank chose to ignore that, as he often did the more asinine things Dale said, and focused on the important part. “I’m real glad he’s going to be okay. We’ve all been praying for him.”
“Yeah.” Dale reached under his ubiquitous cap to rake his hand over his scalp, not caring for once at the momentary reveal of his bald spot. “I’m not going to lie to you, Hank, I was scared for a minute there. Especially when they said neither Nancy or me could donate.”
Hank’s hackles rose, as they always did when the circumstances of Joseph’s genetics arose. “Because of… all the smoking, I guess, right?”
“That’s what I would have thought. But no— we weren’t compatible. You never saw a bunch of doctors so confused since I had Sir Shellington take that urine test for me.”
He tapped two fingers on one of the turtle tanks for emphasis. Hank hurried to divert. “So they called the bank and got what they needed?”
Dale shook his head. “Didn’t have to. John Redcorn stepped up. Thank God he was there.”
Hank tensed. “John Redcorn was there?”
“Yeah, when he heard what happened, he came right over. And damn lucky he did, because he was Joseph’s exact blood type.”
“Uh, wow,” Hank stammered. “That, uh, that was a lucky break.”
Dale took a quivering breath. “God, Hank. You can’t imagine what it was like. Seeing my boy in that hospital bed, all ripped up like that, and not being able to do the one thing I needed to help him. It was like my heart was the one that truck knocked off its bike and dragged a city block like a bag full of garbage.”
Hank felt himself shy at this frank outpouring, but did his best to hold himself firm. “No, buddy. I can’t imagine.”
His friend dragged a pallid hand over his face. “Think about it. One guy was the difference between my son pulling through or bleeding out on the table. Out of everybody who came by, John Redcorn was the only one. What are the odds of that?”
Hank stared. “I don’t know.”
“If he hadn’t been there— if they had to go all the way to the blood bank— who knows what would have happened? What if the wait was too much?”
A wave of guilt rose up in Hank, as he pictured Joseph torn up and broken there in that hospital bed. “Don’t think about that now. You’ll only borrow trouble—”
“But how could I let that happen? Bad enough I couldn’t donate. But how could I not know how to help my boy in an emergency?”
The wave rose higher, against the wall it had been chipping away at for seventeen years now. “You— you can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known—”
“But I should have! He’s my son and I’m responsible! How could I have let this happen?”
The guilt washed over him now, enough that he thought he might drown. All at once, after all this time, the dam finally broke. “Because he’s not your son, Dale.”
Dale froze, looking at him. It pierced Hank like a knife, and the truth came pouring out like blood from the wound. “It’s why he doesn’t look like you, it’s why he was conceived while you were away. It wasn’t aliens, it wasn’t conspiracies. Joseph isn’t your blood. Nancy didn’t have headaches, she was having an affair. He’s John Redcorn’s son. That’s why he came to the hospital, that’s why he had the same blood type. John Redcorn is Joseph’s biological father.”
He met Dale’s gaze as his friend stared wordlessly back at him, smoke rising off the cigarette in his hand. Hank sucked in a breath.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have kept it from you so long. I swear to God, it was because we didn’t want it to hurt you. We… we didn’t know if you could handle it. But it’s the truth, and you deserve to know it. So… I guess I can’t keep it from you anymore.”
He waited a long moment for Dale to respond, every fiber in his body braced. But the other man was still and silent, expression unreadable behind his mirrored shades.
Hank’s brows drew in frustration. “Damn it, Dale, don’t you hear me?”
Finally Dale reacted, by lifting his cigarette and taking in a deep pull. He blew out smoke in a long stream, slowly, deliberately, as Hank stared him down. At last he glanced up over over his glasses. “Seventeen years. Took you seventeen years before you cracked. Almost thought you never would.”
He regarded Hank evenly as he drew another placid drag, his turn to wait for a response.
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