Jason Jaeger hadn’t just saved his life; he’d given him a chance to live again. It was a debt Crone knew he could never repay, though he’d spend the rest of his days trying.
“We missed you dis much, Uncle C!” Little Gloria stretched her arms wide before she hurled herself off the porch at him. Lunging forward and catching her was as fearful as it was instinctive. His heart nearly stopped at her complete trust in him, trust he wasn’t sure he deserved. He had forgotten how impulsive the little girl was, how she lived life with absolute certainty that the world would catch her when she fell. Her small hands clasped behind his neck in what could only be described as a loving stranglehold. The simple, pure affection in the gesture hit him like a physical blow.
The impact of her tiny body against his chest, and the warmth of her complete trust and unconditional love, unleashed a cascade of regrets he usually kept carefully locked away. Crone’s heart skipped, then clenched painfully as his mind short-circuited. He’d never had the honor of feeling his own son’s arms wrapped around him like this, never witnessed thosefirst tentative steps, or heard the sweet laughter of complete abandonment that only children produced. The loss of those moments carved fresh wounds in his soul. Carter would be six at the end of the year and he had only seen him twice since his recovery.
“Uncle C?” Gloria’s worried voice pulled him back from the abyss of his thoughts as she peered at him. Her bottom lip quivered slightly as her eyes stretched wide with concern beyond her years. Something in his expression must have betrayed his inner turmoil. A rare smile, usually reserved for times like these, split his face—the kind only these two little humans were capable of extracting from the depths of his battle-scarred soul. Their presence was like sunshine as their innocent joy slowly thawed the frozen wasteland of his heart.
“I missed you too, poppet, but I’m not your uncle. I’m just?—”
“Mommy!” Tears welled up in those big blue eyes as she whipped her head around to stare at her mother in absolute distress. Her lower lip quivered dramatically, and her fingers tightened their grip on his neck as if afraid he might disappear. “Why’s Uncle C our uncle no more?”
“Shit,” Crone cursed under his breath, immediately regretting the unfiltered response.
“Oohh!” Gloria’s little hands flew to her mouth with theatrical horror, and her eyes grew impossibly wider above her fingers as she stared at her parents. The look of scandalized delight on her face was almost comical. “Uncle C said bad word!”
“Yep!” George piped up from where he was wrapped around Crone’s leg like a determined koala. His head bobbed up and down with an expression of concern and excitement swirled into one witnessing such a transgression. “Very bad word.Ass burnin’word.”
“George, watch it.” Moira’s voice carried the stern tone of motherhood, but Crone caught the telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the sparkle of suppressed laughter in her eyes.
Gloria leaned in close to Crone’s ear, her whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t worry, Uncle C. Daddy says worse. Mommy makes him put money in de bad word jar.” She nodded sagely, clearly pleased to share this piece of insider information. Crone had forgotten how exceedingly clever these two youngsters were.
The pure innocence of the moment, the unconditional acceptance these children offered him despite his broken pieces, created a warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. These little ones didn’t see the hardened warrior, the man haunted by nightmares and scarred by torture. They just saw their Uncle C, the man who would always catch them when they jumped, who brought them exotic shells from Costa Rica, and who sometimes, just sometimes, said words that made their mommy’s eyes roll.
George tugged on Crone’s pant leg. His cherubic face beamed with the joy of sharing a “secret”. His loud whisper carried across the porch with the subtlety of a foghorn. “Daddy puts monies in de jar when he says bad words.” He nodded emphatically, then giggled, covering his mouth with both hands before continuing even louder, “But when Mommy says ’hem, Daddy spanks her boffum!” He punctuated this revelation with another fit of giggles, clearly pleased with himself for sharing such privileged information.
Moira’s face flamed scarlet as Jagger unsuccessfully tried to suppress a grin. Gloria gasped from her perch in Crone’s arms as her eyes widened once again with this new piece of gossip. “Mommy gets spanks?” she squealed in delight.
“George Marshall Jaeger!” Moira’s mortified exclamation only made the twins giggle harder.
For the first time in what felt like years, laughter bubbled up from deep in Crone’s chest—real, genuine laughter that reached his eyes and loosened something tight in his soul. The innocent bluntness of children, coupled with Moira’s embarrassment and Jagger’s barely contained mirth, broke through layers of carefully maintained control.
“Daddy likes spankin’ Mommy’s boffum,” George added helpfully, pronouncing “bottom” as “boffum” with a toddler's charm. “Dey make funny noises at night too!”
“And that’s quite enough of this conversation,” Jagger finally managed, scooping up his son while trying to maintain some semblance of parental authority despite his obvious amusement. “Who wants cookies?”
“Me! Me! Me!” both twins shrieked in unison, the previous topic instantly forgotten in favor of promised sweets.
Moira buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with what could either be mortification or laughter. “This is why we can’t have adult company,” she muttered, but there was no real distress in her voice.
As the twins scampered inside in pursuit of their father’s promised cookies, Moira stepped forward. Her petite frame barely reached his chest. There was something inherently nurturing about her presence, a natural caretaker’s soul wrapped in a tiny package… which was why she was the perfect Little for her Daddy Jagger. She wrapped her arms around Crone’s waist as best she could with her swollen belly and gave him a gentle hug before rising on tiptoe to place a soft kiss on his cheek.
Drawing back, she cupped his face between her hands. Her eyes searched his with the intensity of someone who could see past carefully constructed barriers. For a moment, Crone allowed himself to be seen, really seen, by this woman who had become like a sister to him when she’d married Jagger. But whenunderstanding and compassion flooded her gaze, the familiar darkness crept in, and automatic defenses slammed shut. A shadow of resignation crossed her features as he locked her out.
“Oh, Crone,” Moira sighed and dropped her hands. Ever the professional physical therapist, she smoothly transitioned to safer ground. “How’s the leg? And your hip? I know it’s been three years since your recovery, but I hope you’re not skipping your exercises.” Her tone carried true concern.
“The leg and the hip are fine, Mo. Everything works as it should.” He demonstrated by shifting his weight from one leg to the other, knowing she’d catch any hint of favoring or compensation.
Her trained eye assessed his movement. “No pain? No catching in the hip when you pivot?”
“None. I promise.”
Satisfied that he wasn’t trying to hide any discomfort, she nodded briskly. “Good. I’m going to dole out cookies and start dinner. You boys catch up.” With a final penetrating look that promised their conversation wasn’t over, she disappeared into the house.
Jagger stepped forward then, and the two men embraced in that particular way of warriors who had seen hell together. It was a grip fierce enough to crack ribs followed by heavy pats on the back that spoke volumes of unspoken emotion. The connection between them crackled like live wire, forged in blood and sacrifice as much as it was tempered by unwavering loyalty. This was the man who had refused to leave him behind, who had moved heaven and earth to find him when others had given up.
“Damn good to see you, brother,” Jagger’s voice was gruff with emotion. “About time you dragged your sorry ass up here for a visit again.” The words were light, but the underlying message was clear:I missed you. I worried about you. Don’t stay away so long.
Crone’s throat tightened as memories flooded back, the ones he usually kept locked in the darkest corners of his mind. Jagger was one of the few people on earth who truly understood, who had seen him at his absolute worst and still chose to call him brother. They say real men don’t cry, but they both called bullshit on that.
