Avalanche

| the fire |

Letting out a shaky breath, I replace the anxiety slathered across my face with indifference. I have to be strong, I cannot show any weakness.

My hand lands on the doorknob, and I enter the hospital room.

There in a chair, is my father. Iceman. He's connected to several machines to monitor his status, and a orange drip. It's his chemotherapy appointment for the week.

"Zoe." He barely makes out with his gravelly voice, closing his computer. Iceman, always working.

"No, no, no Dad. No talking, it's too painful." I say, awkwardly standing in front of him.

He clears his throat, and in a smoker voice he says, "I think I—"

I give him a hard glare, and he gives up easily. I've never seen him like this, usually he would fight until the last breath. Unless if it was my mother. He must be exhausted and in pain for this to happen.

He gestures to the chair next to him, and I sit down. He opens his computer back up, and opens a blank document.

I think I know my own limits.

"I'm sure you do Dad. You just don't listen to them."

There's a silence, and I take a moment to look around the room, taking in the bright lights and the horrible smell of stripped antiseptics. I look back at my father, he turns the computer around, types a few words, and then shows it to me.

How are you?

I laugh, and shrug, "I should be asking you that."

He looks sternly at me, forcing me to answer his question.

"I'm fine. Just stressed. Finals are later this week."

You'll do great. You're a Kazansky.

I laughed. "Yeah Dad, I'm already top of the class."

How is Top Gun?

"It's amazing. I've met lots of other pilots, and my roommate is the best." I wanted to tell someone else about Hangman, but maybe it was a better conversation to have with my mother.

Iceman was a bloodhound when it came to his family. If he wasn't always on a detachment or mission, he would be the type of father to clean up his gun right in front of me or my sisters dates in high school.

He was over protective to say the least. If I so much as dropped an inkling about Jake, my Dad would find his record, run another background check, and possibly warn him to stay away from me.

My knee is bouncing, I'm distracted, and my father grabs it to steady it.

He breathes in as deep as he can, and then back out. Looking back, I wonder if he's trying to stop a coughing fit.

It's nice to hear you're branching out, Zoe.

He was never this sentimental with me. Maybe it's because he was dying, or he didn't have to use his real voice, Iceman was still pretty cold at heart.

I expected something different.

On the other hand, I knew if he could talk, he would properly chastise, ahem, yell at me for breaking the sound barrier. But it was all tough love.

And then my Dad would always end with Kazansky's are winners. He always did when it came to these sorts of competitions or when I came to him for advice.

"I'll make you proud Dad." I promised.

You already do Avalanche.

❅