There wasn't very much that could bring a man like Jeff Tracy to his knees.
The birth of a child, holding that tiny life in his arms, knowing he was the product of deep and lasting love, and a miracle of existence, was one.
The death of the only woman he had ever loved; that he had loved more than his own life, beyond all reason and sanity, was another.
The moments in which he'd thought his youngest, his unborn fifth son, might not live as the life ebbed from his mother's body, yet another.
And the endless days after his fourth son's hydrofoil accident, in which life teetered on the very edge for far too long, another.
His concern now, aged in his late sixties and used to perilous situations for those he loved, was masked by a scowl.
He ignored the hand resting on his shoulder; the hand belonging to his mother.
He ignored the looks from his friend, the Malay man who did so much for them all.
He ignored the tear-filled green eyes of that man's daughter, her hand covering her mouth.
He stared at the portrait that had suddenly flipped from a live feed to a staid painting.
He was frozen in place, unable to speak. Unable to think.
The Christmas tree in the corner of the room twinkled merrily, oblivious to the possibility hanging heavy over the room.
Unopened gifts sat waiting for hands that now, might never touch them.
The dinner in the oven, forgotten.
He waited.
And waited.
Then...
A crackle.
An ear-piercing screech.
Loud static.
Interference.
The feed returned. Shimmering, shadowy, but there.
Blinked to life.
He finally took a breath, knees weak, threatening to go down.
"Scott?" he managed to whisper, hand holding tightly to the back of the chair.
"We're okay, Dad. We're all okay."
He deflated, thumping down hard, chair barely catching him.
His breath was ragged, chest heaving, tears pricking the backs of his eyes.
His heart would not be breaking this Christmas Day.
He raised his head to look into the eyes of his eldest, reading his face, returning the meaning ten-fold.
"F.A.B.," he quietly said.
