Had to write this after seeing the deleted scene from Braveheart

Daddy

He swallows hard against the fear.

For he's terrified that after all his hard work and all the medication and therapy the anger is really and truly gone, leaving him with nothing but this. And what the hell is this anyway? He doesn’t even know. That's how foreign, how frightening it is to finally feel something where nothing used to be.

And God, it hurts.

It aches and pulls at his insides to know there was something that immense that he failed to appreciate. Because he hates that quality in other people. He hates it when people have something good and do nothing but bitch and whine about all the ways in which they've been done wrong. More than anything, he hates that now -he’s realizing- he’s been one of those people all along. He did nothing but complain about every tough break and every short straw, never taking a second to recognize that which he'd actually been given. And he'd been given so much.

He can’t understand how he forgot the joy.

He can't understand how in the world all that pain and acrimony managed to insulate and shield him from ever experiencing anything resembling pleasure. Was he born that way or did it happen over time? And there’s a pure and unadulterated pleasure that only a boy can know, being short enough and light enough to be scooped up into strong arms and if he’s lucky, take a ride on broad shoulders. Sticky hands cupped around a lightly stubbled chin, he could see the whole world from up there. There's a pride that only a boy will know, to see his father in that uniform, to know that he's willing to set aside his life for the lives of others. He knows now, there is nothing that can take the place of these things.

He can’t understand how it seemed so important.

He can't understand why he felt the need to constantly battle against a force that only wanted to see him succeed, if not only in its own rigid way. After all these years, he can’t understand all the energy spent, all the time spent scheming, all the hours spent muttering and rolling his eyes, acting entitled and put upon. He cannot understand all the wasted spite. And for once, it truly seems like a waste.

At long last, he smiles.

Now that he is warm and cozy in his bed, he is reminded of nothing but good things. He reminisces about trips to interesting and faraway places, of blowing out birthday candles, of all that was dependable and sure, of the love that he was too blind and too stubborn to enjoy, of the only man he will ever call Father and mean it.

“I love you,” he dares to whisper out loud. Tears burn in his eyes and he blinks and lets them fall. Here in his bed, he is safe.

Because he knows that if Amber can hear Wilson, his Daddy can hear him too.