Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Here's the first chapter to what will approximately be a three-shot based loosely on the movie "The Impossible". This story was actually requested by saraalmezel on Tumblr, so be sure to tell her how awesome she is for the idea. If you'd like to make a request for a story, you can PM me or find me on tumblr under the username mandelene, just as it's spelled here. Enjoy!

P.S. Happy Halloween!

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking." -John Masefield, "Sea Fever"

He loves his family from one end of the earth to the other, from crust to core, through galaxy across galaxy and with all of the purity and strength that a man is capable of, but sometimes, even he wishes he could get a break.

He loves his children. He loves his husband. He loves who he is and what he does, but there are overbearing days too. And during those days, he must step back, take a breath, and remind himself why he loves the way he does.

Days like today.

"Alfred, you're kicking my seat. I told you to behave back there."

"Sorry, Dad!"

"Perhaps you ought to sit up front where I can keep an eye on you."

"No! Don't make me!"

A petulant whine echoes from behind him, and Arthur folds his arms across his chest in response, itching to scold his son properly. The eleven year old has been nothing but trouble the entire flight (a twelve-hour flight, mind you), constantly complaining about how uncomfortable he is or how the lady next to him keeps hogging the armrest. He is still too young and impatient to ignore the nuisances. As far as Alfred is concerned, the world revolves around him, and he places his needs above others without qualms.

It's a habit Arthur plans to break.

"My leg's asleep."

Thwump. Arthur's chair jolts forward again, and he can almost feel his brain rolling around in his skull as a result.

"Young man, when we get off of this plane—!"

"Oh, calm down, mon cher. We're all a little antsy," Francis says to him just before he can finish the threat. He takes off the headphones that he'd put on halfway through the flight. Smart man. "Alfred's just cranky because he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep. We'll set him down for a nap later."

At that, Alfred riles up again, all bristled and flushed in the face. He never takes hits to his pride very well. "Hey! I'm not some baby!"

Francis snickers and cranes his neck around to flash the boy a cheeky smile. "Of course you are. You'll always be my baby."

"No!"

At least their other son, Matthew, has been quite the angel. He's sitting between his parents, and Arthur is tempted to switch the boys' seats because Alfred is wreaking havoc, but the poor boy has been racked with bouts of air sickness and wants his Dad and Papa beside him.

Thus, Arthur and Francis dutifully tend to him during the trip. Well, Arthur does most of the actual tending while Francis rubs the child's back and tries to offer him some comfort.

"Even on vacation, you're stuck doctoring everyone," Francis notes. He thought a two-week winter holiday spent in Thailand would help his husband unwind and forget about work for a little while, but alas, he'd been too hopeful.

Arthur sighs. He doesn't mind having to take control of the situation. He knows being a doctor is a twenty-four hour job, and exhausted or not, he will be there for his son. He hands Matthew one of the anti-acid tablets in his carry-on bag and gives him a warm smile. "Take this, love. You'll feel better... Alfred! For the last time—!"

"I'm bored!"

"Don't make me come back there!"

"Stop shouting, you're upsetting Matthew," Francis hisses, brushing back the boy's sweaty fringe. So much for relaxing. He presses a kiss to Matthew's clammy temple and watches as Arthur presents a bottle of water to their son's lips.

"I'll give that boy something to be bored about."

"Shhh."

"Drink, Matthew. Tiny sips, all right? Bloody hell, did we remember to water the pot of magnolias in the kitchen before we left?"

Francis shakes his head and tries to refresh his memory. "That was your job."

"I thought I asked you to do it."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters! Those flowers were from my mother. What if they wilt?"

"We'll buy new ones."

"It's not the same, and you know it… Easy now, Matthew. Take a few deep breaths."

"I was dealing with business transactions all week for the office. I wouldn't have had the time to water the plants anyway."

Arthur clicks his tongue and checks his watch with a scowl. When will this agonizing flight be over? "I'm getting old. I can't remember a damned thing anymore, and I can't rely on you to lend a helping hand. You think that because you're a businessman, you're a cut above the rest of us."

"Don't start with that again. It's not true. I'm simply swamped with things to do during this time of year."

"Well, I'll have you know that I've been busy too. I want to see you treat middle-ear infections all day."

"D-Dad! I'm—"

With awe-inspiring speed, Arthur snatches up a barf bag, tears it open, and holds it up to Matthew's chin. Seconds later, the boy loses what little food he has eaten on the plane, stomach grumbling and gurgling against his will as a part salty, part acidic taste congregates in his mouth.

"Eww!" Alfred shrieks with a short laugh when it's over.

"I don't want to hear any commentary," Arthur warns, standing up to get rid of the mess. As he passes Alfred's seat, he gives the child a sharp swat on the arm to keep him in check. "You're getting coal in your stocking this year."

"Hah, funny."

"I'm not laughing, am I?"

Alfred squirms in his seat. It's hard to tell if his father is telling the truth or bluffing. "Really?"

Arthur ignores him, disposes of the bag in his hand, and returns with a disapproving look shortly afterward. One of his eyebrows is raised impressively, and he leans down to whisper into Alfred's ear. "You should be nicer to your brother."

"I am nice to him!"

"You shouldn't tease him. He may be a bit more sensitive than you are, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't respect him. Am I understood?"

Alfred's in enough trouble already, and he knows it's pointless to put up another fight. "Okay, Dad."

And then, at long last, the intercom system blares with life to let the passengers know they'll be landing soon.

The words sound so sweet against Arthur's ears.

"Welcome to Thailand."

Admittedly, the resort they are staying at is even more beautiful than the pictures. The long stretch of golden beach is visible from every window, they have a hot-tub in the bathroom, and the abstract portraits adorning the walls give the place a modern twist and freshness. It's clear that Francis's great taste has prevailed again, and Arthur can't be too upset with his husband after seeing the luxurious bed calling his name from the master bedroom.

As soon as he has toed off his shoes, Arthur drags himself to the memory-foam mattress and collapses face-first, groaning with pleasure. Can he stay here forever? Why go back to cold, rainy, old London-town when he can have this kind of spectacular sunshine dancing on his skin?

"It's nice, isn't it?" Francis asks him while the twins run circles around the perimeter in excitement. Matthew must certainly be feeling better.

"Mmm."

He hears Francis laugh, but he doesn't see what's so funny. In fact, he's already on the verge of dozing off when warm hands find their way to his taut shoulders and massage his aching muscles. Fingers pirouette down the sides of his back, and a pair of lips meet his jaw.

"Get some sleep."

He doesn't need to be prompted. His heavy eyelids droop before he can mouth a reply, and Francis rolls him onto his side so he can rest easier.

"Don't sleep for too long though. The ocean is waiting. We can go for a swim."

"What makes you think I'll swim with you?"

"You can't fool me, Arthur. I know you're simply raging with lust."

They both laugh, and Arthur pecks a grumpy kiss onto Francis's cheek. "Goodnight."

And even though it's three o'clock in the afternoon, Francis nods his head, brushes his nose against Arthur's, and mutters a quiet "goodnight" as well.

Deciding to leave the sleeping lion in its den for a while, Francis busies himself with watching the boys instead. Not to brag, but he feels like the greatest father in the world when he finds the boys admiring the view of the sea from the veranda, their eyes glued to the foaming tide.

Matthew notices his entrance first and asks, "Are there sharks in the water, Papa?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't want to find out," Francis chuckles before throwing an arm around Matthew's shoulders. "It's Christmas tomorrow. I have a feeling Santa will be able to find us even though we're far from home."

"Papa, Santa isn't real," Alfred says matter-of-factly. He's already sporting a mild sunburn on his face, which means that Arthur will have another thing to fret over when he wakes up. The man probably has a liter bottle of aloe vera in his suitcase, alongside his fully stocked first-aid kit.

"Then who bought me that wonderful watch last year?"

"Dad did."

Francis puts a hand over his heart and feigns insult. "No, I don't believe it."

Matthew sends Papa a pitying look and leans into his grasp. "You don't have to keep lying to us, Papa. We've known the truth for years. All of the presents always say 'from Santa' in your handwriting. Everybody at school—"

"Ah-ha! Look at what these schools are doing these days—stripping young boys of their imaginations. It's horrible!"

The twins roll their eyes when Papa isn't looking and realize that they're going to have to change the subject if they want to be spared from listening to another one of his rants.

Alfred makes the first move this time. "I'm hungry!"

"Me too!" Matthew chimes with a cheery smile that's meant to calm his papa's anger. "When are we going to get dinner?"

"Mes lapins, I'll wake your father in an hour and we can go to one of the restaurants here in the resort. If I wake him now, he may bite my head off."

The boys laugh, but Francis is only half-joking.

He keeps an eye on the clock and when the hour is up, he upholds his promise and shakes Arthur's shoulder even though it pains him to do so. The man is snoring softly, something he only does when his energy reserves have been completely depleted. His eyes are bloodshot when he cracks them open, and his breath stutters as awareness returns to his senses.

"Time to get up, mon amour, or we'll miss dinner."

Arthur wipes a hand over his haggard face and pulls himself into a sitting position with a wide yawn. "All right. I just need to change. These clothes remind me of the awful flight."

He unbuttons his shirt and Francis watches him with a coy grin, unable to restrain himself. He's seen Arthur change thousands of times, of course, but there's something special about it this time. Maybe it's the way he seems to glow with the backdrop of the beach behind him. He's still relaxed and drowsy, moving at a slower pace than he usually does. Everything is warm and fuzzy around the edges.

He doesn't realize he's being gawked at, and for that, Francis is incredibly grateful. He longs for moments when he can appreciate his husband without interruption. It's hard for them to have these little snippets of time to themselves, especially when the boys are always vying for their attention. One of these days, when they get back home, he will take Arthur out for a few hours so he can have him to himself. They will sit down for a cup of tea and talk like they used to before they were parents with responsibilities.

And then, the moment is over, and Francis averts his gaze when Arthur turns around.

"It's Christmas! It's Christmas! It's Christmas!"

Did someone knock him over the head with a sledgehammer last night? Thanks to the help of his jetlag, Arthur slept like a rock, and he's perfectly content with hibernating through the rest of their vacation, until a heavy weight settles itself onto his abdomen and squishes his bladder.

"My organs…"

Alfred lets off a shrill squeak and Arthur finally dares to greet his attacker with open eyes. Francis is already out of bed, and he can hear him speaking with Matthew in the distance.

"Hey, Dad! It's Christmas!"

Thankfully, a firm nudge keeps Alfred at bay. "So I've been told."

"What'd ya get me? Can we open the presents now? Please, please, please—!"

"I told you that you weren't getting any presents because you were being a pain in my neck."

"But you didn't mean it!"

"Yes, I did."

"Daaaad!"

Arthur maneuvers himself onto the hardwood floor and retrieves his slippers. He's in a "no nonsense" mood, especially since he hasn't had his tea yet. "Have you had breakfast?"

"N-No, but—"

"Breakfast first," Arthur declares before stretching his stiff legs. "And I want an apology for your abhorrent behavior yesterday. I expect you to act your age from now on. You're eleven years old, and that's too old for whining, sulking, and pouting to get your way. Am I understood?"

Alfred nibbles his lower lip and rocks on his heels, considering his father's words. "If I'm so big, how come you won't let me ride a skateboard?"

Not this conversation again.

"That's another matter entirely. You can't have a skateboard because you'll just end up with a broken bone."

"No, I'll be careful!"

"My decision is final, Alfred, and I'm still waiting for my apology."

Alfred crosses his arms and stamps a foot, and Arthur can feel a tantrum brewing. He doesn't want to have to punish the boy while they're supposed to be having a fun holiday, but he is walking on paper-thin ice. "It's not fair! All of my friends' parents let them have skateboards."

"I don't care what other parents are doing. You are my child, and my answer is still no."

"You're the worst! You never let me do anything cool!"

Arthur makes his tone stern and lowers his head to look directly at his son. "Don't use that tone with me. You can go and stand in the corner until you've calmed down."

"No!"

Without hesitation, Arthur snatches Alfred up by the wrist and yanks him to the corner of the bedroom while the boy shouts about what a mean and heartless father he is. Francis pops in briefly to see what the trouble is, and then he and Arthur continue about their morning routine as though all is peachy once more.

"It's so strange," Francis comments as they start munching on their breakfast. "I've never experienced a warm Christmas before."

Alfred complains loudly for a few minutes, but when he sees he's being ignored, he quiets down and feels sorry for himself instead. He's convinced he's in the right because Dad is too controlling and worries about everything. Why can't he have a bit of freedom?

Arthur fetches him when he's done eating, a paternal scowl in place.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to me, Alfred?"

The boy isn't ready to admit defeat yet, so he shakes his head.

Alfred is a good child at heart, and Arthur knows it. He's protective of his family, loves making others laugh, and is quick to dish out affection, but the adamant side of his personality is sometimes left untamed. He doesn't like being told what to do because it makes him feel like he is beneath others, even if Arthur and Francis have his best interests in mind.

"It's Christmas, lad. Don't do this."

When Arthur isn't given a response, he huffs and leaves Alfred to wallow in his bitterness. If the boy doesn't want to cooperate, then he will spend the rest of the day inside and won't be allowed to participate in family activities. He will break sooner or later, as he always does.

So, Francis, Arthur, and Matthew open the gifts without Alfred. They're all a bit disappointed and bothered by his absence because it just isn't the same, but Arthur will not cave into the child's desires. He knows he has to be consistent and firm, or else Alfred will never learn.

"A remote controlled car!" Matthew exclaims when he opens the biggest box with his name on it. He's smiling from ear to ear, and he catches both of his fathers in a hug. His other gifts include a new pair of sneakers, a stuffed reindeer, and a backpack with his favorite hockey team on it. He couldn't have asked for anything better, and it's nice to know that Dad and Papa know him so well.

Francis rubs Matthew's head as he tries on the sneakers. "Do you like your presents?"

"Yes, thank you!"

"I'm glad at least someone is happy," Arthur mutters before giving the boy a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, love. I must say, I quite like my gifts as well. A coat, books, a wallet, a tie, and a lovely set of candles. Thank you, Francis."

Francis casts a wink in response. "Why are you thanking me? You should be thanking Santa. I see Santa spoiled me this year, considering the expensive cologne he brought me."

"You've been sampling it at the mall for ages, and I thought—"

He cuts Arthur off with a kiss. "Santa is too kind. It's good to know he thinks about me."

Arthur can feel his ears turn red, and a tender feeling crawls up his chest. "You're right, he shouldn't be so kind… I should check on our rebel. He's been moping for a while now."

He gets up from the carpet and heads over to the bedroom once more, where he finds Alfred crying and sniffling with remorse. He has finally sacrificed his pride, and Arthur feels the soft spot he has for the boy make itself more pronounced.

"Alfred?"

"I'm sorry, Dad!" he weeps, drawing his knees up. "I'm sorry for being bad and not listening and—!"

"Look at me."

Teary blue eyes blink back at the firm green gaze, and Arthur knows a mini lecture is needed before things can be set straight again.

"There's a reason for rules, my boy, and when I tell you to do something, it's because it's what is best for you. I would never tell you to do something that I didn't think had a purpose. You're not allowed to say no to your father or me when we give you instructions, and when we make a decision, that decision is final and isn't up for debate. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes. I'm sorry!"

"Thank you for apologizing."

They exchange a hug, and Arthur lets Alfred bury his head in his neck. As infuriating as his boy can be, he's still his, and at the end of the day, he will always forgive him no matter what trouble he gets into.

"I love you, Dad. I didn't mean the things I said."

"I know, lad, and I love you too."

"I deserve coal."

Arthur laughs and cards his fingers through the boy's hair. "I don't know about that. I'm sure Santa brought something with your name on it. Why don't we go and see?"

And sure enough, there is a new video game about robots taking over the planet from ol' Saint Nick. Alfred thinks about playing it right away, but then remembers that he has still left the beach untouched, and that's simply unacceptable. So, Dad and Papa take him and Matthew out by the water until lunchtime, and they spend the rest of the day playing outside and taking walks through the town to get to know some of the locals. It's a Christmas unlike any other, and by the time they return to the resort in the early evening, they smell like saltwater and seafood.

Alfred thinks it's too perfect to be true.

"Dad, I want to go swimming in the pool already."

"I know, Matthew, but you need to put a proper amount of sunscreen on first. Also, where is your cap? If you keep your head uncovered in this heat, you'll get sunstroke," Arthur chides, lathering another liberal amount of banana-scented sunblock onto the child's shoulders. "Lower your head slightly so I can get the back of your neck… That's it."

"What's sunstroke?"

"It happens when you're exposed to the sun too long. It can make you dizzy and give you a headache. Now, let me finish up your back, and then you can join your brother."

From his beach chair, Francis takes off his sunglasses and scoffs at the pair. A sudden gust of wind ruffles his hair, and it feels nice in contrast to the blazing heat. The weather is somewhat finicky, and he wonders if a storm is coming. He'd hate to have to spend the rest of the day inside. "If you put any more lotion on him, he's going to drown, Arthur."

"Hush up, I know what I'm doing."

"Ah yes, doctor. It's a relief to know you are on the case."

Arthur furrows and continues his application of the greasy cream. "You mock me now, but I'm trying to prevent our children from getting skin cancer, which, I'll have you know, is a very serious and life-threatening disease. This UV light spells nothing but trouble."

"Yes, because an hour spent in the outdoor pool is surely fatal."

"You're an incorrigible frog," Arthur snaps before returning his focus to their son, "Okay, Matthew, I'm finished. Run along and make sure your brother doesn't cause any mischief."

When their boy is splashing happily about in the water, Francis snorts with laughter and says, "You smother him."

"I do not. Excuse me for being cautious."

"You take 'caution' to a new extreme."

Arthur makes a show of flipping open the novel he has been carrying around, making it quite clear that he intends to give his husband the silent treatment. He refuses to waste another minute arguing. After all, he doesn't get leisure time often, and there's a long reading list he plans to get through before returning home.

Nonetheless, Francis hasn't finished his antagonizing yet. "I've been working on my backstroke."

Arthur purses his lips into a thin line and clears his throat. "Fascinating."

And then, Francis throws himself into the pool cannonball-style and starts up a bit of roughhousing with the twins, flinging water everywhere. Matthew and Alfred are both doubling over with laughter, soaked to the bone and rosy-faced.

It's an adorable sight, and Arthur watches them with his own smile, feeling so blessed and at ease. He only wishes they could share more moments like these, but Arthur knows he has to work, and his schedule is demanding. And although Francis finds ways to work from home, his career is just as stringent.

He vows to make more time.

"What—?"

A bellowing roar from the ocean breaks his thoughts, and he lifts his gaze to the wall separating the resort from the beach. The palm trees in the distance quiver, and before Arthur can recognize what is happening, a colossal wave of blue-green water swallows up everything in sight and curls over the protective wall. He's swept up by the current, and for a brief second he thinks he is having a nightmare.

That is, until he hears Francis screaming his name.

He swallows a mouthful of saltwater and splutters as another wave slams him into a nearby tree. All he can register is the sound breaking glass and a chorus of cries. It happens so fast he barely has the chance to breathe.

"Francis!" he screams back, struggling to hold his head above the water. His family is nowhere in sight, and just as he opens his mouth to try shouting again, he's ripped away from the tree he's clinging to and is carried off toward the general direction of the beach. Debris surrounds him on all sides, and he tries to grab at something—anything to help him stay afloat. "Francis!"

"Dad!"

Alfred. It's Alfred's voice, and he's sure of it. His eyes scour the endless maze of water and wreckage, and when his gaze finally lands on the boy, his heart almost stops. His son is desperately hanging on to broken scaffolding and begging for help.

"Alfred!" he calls to him, somewhat breathless. "I'm coming!"

He tries to catch up to the boy, and just as he begins to close the distance between them, something hard and wooden collides with Arthur's chest and lodges itself in his skin. He lets out a gasp of pain and looks at the water around him turn red, too shocked to react.

"Dad!"

Alfred needs him. His son needs him.

With that thought dominating all else, Arthur breaks out of his stupor and pulls out whatever has impaled him, too full of adrenaline to let the pain bother him. Seconds later, Alfred is within reach, and he scoops him into his arms, so relieved that he worries he may lose consciousness.

They're both too tired to speak, and so, Arthur directs them toward shallower waters. The strength of the current recedes after a few minutes, and soon enough, they are far enough inland that the water only reaches up to Arthur's thighs.

"What was that?" is the first thing Alfred says once the worst is over.

"A tsunami," Arthur replies, keeping a firm hand against the wound on his chest. It hurts to breathe, and he can feel warm blood trickling away from the injury, but he knows he must be calm for Alfred.

"Is it over?"

"I think so."

"What about Papa and Mattie?"

It takes all of Arthur's willpower to keep his tears in his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he's stuck in an unfamiliar country with a child at his side. Not to mention he's bleeding heavily without any hope for treatment. "I don't know."

"We need to go back and look for them."

"I need to get you to safety first," Arthur tells him, plodding onward. After a few steps, he stops and stoops down to get a good look at Alfred. He's unharmed, aside from a few scrapes and bruises. "Are you all right? Does anything hurt?"

"No, I'm—" The boy is bug-eyed, and he lifts a hand up to touch the wound Arthur is sporting. "Y-You're—"

"It's okay," Arthur assures him. He takes a breath to steady himself and continues walking even though he'd rather crumple to the ground.

But Alfred has been his child for too long, and he's been exposed to far too much of the medical field to fall for the consolations. "Dad, we need to get you help."

"We'll head toward town."

"W-What if Papa and Mattie—?"

Arthur scrunches his eyebrows and grimaces. If they can get to higher ground, they can get out of this damned water and see if anyone else is around. "Stop, Alfred. Not now."

They continue this way for a while, until Arthur abruptly pauses and Alfred runs into his back, confused.

"Close your eyes, Alfred," he says, swallowing thickly.

"Why?"

"Do as I say."

When he complies, Arthur takes him by the hand and guides him along. He does not want his son to see the destruction and the loss of life, not if he can help it. It isn't until they reach a clearing when he allows the boy to open his eyes again. Still, there's no one in sight, and Arthur can feel the onset of his body going into hypovolemic shock. If he doesn't sit down soon, he's going to keel over.

Alfred realizes how pale he's become, and he scopes out the area for a place to rest. There's a tall tree a few yards away, and if they climb it, they will at least be out of the way of the water.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Yes."

Unsurprisingly, Alfred isn't convinced. He urges his father to the tree, and by the time they make it, Dad is sweating and dizzy. Alfred shows him the best way to climb up to one of the sturdy branches, but Dad leans resignedly against the trunk and decides that he's too weak to manage it.

"Dad, please. You gotta get up here."

"No, Alfred. I can't."

He's never heard his father talk in this way, and he can't believe he's so willing to surrender. It's enough to make Alfred cry tears of frustration, and he slides down the tree to stand next to the man, sobbing against his wet t-shirt. "Please, Dad. You have to try. I don't want to think about what'll happen if you don't."

Arthur sheds a few tears of his own, and he kisses Alfred's head, breaths labored. How can he say no? "All right. I'll try."

He loses his footing more than once and scrapes his palms, but after much straining and tugging, Arthur is up in the tree at last and can finally lean back to rest. His awareness is patchy as Alfred hovers over him, fussing and crying and pleading with him to stay awake.

"D-Dad? Please, say something."

"The bleeding," Arthur groans, lifting his head slightly to look at the wound again. He's too tired to keep up the pressure on it, so he tells Alfred to do it for him instead. "Keep your hand on it, even if I start complaining that it hurts."

Alfred nods and keeps his eyes peeled for any sign of people in the distance. "I'll get help, Dad. Don't worry, okay?"

Arthur makes a noise of agreement and shudders. He's seeing double now and blindly hopes that Francis will find him and drag him out of this wasteland.

"Dad, I think I see someone. HEY! OVER HERE!" Alfred hollers, waving his arms at a pair of figures walking down the shore. "They see us! I think they see us!"

And that's the last thing Arthur hears before the world turns black.