Ageless, Not Invulnerable (Shang-Chi - m, Wenwu)

[angora48]

Thanks @Reader for the "Finish the Unfinished" challenge - I got my butt in gear and finally wrapped up this fic. I love Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, and the complex, damaged relationship between Shang-Chi and his dad is so fascinating to me.

Spoilers ahead. This fic is set during the movie, though I stretched the timeline out a bit (that's the problem with these action/comic book films - everything's so go-go-go, there's never time for anyone to be sick! 😉) If you've seen the film, basically I slipped an extra 3-4 days between the reveal of the water map and Wenwu sharing his full plan with Shang-Chi & co.

Our characters are as follows:

Wenwu

Shang-Chi

Xialing

Katy

Li

Without further ado, here's part 1! Hope you like it!

 

If you find yourself back in your adolescent bed a decade after running away from home, it probably helps if your dad is criminally rich (literally, criminal)—the bed Shang-Chi slept in when he was 14 was larger, more spacious, and way more comfortable than what he had in his hole-in-the-wall apartment back in San Francisco. He stretched as he woke, spreading his arms out wide and not touching either edge of the mattress.

For about two seconds, Shang-Chi was just comfortable and half-awake, feeling the cool silk of the sheets against his bare chest. But then, everything else came crashing back. Those guys on the bus, the look in Katy’s eyes when she saw the first punch he threw. Racing off to Macau, worrying the whole time about Xialing and what his dad might do, only to find that Xialing… definitely didn’t need saving. Those guys at the fight club, Xialing running out on him, the way Shang-Chi’s heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Katy dangling from that scaffolding, Xialing coming back for her, Xialing fighting beside him. Death Dealer, that makeup and that mask transporting Shang-Chi straight back to his childhood. The fight, the knife, and then…

Dad. The Ten Rings, the way their power instantly gripped Shang-Chi’s limbs, staying his hand like he was little more than a rag doll. He’d could say he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be the receiving end of the Rings, but he’d be lying.

Then the flight, then here, then dinner with Dad(?!), then-- what? Then Mom?? Still alive? Not believing it tore up Shang-Chi’s insides so thoroughly that he resented his dad for even saying it, for putting the mere notion out there that Shang-Chi desperately wanted to believe but knew he couldn’t. It’s not fair, Shang-Chi thought. What gives him the right to make me deny her like that? Why does he have to go digging in the past? Can’t he just let her rest?

All that was, well, a lot to take first thing in the morning. It made Shang-Chi feel a little lightheaded just thinking about it. Okay, so part of that was the monster jetlag, but most of it was all this crap that had been dumped on him in the last…? God, 72 hours? Maybe? What was his life?

Slowly, Shang-Chi rose, fumbling out of the bed he last slept in the night before he took a man’s life (great legacy, Dad,) and got dressed. As he made his way down the hall toward the dining room, he felt like he was in the belly of a giant ghost, memories of a past life swirling all around him. It was disorienting how little the compound had changed since he’d been gone. But then, why would his dad be in any hurry to redecorate? What were a mere ten years against a thousand?

The dining room was empty when he arrived, though an impressive spread was still laid out nestled in warming dishes. Shang-Chi helped himself, figuring that Xialing probably rose before the sun and was already out training, like she’d always done when they were younger, and that Katy was probably still sleeping off the series of bombshells that had been dropped in her lap since the attack on the bus.

Shang-Chi had just polished off a few baozi and was digging into some yóutiáo when one of his dad’s men walked into the dining room. Shang-Chi immediately took his elbows off the table and sat up a little straighter, hating that he’d done it. This guy looked too young to have been in the Ten Rings when Shang-Chi was a kid, but something about all of Dad’s men made him feel small and immature.

“Your father is in his study,” the man said, standing almost at attention just inside the doorway.

“Oh,” Shang-Chi mumbled, hastily swallowing another bite of yóutiáo dipped in soybean milk. “Okay, good to know.”

“He wants to speak to you,” the man added, sounding annoyed that his first intimation hadn’t been enough for Shang-Chi to take the hint.

Shang-Chi took a leisurely drink of tea, just to be a pain in the ass. “Good, because I want to speak to him,” he replied. Why? God knew. To pretend like he had some semblance of control in any of this, maybe? Being back at the compound was messing with his head, he needed something he could hang onto.

He considered taking his sweet time finishing his breakfast, wondering if the guy would stand quasi-sentry over him the whole time, but it didn’t take long for Shang-Chi to realize that wasn’t going to happen. The prospect of talking to Dad this morning brought back the sensation of talking to Dad from last night, and the memory of it was making his stomach knot up.

So, he just trailed a finger through the soybean milk, gave it a lick, and stood up, letting his chair scrape back noisily. “Better get to it then,” he remarked, pretending he felt anything close to cavalier. He left his dishes at the table; the guy was still standing in the doorway as he strode out of the room.

When they were kids, Shang-Chi and Xialing were rarely allowed in the study—only at Dad’s express invitation, and never for long. They used to dare each other to sneak in when he was outside, one standing watch at the end of the hall while the other darted in, hearts pounding the whole time.

But that was a long time ago. By the time Shang-Chi completed the first year of his Ten Rings training, he and his sister didn’t spend much time together. Shang-Chi was always too busy, too exhausted, under too much pressure to measure up to Dad’s expectations for him. And Xialing? She resented him, Shang-Chi supposed, wanting at least a few of those expectations for herself. Whenever they were together, neither of them were really in the mood for games or stupid dares.

His dad’s eyes barely flickered upward as Shang-Chi entered the study, but he said, “Now, about the raid,” as if he and Shang-Chi had already been talking for the last 10 minutes. “Last night, I drew out the mbap through the maze.”

Shang-Chi sighed, stiffening. “Dad, about what you thought you heard--”

“What I heard,” Dad replied. It wasn’t an argument or a retort. It was an observation, as if Mom calling to Dad from behind a gate in a magical realm protected by a moving bamboo maze were settled fact that neither of them could do anything about. “Your mother needs our help, and we only have a limbited window for endtering Ta Lo. The Qingming Festival is in a week. You have to be ready.”

Shang-Chi felt his anger rising. His hurt too. “Dad, you can’t just walk back into my life and think you can suddenly tell me wha--”

Dad cleared his throat, and Shang-Chi was embarrassed at how immediately his mouth snapped shut. Completely of its own volition, his spine straightened and his eyes darted down to the floor. A grown-ass man, and he still stood at attention the second his dad asked for it.

Despite Shang-Chi’s instant rolling-over, it was another moment before Dad spoke, his voice low, calm, and firm. “I wasnd’t the one who left ten years ago, son. That was you.”

Shang-Chi wanted to look up, to meet his dad’s eyes and see what he found in them, but he wouldn’t let himself. The whole thing with him and Dad only worked if Shang-Chi allowed himself to get dragged into it, which meant he was the one who could say no.

Another silence, again no longer than a second or two, but this one felt achingly long. Shang-Chi wondered if Dad was waiting for him to look. Finally, Dad broke the silence, continuing on as matter-of-factly as he’d begun. “I know you held your own well againdst my men, so you’ve kept up at least part of your trainding in San Francisco, but you dond’t know what we might be up againdst ih-ihhhnnd….”

There was an odd catch in Dad’s voice, and Shang-Chi looked up just as his dad sneezed into a neatly-folded white handkerchief, a quiet but distinct “hihhhhhh-shiooooooo!”

He sneezed. Dad sneezed. This was something that Shang-Chi had very genuinely never witnessed before, and he didn’t know what to do with this information.

But while Shang-Chi stood there befuddled, his dad was continuing on, giving his nose a quick wipe with the handkerchief before he returned it to his pocket. “In Ta Lo, you’ll see things you’ve never seend before. I cand’t have you losing your head, not whend so much is at--”

He broke off suddenly, frowning. “What’s wrong?” he asked Shang-Chi. “You’re standing with your mbouth open like a fish.”

“No! I, uh--” Shang-Chi sputtered, his brain still cantering to catch up with the situation. “I just… are you sick?”

“I have a smball cold,” Dad replied, nonchalantly, as if they weren’t in unprecedented territory here.

“I didn’t think you could get sick,” Shang-Chi noted.

Dad’s eyes considered a smile, but his mouth wasn’t in full agreement. “Thandks to the power of the Tend Rings, I’m ageless,” he explained. “That’s not the sambe thing as being indvulnerable.”

There was a soft amusement in his tone, and now that Shang-Chi was listening for it, he could hear that his dad’s usual tenor had lowered to a baritone. And Shang-Chi wouldn’t call him stuffed-up, but there was a slight nasal undertone around the edge of his words.

“You dond’t know what these people are capable of,” Dad went on, and Shang-Chi noticed how his eyes drooped slightly at the corners. “They’ve held your mother for this long, they wond’t just let her go now. What sort of regimendt did you keep in San Frandcisco? It’s imbportant that--”

Maybe his dad didn’t think this was any kind of big deal, but it was to Shang-Chi. “I don’t remember you ever getting sick when I was a kid,” he pointed out.

“Thend perhaps you didn’t pay attendtion,” Dad suggested. His nose twitched a little, and he gave a quiet sniffle.

“Well, when you have grown men beating you with staves from every direction, you don’t always catch everything,” Shang-Chi retorted boldly. It wasn’t fair of Dad to joke with him, to act like they were just some ordinary family, and it wasn’t fair to look into a face that had looked exactly the same since Shang-Chi was seven and suddenly see something different.

Shang-Chi added, “Seriously, I’ve never ever heard you sneeze before today.”

“It’s ndot something I like to advertise,” his dad admitted. He cleared his throat, brushing his knuckles lightly across it. “There are plenty of people who share your condfusion about agelessness and invulnderability, and I see no reason to disabuse themb o-- of that doshud….” His voice grew noticeably congested as another sneeze came over him. He pulled out his handkerchief again, bending forward into a strong “huhhhhh-shuhhhhhhh!”

Shang-Chi gritted his teeth, reminding himself of all that this man put him through when he was younger. What did it matter if he was sick? “Right—mythology’s good for business,” he noted. “A lot easier to hold onto your power when any would-be rivals think you’re literally untouchable.”

“Sobething like that,” Dad agreed. He still sounded stuffed-up; he stifled a small cough, sniffling as he touched the handkerchief to his nose.

Shang-Chi glanced about the study. “So that’s why you’re hiding out in here,” he observed.

“Ndot hiding,” Dad replied. “Laying low.” It was too self-aware to be defensive, said with a hint of a smile and a soft gleam in his eye. It wasn’t an embarrassed man trying to save face in a position of weakness, it was a knowing, Yes, I am hiding out, but because I’m me, I can make it become laying low just by saying it. The way he spoke, like it was a fond in-joke they were sharing.

It would be so much easier if Shang-Chi could just hate him, if he was only the war lord, only the man who trained his son to be a killer. He made it much harder when he was charming, when he was quietly funny. When he cared.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Shang-Chi finally responded, trying to square his shoulders against everything ping-ponging through his head. “I can handle myself just fine.”

“‘Fine’ wond’t be good enough,” Dad warned. “That place, the power they have there, the weapons—your mother’s going to ndeed your best if we’re going to bring her hombe.” He cleared his throat, giving his nose a swift rub.

Shang-Chi felt his jaw clench, closed his eyes. Why did he have to keep bringing up Mom? Shang-Chi didn’t know where this whole your long-dead mother is hidden behind a magical gate and we need to break her out thing came from, but his dad had no right to keep saying it.

“Dad,” he began, “I don’t see how she can be--”

His dad coughed, just a little, stifling it into his knuckles, and Shang-Chi bit his tongue. They didn’t have to do this now. Dad’s insane plan was predicated on a mystical timeline that had them raiding Ta Lo a week from now. Shang-Chi didn’t have to argue with his dad right this second, not when he was fuzzy from jetlag and he still felt a little weak at the knees from everything he’d been through over the last few days. Not when his brain was busy trying to process the notion of his dad getting sick like a regular old human, each sniffle and cough making Shang-Chi’s mind fritz with interference.

Shang-Chi suddenly realized that Dad was looking at him expectantly. “Son?” he prompted.

Exactly why it’s not the time to be talking about this, Shang-Chi thought. Hard to make your point when you start spiraling out mid-sentence. Aloud, he said, “Never mind. I’m gonna go find Xialing.” And then he got the hell out.

Not that it did him a ton of good. The disorientation was at its most intense in Dad’s presence (and when Dad was sick? what the hell was that about?), but the entire compound was a head trip. There was nowhere Shang-Chi could get away from it. When people said, “Family drive you crazy,” they had no idea just how true that could be.

[Reader]

I haven’t seen the movie, but you caught me up with the plot and the characters. The love/hate relationship between the father and son is really interesting. I love that the dad is so multi-faceted. You want to root for him as much as you want to side with the son that turned out okay despite his upbringing.

Very smexy descriptions with this start to Wenwu’s cold! Excited for more of your delicious cold writing! 

[SleepingPhlox]

This is so great!  Good to see some of the newer MCU films getting some love on here.  Very well written, the way you set the scene and the teasing gradual revealing of the cold symptoms.

Sneezing with lots of plot is my favourite kind of fic and if you continue I look forward to reading it.

[angora48]

Hey, thanks for commenting! @Reader, I'm glad you're still enjoying it without having seen the movie. Yes, Wenwu is such an interesting, complicated character, a very different sort of antagonist for Marvel.

Not to worry, @SleepingPhlox, there's more coming! I try never to post a story unless I've finished it or am ALMOST done and have a very clear path to the end. I know how easy it is for me to get busy/distracted and leave things unfinished, and I don't want to leave readers hanging.

Part 2! Fair warning, Wenwu isn't actually in this one--it's more for character/plot stuff, although there is some discussion about him.

 

 

Xialing was in the courtyard, not the large open-air Ten Rings training ground but the smaller, more elegant courtyard. Where they used to--

Where Mom taught them their forms.

Where those men came. It wasn’t her they even cared about, they wanted retribution against Dad, but they knew he cared about her, and so….

Shang-Chi faltered at the edge of the archway. Xialing really did look like her. Not that Mom ever fought the way Xialing did, like her anger was a hornet buzzing inside her, trying to find a way out. Mom fought like she could feel every molecule of air on her skin, like the air was a tangible thing she could brush her fingers against as her hands glided through it. Shang-Chi was hit with a sudden memory of her gently correcting his form, turning his wrist just so and nudging his foot into place with her own.

A loud snap from Xialing’s rope dart cut through his memories, one of the blades slicing through the air inches from his face. Shang-Chi shook his head to clear it and pulled himself back to the present. “Morning,” he mumbled, feeling awkward and wishing he didn’t.

“Considering how I had to save your ass back in Macau, I’d have thought you’d be the one out here training,” Xialing replied, not breaking the rhythm of her drills for an instant.

“Yo, Shaun!” This from Katy, who was lounging on one of the stone benches beside the wall. She looked rumpled and jetlagged, but there was no evidence that her brain had exploded from the revelations of the past few days, at least not yet. She was way more resilient than Shang-Chi gave her credit for.

“Hey,” Shang-Chi returned softly.

“So, your sister is like an actual boss bitch,” Katy went on. “That’s the kinda stuff you gotta tell me, man! I mean, your dad’s like an evil immortal war lord or whatever? I get it, that’s personal, you do you on that. But Xialing? Have you seen her?!” She swept her arm out in a gesture towards Xialing, and Shang-Chi might’ve been imagining it, but he thought he caught the ghost of a proud smile on his sister’s face.

Shang-Chi walked along the perimeter of the courtyard to sit down beside Katy. As he passed Xialing, he said, “Hey, did you know that Dad is sick?”

At that, her rhythm slipped. She let one end of the rope dart fall to the ground as she turned to him. “Really,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Shang-Chi told her.

“Okay, both of you have this really weird energy going on, and I don’t know how to read the situation,” Katy observed. “Is this like, flowers and a get-well card? Candlelight vigil? ‘Good riddance, let him rot’? What’s going on here?”

“Not like that,” Shang-Chi replied. “It’s-- he just has a cold.”

“Oh,” Katy said. “Then what the hell are we even talking about it for?”

“It’s like it doesn’t quite look right on him somehow,” Xialing remarked quietly.

“Yes! Thank you!” Shang-Chi exclaimed. “It’s so weird. So you’ve-- I mean, you’ve seen him like that before?”

Xialing flicked the end of her rope dart back into the air and resumed her practice. “Once,” she told him, “years ago. It was just after you left. He caught a bad flu and was in bed for three or four days. None of his men knew—they got a blast from the Rings if they tried to get near the bedroom. They assumed he was just holed up in his room because of how angry he was about you.”

That last statement hung in the air for a moment, charged. It was Katy who broke the silence, venturing, “But he didn’t try to… blast you?”

“Someone had to bring him food,” Xialing replied. She kept her eyes on the swirling, slashing rope darts, her jaw set, as she added, “I don’t think I mattered.”

Shang-Chi had one painful, irreconcilable story with Dad, Xialing had another. Now, Shang-Chi stood and edged into the path of her rope darts, ducking and sidestepping the blades as they glinted in the sunlight.

“You realize my control over this weapon is impeccable?” Xialing asked him. There was a challenge in her eyes, and a smirk was beginning to tug at the corner of her mouth. “That means if I cut you, it will be deliberate.”

Good. Let her be cocky. Let her think about something other than the collateral damage that splintered their every interaction with Dad. Still weaving between the glinting blades, Shang-Chi smiled and told his sister, “Hit me with your best shot.”

She grinned now. “You’re going to regret that,” she warned.

As they sparred, Xialing kept Shang-Chi continuously on the ropes but Shang-Chi at least felt her heel impacting against his jaw far less than he had in Macau. Trading hits with his sister, he felt like his brain could settle a little, not stay stuck on overdrive.

Dad was right about one thing—Shang-Chi didn’t know what the next week would bring, and he didn’t know if he could handle it. They would need to be at their best, physically and mentally, and while that meant fighting like their lives depended on it (because it most likely did,) it also meant stealing a few moments of solace, away from the head trip, away from Dad, away from this impossible quest to rescue a mom who couldn’t still be alive.

For just a little while – five minutes, ten, whatever – let them forget everything that had been done to them. And if (Shang-Chi dove, rolled out of the path of Xialing flying towards him with determination blazing in her eyes) if, for Xialing, that involved kicking her brother in the face, who was Shang-Chi to argue?

 

Thanks for reading! I promise it's all complicated father-son relationships and nummy cold goodness from here on out!

[Reader]

Katy sounds like a hoot and Xialing is so cool. I’m liking all these characters. This was beautifully written. 
 

[angora48]

Both of those things are very true, @Reader! Thanks for your comments.

Here's Part 3. The story is written mostly from Shang-Chi's viewpoint, but I knew I wanted at least one chapter to get into Wenwu's head.

 

Wenwu had hoped to shake off his cold quickly, but it seemed he wasn’t so fortunate. He felt a threadbare sort of weary when he retired that night, and the next morning found him with an aching throat and a stuffed nose. As was his habit when he was unwell, he eschewed company, slipping into the dining room before the children and Shang-Chi’s friend woke and then retreating to his study with his breakfast.

Just as well that he kept to himself. There was still much to be done, and Wenwu didn’t need distractions. He could instruct his men through his mobile phone if necessary, and the previous day, he’d caught sight through the window of Shang-Chi training in the courtyard with Xialing, so he felt he could leave them to it.

They didn’t understand, about Li. Wenwu had seen it in their eyes when he told them how their mother had been reaching out to him. Li had told them stories of Ta Lo when they were young, but he was realizing now that they hadn’t believed in it, not really. They thought their mother was dead, were ready to give her up. They didn’t know.

Which, Wenwu supposed, meant it was up to him to show them. As the day wore on, he tried to keep his mind on the mission at hand. He’d already drawn a copy of the map to Ta Lo that had been revealed to him, the path that would open through the bamboo maze on Qingming. Now, based on the original map from the children’s pendants and his knowledge of the bamboo forest concealing Ta Lo, he was attempting to work out the size of the opening (to know how many vehicles and men he could bring through) and the speed at which they’d have to move to keep ahead of the forest closing in around them.

But it was slow going. The calculations were fiddly, and he didn’t know how precise the scale of the map was. There was much guesswork and backtracking involved, which wasn’t ideal for plotting the way through a deadly bamboo maze designed to keep intruders out.

“huhhhhh-shiiuuuhhhhh!” Wenwu sneezed, burying his nose in his handkerchief. His cold wasn’t doing anything to help matters. He felt tired, and there was a tickly irritation in his throat that distracted him. His nose was also an annoyance. It seemed to remain just on the edge of beginning to run, which left him feeling a continual need to sniffle but finding little relief in doing so.

Sniffling now, he wiped his nose and stifled a cough into his handkerchief. Letting his eyes fall closed, he rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.

That’s when he heard it. “I’m waiting for you,” the voice, her voice, said.

Wenwu opened his eyes, turning. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see her – however the magic worked, it didn’t extend that far – but if he looked at her photograph on the side table, it was as if he was looking at Li.

“I doh,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “You’ve given us everything we deed to reach you, my love. Dow we odly have to wait for the path to open. We- we-e’ll brig you- hobe….” He fought through the building itch in his nose until the end of his thought, then let the itch overtake him. “haahhhhh… ehhhhh-SHOOOOO!”

He was still blotting at his nose when he felt her cool hand on his brow. “You’re not well,” Li noted.

Sniffing once more, Wenwu pocketed his handkerchief. “I’m all right; it’s just a cold,” he explained. “You dod’t need to worry. I’m cobing, I swear to you.”

Li’s fingers were moving gently through his hair now. Wenwu resisted the urge to reach up and take her hand in his, knowing that the magic did not allow that either. Previously, when he attempted to touch her in this form, her presence vanished and the barrenness of the solitude that remained in her place was overwhelming.

Wenwu brought the back of his hand to his mouth, grimacing as he coughed. “What are we going to do with you?” Li said, quietly teasing. He could hear the smile in her voice, soft and fond and caring.

Wenwu’s own smile was rueful. “I’ve dever been addy good without you,” he admitted. “All those cedturies, and they beant duthing. Add since you-- sidce they took you frob be, I haved’t-- the childred--” He clenched his jaw; his voice was congested and sounded weak. He wanted to be so much more for her.

But Li said, “Shhh,” softly in his ear. She massaged his left temple with her thumb, the way she used to. Wenwu didn’t take ill often, but Li still knew just how to tend to him. “Don’t worry about them,” she urged. “Once you free me, then they’ll see. Then we’ll all be together.”

It wasn’t their fault, Wenwu reasoned. They had been without their mother for so long, and they were so young when they lost her. Xialing had only been three; when she pictured her mother’s face, she probably drew more from the images on Li’s shrine than her actual memories.

“We’ll be a fabbily again,” Wenwu said. He gave a light sniff, cursing that his nose was intruding on this moment between him and his wife.

“I need you, Wenwu,” Li continued. “Open the gate; you’re the only one who can.”

“I wod’t fail you,” Wenwu promised. “I-I-ehhhhhh…” He bent forward into another sneeze, catching the forceful “hehhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!” in his handkerchief. “Forgive be,” he said, sniffing. “It’s better thad it sounds, I--”

He broke off, the silence swallowing him. She was gone. Not merely quiet, not merely taken a step back from him. She’d been returned to wherever she lay, captive in Ta Lo. Wenwu felt the void of her absence like a pressure on his chest, making him feel like he could breathe only shallowly. He coughed into his handkerchief, blinking back the wetness on his lashes.

Wenwu brushed his knuckles against his throat, which twinged with pain whenever he swallowed. Now was not the time to be ill. There was too much to be done, too much depending on him. Li had been trapped in that place for 17 years, held prisoner by those she once called family, neighbors. They were the ones who poisoned his home, stealing his light from him, turning his children against him with the hole that Ta Lo cut from all their hearts.

A pulse of electric blue flickered through Wenwu’s veins, the Ten Rings on his forearms beginning to glow as he pressed his fist to the desk. If only he’d known sooner that she was still alive. 17 years taken from him, from her, taken from them all. They could have been happy together Ta Lo hadn’t--

“ahhhhh-ehhhhh-SHOOOOO!” he sneezed, a sudden burst, pressing the side of his hand to his mouth because there wasn’t time to reach for his handkerchief. “hehhhhh… ahhhhhh… hihhh-uhhhh-chiiuuhhhhhh!” With a weary sigh, he plucked up his handkerchief and held it to his nose, sniffing.

He didn’t know why Li couldn’t have reached out to him sooner, didn’t know what she had to give of herself to wrestle that slight bit of magic through the soft spaces between dimensions. But he knew she was waiting for him, had been waiting for him, and he couldn’t let her down now. In six days’ time, the bamboo path would open. He, Shang-Chi, and his men would follow its serpentine path all the way to Ta Lo. And there, they would finish it.

17 years ago, Ta Lo stole the purest thing in Wenwu’s very long life. He could recover her at last, bind his fractured family back together. Cold or no cold, it would call on every ounce of his strength, and he would need to summon it for her. It didn’t matter what irritation itched at him, what fatigue clung to him, what pain pricked at him. He would bring his wife home, and he would allow nothing to stand in his way.

[Reader]

This was soooooo romantic and tragic and beautiful! Love this chapter! Wenwu and his wife  I’m so close to looking up the summary of this movie for spoilers. 
 

 

[angora48]

@Reader, like I said before, I really love how multifaceted Wenwu is. The movie allows him to be a tragic, sympathetic, even romantic figure while also not shying away from the terrible things he's done, including to his children. His villainous actions don't negate the tragedies he's experienced, but those tragedies don't excuse or justify his behavior either. He gets to be so richly complicated, and I love it!

What I also love? Torturing him with cold symptoms while diving into his messy relationship with Shang-Chi. Here's Part 4!

(Warning: my cat walked across my keyboard a few times as I was editing--I think I fixed all the cat-paw-induced typos, but if there's a random "as;lkfj/8l" in there somewhere, that's why!)

 

 

It was dumb when you thought about it. When those Ten Rings guys attacked Shang-Chi on the bus, in Macau, he didn’t hesitate. He fought them until there were no more to fight. But with his dad – not even fighting him, just facing him – the mere thought was almost enough to make Shang-Chi feel queasy.

So he stayed away, skirting around the edges of Dad even as he walked the halls of Dad’s compound, ate Dad’s food, sparred with Xialing in Dad’s courtyard. It was actually easy for Shang-Chi to avoid him. Dad apparently hadn’t been kidding when he said he liked to lay low when he was sick—Shang-Chi hadn’t seen his dad so much as stirring about the compound in the last two days.

It put the men in the Ten Rings on edge. They were busily preparing for the alleged “rescue” mission, but Shang-Chi could tell it unnerved them a little that Dad wasn’t around. Shang-Chi didn’t blame them. He knew what it was like to live under his dad’s expectations, following his orders and striving to please him. There were times when he went all sphynx on you, when he didn’t tell you anything and his expression became unreadable, and you had to guess at what he wanted. If you guessed wrong, you found yourself on the receiving end of his anger—Shang-Chi knew a thing or two about that, too.

It didn’t surprise Shang-Chi, then, that Dad’s men maintained a slightly-jumpy quiet, speaking to each other only in low voices, sneaking furtive looks at the guy with the machete prosthetic (how did he open pickle jars? enquiring minds want to know) in the hopes that he had a better notion of what Shang-Chi’s dad expected of them than they did.

As Shang-Chi watched them buzz around the compound, he didn’t like the look of the sheer volume of weapons he saw them handling. Old-fashioned-looking stuff, swords and crossbows, but they’d had some kind of upgrade, because they all crackled with an energy that looked like a fainter version of the Ten Rings’ power. Some fancy technological something or other, or did Dad somehow power them through the Rings? Either way, they made Shang-Chi uneasy.

Ta Lo was Mom’s home. It was where she came from, where she grew up. Probably everyone she ever knew before she met Dad was from there. Old friends of hers probably still lived there, maybe even family. People who’d known her, loved her. And no matter how insane Dad’s reasoning was for why they had to go there, his men were preparing for very real violence once they arrived.

The people of Ta Lo wouldn’t be expecting a fight, because they weren’t really holding Mom. They couldn’t be. Mom was gone. Dad would know that, wouldn’t have latched onto this wild fantasy, if he’d been there when she…. If he’d seen her….

Shang-Chi took a breath. Enough avoiding. Their best hope to stop people from getting hurt was to stop Dad and the Ten Rings from going to Ta Lo, and that meant talking some sense into Dad. Xialing couldn’t do it, Shang-Chi knew. Dad barely saw her, hardly noticed her. Nothing she said would get through to him. It would have to be Shang-Chi.

He headed for his dad’s study—he’d like to say he strode purposefully, but on the inside, he felt like he was shuffling reluctantly. The whole way there, he let the words loop through his brain in time to his footsteps. We can’t rescue Mom in Ta Lo, Dad, because she’s not there. There’s no getting her back. You don’t get a magic fix for the family that you broke, giving up on Xialing and making me into a weapon for your grief. If you want us to be a family again, we’re going to have to put it back together, all three of us, and we’ll have to do it without her—only our memories are left….

By the time Shang-Chi reached the study, he’d built up enough psychological momentum that he was ready to let it carry him inside, prepared to start talking and not stop to see the look in Dad’s eyes as he spoke. He twisted the knob and wrenched the door open.

Only problem? His dad wasn’t there. Shang-Chi’s mind stuttered, so intent on this showdown that it wasn’t sure how to course-correct. He’d just assumed Dad would be in here, sequestered like he’d been the day before.

Shang-Chi might have used that as an excuse to stand down, but he wasn’t ready to tuck his tail between his legs just yet. Where else would Dad be? Dining room, maybe? It was late for supper, past 8:30, but Shang-Chi supposed that might be a good assurance for Dad that he’d be alone, since he didn’t want any of his men to see him when he was sick.

But the dining room was empty too, and it wasn’t until he got there that Shang-Chi recalled the empty plate and cup he’d seen on a tray in Dad’s study. Of course—if he told his men to bring his meals to him, that he was too busy preparing for the raid or strategizing or praying to come down to eat, they’d do what he said, no questions asked. They’d do anything he said, no questions asked.

At this point, Shang-Chi’s momentum was starting to taper off, and he wavered a little. He wandered down a few halls not really sure what he was even looking for, not wholly paying attention to where he was going. Was it stupid to think he had any hope of talking Dad down from this crazy plan?

Shang-Chi had been walking for about ten minutes when, rounding a corner, he suddenly saw his dad further down the hall. “Dad?” he said. Not the most auspicious start—he’d have liked to sound slightly less timid when he said it.

Dad turned, but slowly, almost like a delayed reaction. He paused outside a door as Shang-Chi walked down the hall toward him. “Shang-Chi?” Dad said, sniffing as he rubbed his nose. “Did you deed sobething?”

Shang-Chi stopped short, weirded out again by how incongruous it felt for Dad to be sick. He sounded stuffed up now, not blatantly so but unmistakably, and a bit of gravel had been added to his cold-deepened voice. “I, uh, I was looking for you,” he explained, fumblingly. “I figured you’d be in your study, but….”

“Ah,” Dad replied. He cleared his throat, brushing his knuckles against his mouth, and sniffed again. “I was there earlier. You bay have just bissed me—I odly left about thi-irty binutes a-uhhhh-- ago….” He turned away, raising his handkerchief to his nose. “huhhhhhh-CHOOOO-ehhhhh!” He coughed a couple times, sniffled.

Xialing was right; it didn’t look right on him. It was like the strength and power of the Ten Rings ran into the weakness and fatigue of the sickness, and neither knew what to do with the other. “…Are you okay?” Shang-Chi asked.

“Yes,” Dad told him, clearing his throat again as he dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “Just feeling a little udwell. Dow, what did you need?”

Shang-Chi realized with a start that Dad’s hair was damp and slightly rumpled. He must’ve been in the shower, which wasn’t in line with his usual routine. Shang-Chi’s dad had always been one to rise early, coming to breakfast ready for the day. For him, a shower in the evening wouldn’t be for hygiene or utility. It must have been for comfort, hot water on the skin and warm steam in the lungs to soothe sickly feelings.

And just like that, Shang-Chi’s big speech evaporated. He said, “Honestly, Dad, it’s not-- it can wait til morning.”

But to his surprise, Dad replied, “Doh, it’s fide—just give be a midute.” He opened the hallway door and slipped inside, and Shang-Chi realized they’d been standing outside Dad’s bedroom.

He waited in the hallway, shaking his head. The idea of confronting his dad like this, when his hair was untidy from the shower and he was sniffling into a handkerchief? It was laughable. Way to feel like a big man, Shang-Chi chided himself.

When his dad emerged a few minutes later, Shang-Chi was further chastened to see that he’d changed into pajamas. A tunic-style maroon shirt and matching bottoms, with intricate patterns embroidered around the cuffs in a rich blue. Like most everything Dad wore, it was elegant in its simplicity, fit him perfectly, and probably cost at least a week’s worth of Shang-Chi’s paycheck back in San Francisco.

He’d been on his way to bed, Shang-Chi realized—he really must’ve been feeling sick. But Dad, pulling a warm-looking black sweater on over his pajamas, said, “Let’s walk.”

Shang-Chi’s dad led him through the halls in an odd, twisty route. Sticking to out-of-the-way corners, Shang-Chi supposed, where they wouldn’t run into any of his men. Dad didn’t speak, just cleared his throat a few times as he rubbed his nose, and he didn’t so much as look at Shang-Chi, but Shang-Chi could feel his expectant stance. Well? seemed to hang in the air between them.

Having already decided he wasn’t going to singlehandedly talk Dad out of his obsession with raiding Ta Lo then and there, that left Shang-Chi with nothing else to really talk about, certainly nothing worth making his dad wind through the halls when he’d rather be in bed. Shang-Chi seized upon the first thing that popped into his head. “You said you always knew where we were,” Shang-Chi said. “Xialing and me.”

“Did you thidk you were hard to find?” Dad asked, his voice tinged with a paternal sort of amusement. And yet, threaded through it, just that hint of menace. Don’t be silly, son, of course I found you! mixed with a dash of, There’s nowhere on this earth where you can hide from me, boy. Affection and threat, love and possession; it was all one to Dad.

“So you could’ve come for us any time,” Shang-Chi said, forcing himself not to let his psyche wander down any rabbit holes. “You, your guys, whatever.”

“Of course I c-- could haaa…” Dad trailed off. He fumbled a bit for his handkerchief, lifting it just in time to catch a hard “AHHHHH-shiiuuhhhhhhh!” He stopped walking for a moment, sniffed. When he felt Shang-Chi hovering at his elbow, he put a hand out, a gesture to hold him back. Giving his nose a careful wipe with the handkerchief, he resumed walking and asked, “What of it?” as if he’d not been interrupted at all.

“You didn’t send the Ten Rings after us until you needed our pendants – Mom’s pendants – to get your map to Ta Lo,” Shang-Chi went on, still trying not to be so weirded out at the sight of Dad wiping his nose.

“That’s right,” Dad agreed. He coughed into the back of his hand, grimacing a little. Or wincing? From the sound of his voice, his throat was probably sore.

“So you didn’t really care about seeing us at all,” Shang-Chi said. “So long as you got the pendants, that was all that mattered.”

“I did deed the peddants,” Dad remarked. “That was don-degotiable.” He sniffled. “But you’re here, ared’t you?”

“Only because your men didn’t succeed in killing me,” Shang-Chi pointed out.

His dad gave a small, thoughtful smile. “I had faith id by children,” he replied.

God, he was so casual about it, as if the occasional murder attempt between fathers and their kids was no big deal so long as the dad was reasonably sure the kids could handle it. No wonder Shang-Chi had kept his past a secret from Katy for so long. How the hell was he supposed to explain all this?

Dad’s breath hitched, and he bent forward with an “ehhhhhh-hihhhhhh-CHIOOOOO!” buried in his handkerchief. He started to lift his head but quickly lowered it into another sneeze, a strong “uhhhhh-SHOOOO-ahhhh!” Coughing a little as he sniffled, he said, “Excuse be,” in a slightly croaky voice. “Please go od.”

Shang-Chi was quiet for a moment, gathering himself for his driving point. “If-- I mean, if you hadn’t needed something from us, would you have ever tried to see us again?”

There was a soft beat before Dad’s answer. “You add your sister both rad away from hobe,” he said. “You weren’t idterested id addy kind of family reudion.”

Shang-Chi could’ve laughed at that. “So I guess you were just respecting our privacy?” he asked. “You know, while you were spying on us and tracking our every move.”

“Add you?” his dad countered. “You dew where your sister was. You didn’t go to see her. You didd’-- didd’t eeved-- wri-iii…” He was trying to finish his sentence before sneezing, but his nose had other ideas. Finally, he gave up, clapping his handkerchief over his mouth. “hhhhhhh-SHNNFFHHHHH!”

He sniffled hard, clearing his throat. He was definitely wincing this time. It was as fascinating as it was surreal to see, and not just the basic weirdness of Dad being sick. Shang-Chi’s dad was controlled and confident, radiating self-assurance with every bone in his body; Shang-Chi supposed possessing unbeatable power and a millennium of experience can do that to a person. But something as simple, as stupid and human as a sneeze could assert its will over Dad, could rob his coolly-damning statement of some of its sting.

That small break in the veneer was enough to let Shang-Chi respond cavalierly instead of wanting to curl up and die. “It’s the 21^st century, Dad,” he said. “People don’t ‘write’ anymore. And you ever try to get from San Francisco to Macau on a parking valet’s salary?”

“I udderstand it’s a profession that depedds heavily od tips,” Dad noted. “Baybe you deed to be more idgratitating?” Just like that, he was back in control, but Shang-Chi held onto that moment as proof that it could happen. Ageless, not invulnerable, he reminded himself. In more ways than one, I guess.

“Why’d you send me that postcard?” Shang-Chi asked next.

“You didn’t wadt to doh where your sister was?” Dad replied. He stifled a cough into his knuckles.

“You know what I mean,” Shang-Chi answered. “Why’d you do it the way you did, pretending she sent it?”

“Her dame wasn’t od it,” Dad pointed out.

“No, but you knew I’d think it was her,” Shang-Chi told him. “What was it for?”

“I thought you add your sister bight like to see each other,” Dad replied softly, “add I dew you wouldn’t wadt to hear from be.” He drew in a sharp breath, seemed to hold it as he pulled his handkerchief back out. “ahhhhh… hehhhhh… ihhhhhh-SHOOOO!”

Damn him. Why did he ever say things like that, make Shang-Chi feel like he cared? How could he be so manipulative and dangerous and exacting, but then, every once in a while, act like he somehow wanted what was best for his children?

Dad’s nose was still bothering him. “hihhhhhh-SHUHHHHH!” he sneezed. “ihhhhh… HUHHHHH-chiiuhhhhh! Mbb…” He wiped his nose, coughing.

Shang-Chi sighed. He hated his dad, feared him, resented him, found him reprehensible. So why did Shang-Chi still love him, at least a little? “I should go… see what Katy’s what up,” he said, to avoid acknowledging that they both knew Dad was better off in bed. “Make sure she’s not starting an international incident or anything.”

“At first, I couldn’t tell what you saw id her,” Dad commented, still dabbing lightly at his nose, “but I thidk I’m starting to udderstand. I see why you like her.”

“Oh Dad, it’s not like that,” Shang-Chi said. “We’re dot--”

“I doh,” his dad replied. That paternal amusement again. “She’s a good friend to you. I’be glad she’s here.”

“…I’d better go,” Shang-Chi repeated. He added a hasty, “Good night,” then took off down the hall.

[Reader]

I definitely see the darker, more manipulative side of Wenwu in this chapter! And you’re so good at delving into the psyche of both Shang Chi and Wenwu. You’re portraying his cold sooooo well! It’s exquisite!! Top-notch!! 

[angora48]

Thanks, @Reader. I love portraying characters with colds for all the obvious fetish reasons, but I also love using colds as a vehicle for exploring characters' relationships. If there's a complex, meaty relationship that I want to dig into in a fanfic, my go-to response is usually, "One of these characters should probably get sick immediately." 😁

Here's Part 5, the end of "Ageless, Not Invulnerable." Thanks for reading!

 

In the morning, Shang-Chi didn’t beat Xialing to breakfast (who ever could?), but he at least got to the dining room before she finished eating—she was very much of the opinion that San Francisco had robbed him of all discipline, and he was in no hurry to reinforce that idea.

“Did you enjoy sleeping in?” Xialing asked coolly, looking up from her miàntiáo.

“It’s 8:15,” Shang-Chi pointed out. Xialing just shook her head in woeful disapproval and Shang-Chi resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“You realize that you didn’t have to cross any time zones to get here, right?” he continued. “I crossed an ocean.”

“Americans do love excuses, don’t they?” Xialing asked, finishing the last of her miàntiáo as she watched Shang-Chi grab some noodles of his own and a few bāozi.

“Who’s making excuses?” Shang-Chi countered, bringing his breakfast to the table. “I’m just stating facts.”

She didn’t get up from the table and leave, even though she was done eating, and Shang-Chi considered that progress. “Did you want to do some practice with bo staffs?” Xialing asked, her voice conversational.

More progress. In just a few days, they’d come a long way from Xialing relentlessly pummeling Shang-Chi while he tried to talk to her. Sure, she still did a fair amount of pummeling, but it was in aid of actual sparring now, and both of them talked.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Shang-Chi agreed. “Let’s wait until Katy gets up, though. I think she might have a crush on you.”

Xialing ignored that last remark, archly replying, “So, in a few hours then?”, but she was smiling just a little as she said it.

As Shang-Chi enjoyed the feeling of kinda-sorta hanging out with his sister, he futilely tried to push down the thoughts of last night that intruded into his mind. You knew where your sister was. You didn’t go see her, didn’t even write. Why didn’t he? Why, even after ten years, even after half the world disappeared and then came back, did he never contact his sister until Dad and the Ten Rings forced the issue? And while Shang-Chi knew the answer to that – he was too afraid that his dad would find him, lot of good that did since Dad apparently knew where he was the entire time – it didn’t feel like an answer, not now sitting across the table from Xialing.

Half the world disappeared, he reiterated, and I didn’t even try to figure out if she was one of them. She must not have been, what with her starting a wildly-successful fighting ring in Macau in the meantime. But that just meant she’d been making her own alone in a world that was crumbling apart. God, no wonder the first thing she did when she saw him was beat his ass.

Shang-Chi didn’t know if he could ever make up for that, but at least he could try. They were both trying, remembering how to be brother and sister. And so Xialing dawdled while Shang-Chi ate. They joked a little, talked weaponry, edged around the big topics they couldn’t fully talk about yet.

Shang-Chi’s plate hadn’t been empty for more than ten minutes when Katy trudged in, yawning and digging her fingers through her tangled hair. “See?” Shang-Chi told Xialing. “Still definitely morning. Hope for us Americans yet!”

“I missed something,” Katy noted drowsily. Before Shang-Chi could even open his mouth, she added, “Don’t tell me, I don’t care.” Still half sleep-walking, she stumbled through heaping her plate with a little of everything and then plunked herself down at the table.

It was then that Shang-Chi noticed there was still one set of breakfast dishes sitting beside the array of food, unused. He tried to stay focused on Katy and Xialing, to keep his head in the conversation, but those empty dishes tugged at his attention.

So much so that, when he caught one of Dad’s men out the corner of his eye, heading down the hall, he called, “Hey,” interrupting Katy’s sleepy retelling of an embarrassing high school anecdote for Xialing’s amusement.

The guy stopped in the hall and turned to stand in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Has my dad been down yet?” Shang-Chi asked. “Is he in his study?”

“I haven’t seen your father this morning,” the man admitted, shifting uneasily like he didn’t want the boss’s kids to know he wasn’t important enough to be in the loop with their dad. He glanced down the hall. “I have to--”

“Yeah,” Shang-Chi said hurriedly. “Yeah, go ahead.” The man nodded and continued on his way.

“Good,” Katy commented. “No offense, Shaun, but the less we see of your dad the better. Unless—does he just like appear out of nowhere? Like we’re trash-talking him, and then all of the sudden he’s right behind me going, ‘So that’s your opinion of me; how interesting.’ And then….” She made explosion noises with her mouth, sweeping her arms around like she was using the Ten Rings.

“…Something like that,” Shang-Chi replied.

When Katy finished eating, Xialing rose from the table. “Ready?” she asked Shang-Chi.

Shang-Chi glanced again at the empty dishes. “Not quite,” he said. “There’s something I’ve gotta do quick. You go on—I’ll catch up.”

Katy, following his gaze, assumed he was looking at the serving dishes that still steamed with food. “Carbo loading: respect,” she commented. “Later, dude!” She jumped up, leaving her dishes at the table, and followed after Xialing. As they left the kitchen together, Shang-Chi heard Katy asking, “Okay, real talk. Can you or can you not Crouching Tiger yourself onto a rooftop…?”

Once he was alone, Shang-Chi moved to the untouched set of breakfast dishes. Something simple, he figured—tea and a bowl of congee. That always hit the spot when he was sick. He was sure how Dad liked his congee, so Shang-Chi doctored it the way he liked it, with cilantro and soy sauce and sesame oil, along with a few of the fancier options on order, like some succulent-looking strips of marinated chicken and a thousand-year-old egg.

Shang-Chi grabbed a tray to hold the cup and bowl, then set off for his dad’s room. Outside the door, he was about to go in, then remembered Xialing’s story about how Dad had blasted his men with the Ten Rings when he had the flu. I’d better announce myself, he thought.

Softly, he rapped on the door. “Dad?” Shang-Chi said. “You hungry? I brought you something to eat.”

When there was no reply, Shang-Chi poked his head inside. The room was dark, and Dad was in bed—still asleep, Shang-Chi quickly realized. He lay on his stomach with one arm beneath his pillow (it was such a human stance—Shang-Chi had never seen his dad like this,) and his slow, congested breathing wasn’t quite snoring, but it was damn close.

Shang-Chi hung indecisively in the doorway. He hadn’t counted on this. Should he wake his dad? Just leave the tray for when Dad woke up (because there’s nothing like lukewarm congee and cold tea, right?) Take it as a sign that he should be out in the courtyard with Xialing and Katy right now and forget the whole thing?

Before Shang-Chi had to decide what to do, Dad began coughing, from deep in his chest—Shang-Chi winced just to hear it. Slowly, Dad stirred, trying to stifle a few more hard coughs as he half-propped himself up on one elbow and felt for his handkerchief on his bedside table.

“hehhhhh… ihhhhhh-SHUHHHHH!” he sneezed into his handkerchief, sputtering into another cough. He sniffled a few times, then started to blow his nose, which was yet another world of weird for Shang-Chi to witness. There was something so vulnerable about it, like he ought to look away.

“D-Dad?” Shang-Chi said again, quietly. It was only fair to let Dad know he wasn’t alone in the room (not to mention, Shang-Chi really didn’t care to find out how far the force of the Rings could knock him down the hallway.)

His dad paused, threw him a glance, then finished blowing his nose. “Shag-Chi,” he said, sounding hoarse and wiped out. He wiped his nose gingerly with the handkerchief. “Was there sobething you--?”

“No,” Shang-Chi replied quickly. “No, I just-- here.” Awkwardly, he stepped forward and dropped the tray unto the bedside table.

Sniffling, Dad pushed himself up to a sitting position. He rumpled his hair with one hand while he reached for the cup of tea with the other. “Thadk you,” he said. He sipped his tea, definitely wincing when he swallowed, then made a listless gesture toward the curtains. “Would you…?”

“Oh-- right,” Shang-Chi mumbled, crossing to the windows. Unfortunately, he threw the curtains all the way open, not thinking about how blinding a sudden influx of light into a dark room would be for someone who just woke up. “Sorry!” he said, realizing his mistake as soon as he made it.

“Ih-ihhht’s fi-iiii-SHUHHHHHHHH!” Dad was cut off by a hard sneeze, swiftly followed by a “hihhhhhh-CHIIUHHHHH! ahhhhhh-hehhhhhh-SHIOOOO-uhhhhh! Mbb….” Holding his hand to his nose (self-consciously? did Dad get self-conscious?), he set the tea down and grabbed his handkerchief.

Shang-Chi grimaced. We’re off to such a great start, he thought darkly. He didn’t say anything while his dad blotted at his running nose, sniffling and coughing.

Finally, Dad set the handkerchief down (not on the nightstand, but beside him on the bed—sensing a need for more quick access in the near future?) and picked up the bowl of congee. “Mbb,” he murmured at his first mouthful. Shang-Chi still saw the flicker of pain that twitched through Dad’s expression as he swallowed, but the “mbb” didn’t sound displeased, so Shang-Chi must’ve done at least something right.

After a quiet moment, Dad remarked, “If you’re going to stay, you bight as well sit,” sniffling as he rested his spoon in the congee so he could rub his nose.

Shang-Chi did as he was instructed. “…Are you all right?” he asked.

“All right eduff,” Dad replied, swallowing another mouthful of congee. He coughed into his fist. “I deed to be.”

For Mom—he needed to be “all right enough” for the raid on Ta Lo. “Dad, why do you think she’s there?” Shang-Chi heard himself asking.

“Because she told me,” Dad answered. He paused, dropping the spoon into the bowl again. “ehhhh… ahhhhhh….” He plucked up his handkerchief and covered his mouth. “…CHUHHHHHHH!”

He said it so nonchalantly, like guys hear the disembodied voices of their dead wives all the time. As he sniffled into the handkerchief, his eyes moved to the wedding photo of him and Mom on the bedside table.

But then, before Shang-Chi’s grief or anger could rise yet again, a thought suddenly struck him. Obviously not all the time, but for Dad, maybe not out of the realm of possibility. I mean, when you’re 1000 years old and your wife was some kind of airbender apparently from a mystical dimension, what was so impossible about her speaking to you across distance, about the revelation that she’s not dead at all but trapped in that mystical dimension behind a gate? For Dad, that was practically just a Tuesday.

Not that Shang-Chi believed it – he couldn’t, not when the memory of witnessing her murder had spent the last 17 years threatening to crowd out every good memory he ever had of her – but he could almost see why Dad would believe it. Not just clinging to a futile dream, not just deluding himself. When that’s your life, why wouldn’t you think something like that could happen?

Dad took a swallow of tea, clearing his throat. “I’ve seed you sparring with your sister,” he said, returning to his congee. “Your forb is strog, add your idstincts serve you well. Did you study id Sad Fradcisco or berel-- hehhhh-IHHHHH-shuhhhhhh!” He sneezed abruptly into the back of his hand. “--Berely codtidue practicing what you leard here?” he finished, sniffing hard.

“You don’t know?” Shang-Chi asked. “I thought you were watching me the whole time.”

“Doh, I doh,” Dad replied. The smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was slight and looked very tired but felt genuine. “But I find it bakes for a bore balanced conservashud whed I pretend I dod’t doh all the answers.”

Shang-Chi so often hated that Dad could be funny or charming, but right now, he didn’t mind it so much. “Just kept up what I learned,” he explained. “Practiced in my apartment.” He didn’t state the reason, that he thought seeking out any kind of formal training might give his dad a clue to find him. Neither of them needed that spoken out loud.

“It’s clear you hadd’t faced a real oppodent id quite sobe tibe,” Dad acknowledged, “but you cobpensate well for it, add your booves are largely above reproach.”

“I think Xialing’s better than I am,” Shang-Chi admitted.

Dad smiled again. This one was quieter, like it was more for him than Shang-Chi. “Your sister’s always beed very dedicated,” he said. Starting to cough, he reached for his handkerchief.

Before Shang-Chi was quite aware of what he was doing, he’d gotten to his feet and walked to the bed, picking up Dad’s tea and offering it to him.

Giving a hasty nod, Dad accepted the cup, taking small swallows until the coughing stopped. “Thadk you,” he said, clearing his throat. “Excuse be.” His nose wriggled, just a little; he rubbed it with his finger.

“I should let you rest,” Shang-Chi decided. He felt awkward, like he didn’t quite fit in his skin.

His dad gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Thadk you for the breakfast,” he said. But as Shang-Chi turned to go, Dad called, “Sud?”

Shang-Chi looked back. “Yeah?”

“If you have addy cause t-- to look for be-- la-ayter….” Dad, realizing he wouldn’t make it through the sentence without sneezing, paused and picked up his handkerchief. “hihhhhhh-CHUHHHHH!” He cleared his throat, sniffling. “If you deed to look for be later,” he repeated, sniffling once more, “I’ll boste likely be here.”

It was a way of saying I’m going to be in bed all day without actually saying I’m going to be in bed all day. “Right,” Shang-Chi replied. “Good to know.” With a final nod, he slipped out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

As he strode down the hall, heading out to meet Xialing and Katy in the courtyard, Shang-Chi thought again of Xialing’s story about bringing Dad food when he was sick, the only person he’d let into his bedroom. I don’t think I mattered, she admitted, but maybe that wasn’t it. After all, if that was true, what about Shang-Chi? He was the literal number-one son, and Dad hadn’t seemed to mind Shang-Chi seeing him like that.

Maybe it was the opposite. Maybe he steered clear of his Ten Rings guys because they were just people to impose his will on, and he didn’t want anything disrupting the impression of his power with them. But Shang-Chi, Xialing, they weren’t just people to follow or obey him. Regardless of all the three of them had been through, on some level he trusted them and allowed them to see him when his strength was at its lowest.

Shang-Chi didn’t know if he’d ever truly be able to make sense of Dad, if he’d find some way to reconcile all the trauma and sort it into understanding who he was, who Dad was. But he knew that Dad wasn’t just one thing, no matter how much Shang-Chi might wish that were true sometimes. Dad was someone extremely long-lived and complex, who defied absolutes, who left damage in his wake but still drew you to him, who maybe loved Shang-Chi and Xialing, somehow.

When the morning of Qingming arrived, Shang-Chi couldn’t say what was going to happen. He didn’t want to think about the extremes that might be called for, though he knew he couldn’t afford not to. But these past few days had given him a window into Dad that he’d never seen before, and that was something to hold onto.

What would come next? Another window, letting a bit of light into corners that have been dark for too long? Or a door slamming shut between them, never to be opened again?

Shang-Chi neared the courtyard, where Xialing was very impatiently trying to show Katy how to form a proper fist. He hung back for a moment, watching them, smiling. For the first time since the Ten Rings had attacked the bus back in San Francisco, he felt like he might be able to handle whatever was to come.

[Reader]

Wonderful finale! It was great getting final snapshots of each character and as always, you have such a yummy gift for cold writing!