A few hours later, Dylan woke abruptly with a foul taste in his mouth and the beginnings of a headache nagging at him between his eyes. He groaned and sat up, then pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose to stave away the worst of the ache.

Why the hell do I feel hungover?

He’d had about half a beer and a single shot of whiskey. He might have been an omega but he was no lightweight, and that wasn’t even enough for a good buzz. The only conclusion he could reach was that he was dehydrated and had an empty stomach, a combination that never did anyone any favors. A cup of coffee and a glass of water, and he should be good to go.

At the thought of coffee, he felt that distinct thirst at the back of his throat, almost like a cramp or an ache. He needed his caffeine fix, since he’d been neglecting that lately too. Maybe that was why he was so tired?

He could almost smell a fresh pot brewing.

No, he could smell it.

Sniffing the air, Dylan found himself baffled by this. Had Ryan returned? He had his own key in case of emergencies, but if he was going to come back, why not just stay in the first place?

He glanced over at the other side of the bed, expecting to see Hunter still conked out, but there were only rumpled sheets and the soft indent of a small body where he had been. Fear lodged up into Dylan’s throat, which he swallowed back with more than a little bit of effort. The urge to jump to conclusions was very strong, but things would be better in the long run if he just tried to relax and not do that. There were very few places in his own home for his son to disappear to.

Then again, he would have said the same about a school building.

Throwing back his covers, Dylan padded quickly out of bed and went down the hallway. “Hunter?” he called, softly. It took every bit of inner focus and strength he had to keep his anxiety from entering his voice, even though there was a chill running down his spine.

“In here, Daddy!”

He sagged with relief and entered the kitchen. It looked as if a bakery had exploded. Flour covered most of the immediate surfaces in a dusting of white, though there were smudges all over the place where little fingers had swept through on whatever mission was guiding them. The counter was covered in bowls, between which were a number of other items. Egg shells, the milk carton, the coffee canister...there were splatters of egg yolk, milk, and batter everywhere, smeared and dripping.

Dylan blinked and took a second look. The damage looked a whole hell of a lot less significant when he took a mental step backwards. A good sweep and a wet rag and it would be like none of this ever happened. But why had it happened?

The answer could be found in the form of a young, pajamaed body, standing on a stepstool in front of the stove. One of the burners was on, and on this burner was a frying pan. Inside this frying pan was a misshapen and lumpy pancake.

Leaning one hip against the counter, Dylan regarded his son, who was staring with determination at the pancake. A plate nearby held several other cakes, which were just as lumpy but seemed otherwise perfectly edible despite being cooked to a shade a few steps above golden brown.

“You got hungry, huh? I would have helped if you’d woken me up.”

Hunter ignored him. Dylan let it go because he knew this sort of quiet, which was born not from stubbornness but concentration. With extreme deliberateness, Hunter tilted the frying pan and slid a spatula beneath the pancake. Peering underneath it, he let it drop back without flipping it.

“Did...” Dylan stopped himself. He’d been about to ask if “Mommy” taught him how to make pancakes, but that seemed very unwise all of a sudden, though he didn’t think Hunter knew that his mother had been the one to send him away. It hadn’t ever been expressly said, as far as he knew. It was best not to cause trouble, not at a time like this.

So, he rephrased the question before it could ever leave his mouth. “Where’d you learn to make pancakes?”

“I’ve watched you do it,” Hunter replied. His voice was small and tentative. Dylan almost went weak at the knees because those five words were the most his son had said at once for several days.

“You really pay attention, huh?”

Hunter nodded, though he didn’t look up from the pancakes. With the same sort of careful reverence as before, he checked to see if his pancake was done. Finding it to be adequate, he flipped it and began the long wait for that side to cook. The color of the pancake was brown rather than golden, the same as all the others.

“I turned on the stove, too.”

“I can see that,” Dylan said.

“Are you mad?”

He considered the question carefully. “No, I’m not mad. Were you careful?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hunter replied. “The stove is fire. I know not to play with fire.”

Dylan smiled. “All right. But next time, wake me up first.”

“I will.” Hunter removed the finished pancake with delicate care and then fetched the bowl of batter to begin the next one. His technique could have used some work, which resulted in a pancake that looked more like an inkblot than a circle. He tried to use his spatula to smooth out the edges, though this tactic didn’t work very well since the batter started cooking instantly.

“I just wanted to surprise you,” the little boy continued. “You’re sad. I want to make you happy, Daddy.”

Dylan blinked, trying to force the tears from his eyes. “What makes you think I’m sad, honey?”

Hunter glanced at the pan on the stove. Seeming to decide that he had enough time to spare, he hopped down off the step stool and walked in the direction of the couch in the living room. He moved like an adult who has been beaten down, lacking the energetic grace of a child, but at least he was no longer stumbling or acting dizzy. In fact, Dylan realized that his son might be over the worst of the drugs, the effects of which had still been in his system, hampering his recovery. Hunter’s weariness seemed to be emotional, rather than physical.

Hunter stopped beside the coffee table and pointed at the bottle of whiskey, and Dylan’s unfinished beer.

Shit. He winced. Forgot to clean up.

“Mommy has bottles like that. She says funny things when she drinks the juice inside. It makes her breath smell bad when she gives me goodnight kisses.” Hunter reported this as if it was all a very normal occurrence. Maybe it was. Dylan winced again. “And she’s always sad the next day. I didn’t want you to be sad too, so I made you breakfast.”

Dylan went over to Hunter and dropped down to his knees. He held out his arms and Hunter went to him willingly, clinging to him with all the strength he had. Dylan rifled his fingers through his son’s hair, breathing in the clean, sweet scent of shampoo. He hugged Hunter every bit as strongly as Hunter hugged him, letting the power of their embrace hold his broken pieces together.

Finally, he drew back and looked deep into those soft sage eyes, which seemed so much wiser than their years. “Thank you, Hunter. And you even made me coffee? Did you learn that by watching, too?”

“No. I just read the instructions.” Hunter tilted his head. “It’s gurgling. Is it done?”

It was done. Dylan made a cup while Hunter went back to the stove. For what it was worth, the coffee was good, if a bit weak for his liking.

He did have his misgivings about allowing his son to cook at the stove on his own, since even adults were prone to accidents, but the meaning behind all of it negated that. Besides, it was impressive that Hunter was so observant as to be able to recreate what he had only seen be done. And Dylan didn’t know many other kindergartners who knew how to work a coffee machine, much less read the directions on the back of a coffee canister.

He was proud, filled to brimming with it.

When Hunter finally ran out of batter, Dylan went over to the cabinet to get plates. As he was reaching up, a small hand grabbed his wrist.

Startled, he turned and found himself looking right into Hunter’s eyes, as if his son had grown several feet in the blink of an eye. In reality, he was just standing on the counter.

God, he’s got to be athletic. I didn’t even hear him.

“Go sit down,” Hunter instructed. “I want to bring it to you.”

Dylan took his coffee and went to the couch to see how this played out. As it turned out, the process was interesting. Hunter could get down from the counter just fine but to get back up, he shapeshifted into his wolf form and jumped up.

Hunter’s wolf counterpart was very pale grey with darker markings. He had enormous paws that signaled he had a lot more growing to do in the future. That, combined with his frame in general, had Dylan convinced more than ever that Hunter was going to be an alpha. However, he hadn’t really developed any of the weight of an alpha and so his jumps were very light and graceful.

No wonder I didn’t hear him get up there.

Hunter divided the pancakes up onto two plates, poured syrup, fetched forks from the silverware drawer, and then came over to Dylan. “Here, Daddy,” he said.

“Thanks, bud. Hop up with me,” Dylan patted the couch beside him, “and we’ll see if we can find any cartoons.”

The TV over in the corner was a mere afterthought of a thing. He didn’t really like watching it, would have gotten rid of it and been all the happier about the money he saved from it, if it wasn’t for the fact that Hunter liked being able to have control over the channel. Apparently, Arden was a real stickler for watching her TV shows on time, every day.

Dylan supposed it was also handy to be able to watch the news and weather channels, though his computer could do the same. And occasionally a documentary came on that he would watch, but that was about it.

Hunter cuddled against his side and ate his pancakes in a very methodical manner, cutting each bite into a delicate mouthful.

Dylan found some old Pokémon reruns and let the show play while focusing on his breakfast. Aside from being a bit dense and overcooked, the pancakes weren’t that bad. Hunter had given him too much syrup and he could feel all the sugar hitting him, but it made him happy to think that Hunter had poured out exactly the amount he thought he would enjoy. The old saying was it’s the thought that counts, but Dylan had never known just how true that was until right now.

A commercial came on. Hunter glanced at it before losing interest. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s Mommy? Didn’t she miss me while I was gone?”

While he was gone. As if he’d only had a sleepover and was back after spending the night somewhere else. Dylan stared down at his syrup-drenched breakfast, holding his fork so hard that the edges left indentations on his fingers. This was one of the choices he was very terrified of making. Everything he could possibly say felt wrong.

He could lie, and the temptation to lie was so overwhelming that he nearly gave in. Hell, every parent lied at some point. He’d done it himself. Kids didn’t really understand that sometimes something just couldn’t be done, or that it was possible for an adult to just not feel like doing something. He tried not to make a habit out of lying, though.

This time, it seemed like it was for the best.

Dylan turned to look at Hunter, and the words died on his lips. Those eyes were so large, so trusting. In those eyes, he could do no wrong.

Wasn’t it about time he started living up to those expectations?

“You might not like what I have to tell you, honey.”

Hunter didn’t ask why, like many other children would have. Instead, he seemed to just accept this fact. “That’s okay. Mommy always says that we have to do stuff we don’t want to do.”

God, isn’t that the truth. Dylan closed his eyes, feeling pain stab his heart. Arden wasn’t often right about a lot of things, but damn, when she was, she hit the nail right on the head.

The TV show had resumed by this point, but neither of them were distracted by it. Dylan pulled in a deep breath. “Sweetie, your Mom did something pretty bad. A lot of people are mad at her.”

“Are you mad at her?”

Another opportunity to lie. He didn’t. “I am. I’m really mad. I don’t know if I can ever stop being mad.”

“Do I have to be mad at her, too?”

“No. She was a good Mommy to you. You don’t have to be mad.” And there was the lie, that Arden had been a good mother. Knowing what he knew now, Dylan thought back on how devoid Arden’s house had been, as if a child didn’t live there at all. He was pretty damn sure she was an awful mother.

Hunter nodded. “She’s the best Mommy.”

“I know. You love her right?”

“Yes!”

“Well, sometimes...” Another deep breath. He willed himself not to cry, goddammit. “Sometimes when the people we love do bad things, we can’t see them anymore. Or we can, but maybe we shouldn’t. I know you might not understand that, but please trust me. Please.”

Hunter was quiet for a very long time. Dylan didn’t push it. It was another of those thinking silences. So, he looked at the television and tried to make some sense of the show. He thought everything ended happily and the whole adventure up to that point was very brightly colored and exciting.

No wonder kids like this stuff so much.

They were watching their third set of commercials since the silence fell when Hunter spoke up again. “Is Mommy in a jam?”

Well, yes.

“Do you mean jail?”

“Yeah, that.” Hunter nodded. “A gel.”

“Yes, she is.”

And soon enough, she would find herself in prison. Ryan had confided that to him. In cases like this, when the evidence was 100% damning, all a defense attorney could do was make plea deals and fight for a lessened sentence. No matter what, Arden was still going to prison.

Hunter hopped down from the couch and put his plate in the sink, then came back to fetch Dylan’s and do the same thing. Then, he climbed back up into his spot once more and leaned his head against his father’s arm.

Dylan held still, almost paralyzed by indecision. He had absolutely no idea where to go from here or what else he could say. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things which they needed to talk about, but he had no idea how to judge whether it was the right time or not.

He was saved from having to figure it out by Hunter, proving to him once again that children were so much more intelligent than they appeared to be at times.

“When can I go back to school?”

Dylan considered this. “Do you miss school?”

He felt Hunter nod against him. “I miss my friends. I miss circle time and show and tell, and reading club.”

Dylan remembered reading club as being a section of the day where a handful of students at a time gathered around the teacher to listen to her read, while the others worked on another activity. He often wondered if teachers ever grew bored of repeating themselves not just on a large scale, such as year after year, but every single day. Then again, he didn’t know if there was a job in the whole world that didn’t involve repetition. His was no exception. Providing a service, a person heard a lot of the same questions and complaints and gave a lot of the same answers.

“And I miss Mr. Keen.”

“Who’s Mr. Keen?”

“The music teacher.”

Oh, yes. The joys of teaching little kids how to sing and play the recorder.

“Have I met Mr. Keen?”

Hunter giggled a little. “You called him han’sum at open house and he heard you.”

Oh. Right.

Now he remembered. He never would have recalled that detail on his own, but those words brought it all back. He remembered open house, walking down crowded hallways where kids swarmed all over and most of the other parents had cornered teachers to interrogate them. Everyone was so concerned about making sure those poor, harried teachers knew the full ins and outs of their children’s unique qualities.

But not him. Not Arden. They wouldn’t have been there at all except open house was also an opportune time to practice walking to class and to put all the newly-bought supplies away.

Passing by the music room, Dylan had looked in and saw a man sitting rather forlornly on a piano bench, completely alone. It seemed no one was interested in talking to the music teacher. Dylan also had no desire to do so, but he was struck by the man’s good looks. Curly light brown locks and eyes that were so pale blue they seemed white from all the way across the room.

“Oh, handsome,” Dylan had muttered. He didn’t expect to be heard, but the man clearly had, lifting his head and fixing Dylan with a very sharp gaze. He might have smiled too, but he couldn’t exactly recall anything except that ferocious gaze, so incredibly intense.

“So, is Mr. Keen nice?”

“He likes fart jokes!”

I never would have guessed that.

The man hadn’t seemed like someone so prone to juvenile humor. Then again, maybe it was just for the benefit of his students since kids were more likely to pay attention when they were entertained.

“So, you really want to go back to school?” Dylan asked. He wouldn’t have minded at all if Hunter changed his mind. Kids were pulled from school for all sorts of reasons, so this wouldn’t be the first time. Plus, Hunter would only miss the last half of the year. Even though he’d have to repeat kindergarten because of it, it was better to hold him back than to force him to struggle onward in an environment he wasn’t ready for.

“I do, Daddy.”

“Then, next week, on Monday, you can go. And we’ll see how it goes, all right? You might have some homework to catch up on.”

“That’s okay.”

And it seemed like that would be the end of it except Dylan had one last question to which he desperately needed the answer. Things seemed to be going so well right now that he couldn’t resist. He had been given a course of action to take and he would take it, but he needed another, and right now the only one who could give him that was Hunter.

“Sweetie?” he asked.

Hunter was drowsing against his arm, which was another habit of his. Food time was naptime, nearly always. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Do you want to talk about what happened? With the...the bad men?”

“No.”

And now he was decided. As soon as possible, he needed to find a counselor or child therapist to work with Hunter, if his son wouldn’t open up to him on his own. All the various exams performed at the hospital pointed towards a distinct lack of physical abuse, which was something a father should never even have to consider happening to his kid, but the experience itself had to be beyond scary. There was no telling what he’d seen or heard.

Dylan wrapped his arms around Hunter and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Then, you don’t have to. Only when you’re ready. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The rest of the day went by in similar fashion, and Dylan could have wept with relief at the end of it, he was so tired. Hunter continued to have a relatively good day, remaining in a more talkative mood, but he would often drop into those deep-thinking silences for very long periods of time. He also often seemed to just zone out, ceasing to be on the same plane of existence as everyone else.

However, as worrisome as all this was, Dylan went to bed with relatively positive thoughts about the future.