Content Warnings: Strong implications of an abusive father. Head injury (accidental) with possible concussion. Slight illness. Lost dog. Death mention.
!
Arthur hasn't called him Dad. Not once.
It's not that Herc thinks he should call him Dad – Arthur is a grown man who has been getting along just fine without a father figure in his life, and Herc would never presume to take on a role that Arthur probably isn't even looking for.
But he was honestly expecting it, a bit. Bracing himself nervously for it, even. Because Arthur so easily applies new titles to – and removes old ones from – the people around him based on their changing positions in his life. Douglas has been Skipper for nearly two months now, and any mentions of Martin have been by name with minimal fumbling. Theresa still warrants the occasional fond Her Majesty.
Herc, however, is always just Herc.
He's not disappointed, exactly. Not offended, certainly. He's just fine being just Herc, especially coming from someone who says it like a name and not like a question.
But it does... make him wonder.
It does, a little bit, make him worry.
Arthur is not by nature a confrontational man, but Herc thinks he would probably say something if Herc has somehow – done anything. Anything hurtful, offensive, threatening... Anything Arthur might be uncomfortable with or afraid of, for his own sake or Carolyn's.
But. Arthur hasn't called him Dad. And he can't help but wonder why.
It seems a petty thing to ask questions about, so he doesn't. Probably he's overthinking things, and it'll only cause problems no matter who he brings it up to – Carolyn would worry, Arthur would feel guilty, and Douglas would... not be pleasant.
So he files the question away and gets on with things, and watches himself carefully where Arthur is concerned.
At the very least, he's confident Carolyn would say something.
A string of truly heroic bad luck leads to several things: a lost dog, a trail of sopping wet footsteps across the sitting room carpet, and a feverish and quite possibly concussed Arthur who won't stop arguing very calmly and determinedly that he's perfectly fine to go back out and keep looking for Snoopadoop.
"No," Herc says again, and, again, readjusts the blanket over him on the sofa, mostly as a tactic to keep him lying down. He offers Arthur the mug of hot tea that they have more or less collaboratively figured out how to have him drink without disaster over the past half an hour, but Arthur shakes his head and then winces about it, so Herc sets it back on the floor beside the sofa and makes a sympathetic hissing sound before he can stop himself.
"I didn' hit my head that hard," Arthur insists, one eye still squinted shut in pain. "I just n-needed a b-bit of a-" he interrupts himself by sneezing. "A bit of a break, tha's all! Oww."
"Bless you. Still no."
"Thank you. But why?"
"Because, head injuries aside, you will catch your death." Even as he says it, Herc feels suddenly incredibly old. He forges bravely ahead. "Honestly, Arthur, you can't go wandering around in the rain with a head cold."
"Wasn' wanderin'," Arthur mutters. "Was lookin' for Snoopadoop. She's wandering."
"Yes," Herc agrees, trying to surreptitiously check Arthur's fever without knocking the bump on his forehead. He's still burning up. "And your mother will find her much faster in the car than either of us could ever hope to on foot."
"Can't go everywhere in a car," Arthur mumbles. "Alleys," he muses. "Fields," he adds.
"She will find her, Arthur," Herc says firmly. Arthur's face is definitely too warm. A cold rag sounds like a good idea. "I'll be right back, don't move."
It is, he has to admit, a risky move, and one that could have used a bit more calculation and planning: he is not altogether surprised to find, on his return, Arthur bent over the side of the sofa, using his own blanket to scrub furiously at the tea that he has just spilled all over the carpet.
"Arthur!" he says sharply. "Don't touch it!"
"Sorry!" Arthur squeaks, recoiling back onto the couch. "I didn't mean to spill it, I just wanted – wanted a drink, I'll clean it up, I'm sorry, Dad, sorry!"
Herc's stomach performs some sort of very complicated aerial maneuver that he would never attempt on a plane.
He never wants to hear Arthur call him Dad again. Not with that sort of absolute terror in his voice.
"It's all right," he says quickly, quietly, kneeling down and applying the cold wet rag to the carpet instead of to Arthur. "It's all right, I just didn't want you to burn your hands. I shouldn't have shouted, Arthur, I'm sorry, you're all right."
Arthur presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and moans. "Hurts."
"I imagine it does. Stay right here, please, Arthur. I'm going to get another cold cloth for your head, and some more tea, and we'll worry about the floor later, okay?"
"'kay."
Much later, when Herc has done all he can for the floor and Arthur is struggling to keep himself awake on nothing but worry and much colder tea (and under a new blanket), thudding footsteps and a distinctly canine yipping herald Carolyn's triumphant return.
For half a second she makes for an almost iconic image in the slammed open doorway, the light of the front stoop refracting off the sheets of rain behind her, wind whipping her hair and coat, dripping wet and smirking victoriously, clutching to her in both arms a small and entirely ridiculous dog who is far too old to be pulling this sort of stunt.
Then Snoopadoop squirms out of her grip and bounds across the room to leap up on Arthur and lick his face. Arthur's delighted yelps of pain last for about four seconds before Herc manages to pry the beast off of him.
"Thanks, Herc," Arthur murmurs, grinning.
Herc will take that over a frantic I'm sorry, Dad! any day.