I don't own these characters, and am only writing these stories for my own enjoyment.
"Benny."
God, he hated being called that. He was Benjamin or simply Ben – not the nickname that his father insisted on using almost from the moment he'd entered the world. He was forty-eight, not twelve; it wasn't even the name so much, but the fact that Thomas Stone still treated him as an inept child. Ben's achievements in career and life mattered little; to his father, he'd always be a disappointment.
But the time for his father's criticisms was drawing to a close.
The man – once tall and proud – lay in a hospital bed, the penultimate moments of his life measured by the beeping of machines. He claimed to have fought in a long-ago Golden Gloves tournament, but now could barely pick up the copy of Reader's Digest on the overbed table. The illness had ravaged him; for the first and last time, Ben saw his father in a state of helplessness.
Ben knew that this would be the last time he'd see his father alive. He had cornered one of the doctors in the hallway, requesting honesty instead of medical semantics. The prediction was that his father had a few hours, perhaps a day at the most. He could die at any time, and Ben wondered why a priest had not yet been around to perform last rites.
"Come closer, son."
The booming, fear-inducing baritone was reduced to a ragged whisper. And the attempt at closeness – now much too late – made Ben nervous. But as always, he did as his father asked; he would never stop trying to be the good son. For a long time, neither man said anything. Ben didn't know whether he should feel uncomfortable, or grateful that his father wasn't using the opportunity to give one last diatribe.
Then it came.
"I know…" His father wheezed. "That I was always hard on you."
And that was all; it was the closest to an apology he'd ever get. Ben knew that he should at least feel happy that his father was acknowledging it, but instead, he felt empty. He didn't know why he expected more.
Ben knocked on the door gently, carrying his trenchcoat over one arm.
"Come in," Adam barked.
The Wednesday night boys' club was in full swing. His former boss and Jack McCoy were seated across from one another, grousing over some defense attorney who refused to take a plea. Ever since Ben resigned, the three congregated once a week in Adam's office to shoot the bull.
But Ben was surprised at the fourth presence in the room – Claire Kincaid, who since his departure had obviously graduated to drinking Scotch with the big guns.
"There you are," Jack said. "We almost thought you weren't coming."
"Your father – " Adam began to inquire.
Ben nodded. "He's gone. Four-thirty this afternoon." He sat down next to Claire, who touched his wrist in a gesture of sympathy. Adam pulled the liquor bottle from his desk drawer, pouring Ben a glass.
"Thanks." He tossed back a mouthful. "Honestly, I don't know how I feel. My father was – " Ben stopped himself, thinking it wrong to speak ill of the dead.
"A bastard." Jack said bitterly. "Join the club."
Ben looked at Adam, his eyes meeting the older man's in a way that immediately brought understanding.
His real father.
finis