Interludes: Grace

By Jackee C.

Grace: Mercy; clemency. 2. disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency; the quality or state of being considerate or thoughtful.

            Paul Blaisdell forced back a muffled cry of pain as he settled a bit too heavily into the passenger seat of the Stealth. He hoped the sound would pass for a sigh. No such luck. Peter caught it and went into fret overload.

            "Oh, Jeez! Paul, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking to try to bring you home from the hospital in this car. I should've known. . . ."

            Paul waved a hand, hoping to forestall the apologetic flood. "I'm fine, Peter. Really. Just sat down too quickly." He offered a smile to back up the words. Never mind 'not minding the pain', it was a hard front to keep up, but he did.

            Apparently mollified to some degree, Peter dropped the apologies and moved on to fussing with the seatbelt and the position of the chair and was he warm enough? Was he okay?

            Paul made the appropriate replies, even though they were lost in the rapid-fire flow of Peter's words. Paul bore it. He was sure that at some point Peter had to run out of questions; he just didn't know if he'd be alive to see it.

            Some days, Paul thought, it's an. . . interesting experience to be a father.

            Finally satisfied with the seatbelt adjustments, Peter hustled around the car toward the driver's side. Paul held back a sigh as he watched. His son's mouth was in motion the entire time. The monologue continuing as he slid behind the driver's seat. A babbling Peter was an upset Peter. Paul didn't need any guesses to figure out that the source of the trouble was the man who'd just returned after a six month absence.

            Might as well take the bull by the horns.

            "Has Caine said anything about his plans?" he asked quickly when Peter took a breath. There was really no gentle way to lead into the conversation. Judging from Peter's reaction -- an almost imperceptible tightening of his features -- the only gentle way was not to raise the issue at all. Paul was now certain that any question about his father was what his foster son had been carefully avoiding.

            "He said he'd stick around." Peter shrugged with studied indifference and turned the key in the ignition before pulling away from the curb. He immediately launched into another line of conversation.

            "You know, this is the first time you've ridden in this car. Smooth huh?"

            Paul figured that now was not the time to let on to his often overly-sensitive son that his newest excuse for an automobile was still too low to the ground for his tastes. A body his age, especially a wounded one, preferred to step out of a car rather than roll out of one. But it didn't matter. He wasn't allowed a word edgewise, anyway. He'd wait. Sooner or later, he'd find out what was bothering Peter.

            "Are you sure you're warm enough? I could turn up the heat. I know it's cold out. Can you believe it's only October? You know we probably should crank up the heat. The heater in the 'vette wasn't as good as this one. I think winter's. . . "

            Paul tuned out the words as he considered the young man. So much nervous energy -- it was no wonder he never gained any weight. But beneath all that frantic motion was a focused thinker and a skilled investigator. Sometimes it amazed Paul that Peter was such a good detective when his every emotion was there for the world to see. Like now. Even upset, it was obvious that he very much loved driving.

            Paul forced back a smile as he thought back to the days when the words Peter and driving put together in a sentence was a frightening proposition. Peter's enthusiasm for being behind the wheel had led to more than a few scares. But Paul was forced to admit that these days Peter was a much more careful driver. He surfaced back into the conversation to find that Peter was still talking about the weather and the car.

            "It handles like a dream. Even on wet terrain. It's pure driving excitement. . . "

            Terrain? Pure driving excitement?

            "You really ought to borrow this car sometime, Paul. Take Annie for a ride."

            "No, son, I'll leave that to you." Paul managed to cut in.

            Peter's rambling slowed, and he nodded, a small smile lighting his features.

            It was the endearment. Paul knew Peter liked it, probably nearly as much as he liked saying it. During the past months while Caine was away, he, Annie, and the girls had circled the wagons around Peter, reinforcing their family unit. Once they had gotten the bugs out, namely, not letting Peter know they were circling the wagons, he'd soaked up the affection like a sponge. During that time they'd reinstated the old practice of the entire family getting together for dinner once a week. Speaking of dinner. . .

            Paul cut in on a monologue about winter outerwear. "Oh, Peter. Annie would like for you to invite Caine to dinner this Sunday."

            Peter stopped cold. His smile was gone, and the agitation that had somewhat faded returned full force. "You sure you're going to be up to that?" he asked nervously.

            "I'll be all right. All I have to do is sit down and eat. It's just dinner, Peter."

            The high performance engine revved slightly higher as Peter pressed more heavily on the gas. Paul wondered if he was going to have to revise his earlier thoughts about Peter's driving.

            "I--I don't know if he's free." Peter hedged.

            Paul had a sinking feeling that he'd inadvertently stumbled on a clue to the problem as he watched Peter make a great show of moving from one lane to the next. He didn't think he needed to say that it was an unnecessary move considering their exit was coming up. The lane change had been mostly legal, and they'd have time to get back over. Peter's speed though was edging into warning territory.

            "I'm sure it doesn't have to be this week. I know he's just gotten back in town." Paul spoke soothingly. "I know you really haven't had a chance to spend much time with him, and you probably want him all to yourself for a little while. We can understand that." He hoped the words were the right ones to say, that they'd calm Peter.

            Suddenly, Peter backed off on the gas, and the vehicle slowed. "I'm sorry, Paul. It's not that. It's. . . I didn't mean to put you off like that."

            "No apologies necessary. You've been through a lot of stress these past few days."

            Peter snorted. "I wasn't the one who was attacked by some Shadow Assassin whose only reason for hurting you was to hurt me so that he could flush out my father. He certainly did a fine job of doing what I couldn't do."

            "Your father came back, Peter." It was all Paul could think to say. He and Caine were very different in a lot ways, but there were similarities, too. He knew what it was like to be at a point in one's life where you needed to get away, to just clear the decks and learn to breathe again.

            "Yeah." Petered muttered the word with a soft bite of sarcasm. "And I should probably just count my blessings, right?"

            "Maybe you should," Paul replied. "Didn't you just tell me he was back to stay?" He wondered that he often ended up defending Caine. He didn't doubt that Caine would step up to the plate and defend him if the need ever arose. He hoped that it wouldn't, but he'd lived long enough to know things were rarely smooth sailing.

            Peter nodded in response to his question, then half-mumbled, "He said he wanted to get to know his son." The words weren't spoken with the warmth Paul expected to hear, but with an edge of bitterness.

            "Listen, Peter. I know you and your father have a lot to work out and talk through. Getting to know one another again sounds like a very good place to start."

            Peter shifted in his seat and was silent for several moments. Paul knew that there was something more coming, and whatever it was, it was bad. He waited. It seemed the more important a thing was with Peter, the longer it took for it to come out.

            Eventually Peter spoke very softly, his face reddened with embarrassment. "That's going to be pretty hard to do if I don't even know where he lives."

            Paul was confused. "You mean he hasn't found a place yet?"

            Peter frowned slightly and shook his head. "I hadn't thought of that. But the thing is, he told me that I would be able to find him since I was a cop. Well I've been looking for two days, and I don't know where the hell he is."

            Paul had to admit that if this was Caine's idea of bonding, it was very unusual, especially considering the changes he and Peter had just experienced. "Where have you looked so far?" he asked.

            Peter rattled off a long list of places, some that Paul didn't even know existed in Chinatown. "I even checked with Donny Double D," Peter concluded. "Best I can tell he doesn't want to be bothered right now."

            Paul frowned. Caine usually wasn't difficult to find. "What about The Ancient? Did you ask him?"

            "I would have, but he's been avoiding me, too. Usually, whenever I need him, he's right there."

            Paul nodded as Peter turned onto the-tree lined street that led into the neighborhood where the Blaisdell home was located. He knew that The Ancient had done his own version of circling the wagons around Peter during Caine's absence. He couldn't image what reason the two men could have for pushing Peter away.

            He thought again. Where could Caine be? Normally all one had to do was. . . The answer was suddenly very clear. Ignoring the small ache that went through his body at the motion, Paul chuckled. 

            Peter turned a stunned gaze on him.

            "I think you've only got one option, kid."

            "What is it?" Peter waited wide-eyed for the response.

            Paul didn't make him wait long. "Go to Chinatown, ask for Caine. . . "

            ". . . he will help you." Peter finished with him, chuckling, too. "God. Only Pop. And only you could help me see that." 

            Paul smiled, glad to see the worry lift from his son's features. He briefly rested a gentle hand against his shoulder for good measure.

            Some days, he thought, it's wonderful to be a father.