A/N: This is the same story as Of Fathers, but when I realized I wasn't getting any reviews because my chapters were too short and uninteresting on their own, I decided to squish three of them together and make a more enjoyable chapter for all of you. If you were actually reading Of Fathers, there is some stuff about two thirds of the way down that you haven't read yet. Anyway, enjoy the story and reviews are greatly appreciated. :)
There has always been a hole in the Benson household. It is not tangible. It cannot be felt, looked through, or even repaired. It is the place where there should have been a father, a good leader for a son who grew up almost never noticing the hole where he should have been. Sometimes, though, Freddie Benson, idly wandering through the house, looking at the pictures of him and his mother mounted on the wall, wonders what it would be like to have his father's face grinning back at him from inside the dark, wooden frames. He doesn't know what his father would look like, but his eyes would be warm, and his smile would be wide, and his hands would be strong and powerful and perfectly bent to nestle his nine year old son's hand that year of the Father-Son Picnic Freddie had to attend with Carly and her father. It is only sometimes, though, because Freddie Benson is one of the few teenagers who can look you in the eye and boldly say he is perfectly happy with his life, but sometimes he can't help but wonder. The hole, even though it is usually unseen, goes deep. It stretches and yawns, dangerous because most of the time, no one notices it is there. And perhaps, just perhaps, that is the reason his mother is always so careful with him. If she leaves him unsupervised, Freddie Benson just might find himself falling in.