It's morning. It must be. Arthur feels the mattress dip and hears its low creak of protest at being disturbed before it springs back up. He slides a hand to the other side of the bed and frowns when his questing fingers don't find Francis—he must be getting ready to head off to work.

A sudden flash of fear and dread shoots through his nerves, and he has the urge to shout at Francis to come back. If he steps out that front door, who knows what dangers could befall him? A routine traffic stop might become something more. A domestic abuse call could end in tragedy. Troubled youth could act in a moment of fury and passion and do something unspeakable.

Francis could reach for his gun too late. He could be attacked. He could crash the patrol car. He might take one misstep and set off a trap.

He could arrive at the scene of a gas leak and lose more than just his eyesight and the functionality of an arm.

The sense of panic that washes over Arthur suffocates him, and he bolts into a sitting position, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and find Francis to plead with him to stay home, where he will be safe and out of harm's way.

"Dad? What's wrong? Are ya gonna be sick or something?" Alfred's voice suddenly chirps from the doorway of the bedroom, and quick, succinct footsteps trace the path to the bedside a second later. "Hey, there… It's all right. No need to freak. Just take a deep breath, okay? Have a bad dream?"

"F-Francis," Arthur chokes out, splaying out his hands and clawing helplessly at the air. He tries to grasp onto anything that might offer him some security, until, at last, he gets his grip around one of Alfred's wrists.

"Papa just left for work, but I'll be here all day to take care of you… Dad? Dad, just relax. It's gonna be fine."

He suffers through a long, pained breath and calms. His hand falls loosely away from Alfred, and he musters what's left of his dignity to reply, "Sorry, my dear boy… Forgive me. All of this has been quite disorienting."

"Nah, don't apologize. It's all good," Alfred merrily replies from somewhere in front of him. "Let's get you some breakfast, and then we can hang out for a bit before I help you get to your appointment with the ophthalmologist."

"That's today?"

"Yup, at one o'clock, and Papa will have my neck if I don't get you there on time," Alfred affirms, hovering and buzzing around the room like a fly, searching for things to touch or tidy up. It's remarkable how mature he's been as of late. "Come on, I know there's nothing wrong with your legs, so get out of bed, old man."

He doesn't know exactly when Alfred got into the habit of calling him 'old man,' but it's grating, to say the least, and try as he might, he probably won't be able to rid himself of the unfortunate pet name anytime soon.

Pledging to make an effort to be cooperative, Arthur takes Alfred's hand and allows himself to be led out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, so he can make a feeble attempt at maintaining some semblance of personal hygiene. He fixes his hair with the comb Alfred puts in his hand, but he can't tell whether or not his ministrations make any actual difference in his physical appearance. Brushing his teeth is just as much of a challenge, but once his toothbrush finds his mouth, the trickiest part is over.

Fortunately, he's still self-sufficient enough to find his way to the toilet without knocking anything over or injuring himself. Alfred gives him some privacy, thank goodness, and then steers him into the kitchen once he's done. Scrambled eggs and toast are already waiting for them on the table, and Arthur must admit he's thoroughly surprised Alfred has orchestrated all of this by himself. He can't remember the last time his son washed the dishes let alone made breakfast for anyone but himself.

"How's the pain? Do the burns hurt?" Alfred suddenly asks as he helps him find his seat, acting as if it's the most natural thing in the world for him to be taking on the role of a caregiver.

"Thank you, Alfred. I'm all right."

"You sure?"

"Yes, you don't need to fuss over me."

Alfred doesn't seem persuaded by that answer, but he ceases the interrogation for the time being to munch loudly on his crunchy toast, which is probably completely smothered in jam and butter. Really, when will the boy learn the value of eating healthy?

"I got some time off of work for the rest of the week, so someone can be home with you while Papa's gone. Mattie's coming over for the weekend, and I'm sure he's gonna offer to stay longer, but he'll havta get back to his classes. I'm a free agent though—sorry to break it to you," Alfred says after a while, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Arthur frowns before attempting to take a careful sip of tea. He's slowly beginning to have a better grasp of spatial relations. Toast is easy enough to eat without making a mess, and the eggs have been strategically placed directly in the center of his plate, so they're easy to find. He's able to bring small, hesitant forkfuls up to his mouth. He knows Alfred must have had the forethought to arrange the food like this on purpose.

And instead of directly handing things to him, Alfred has begun to tell him where things are, and Arthur appreciates being given the chance to handle basic tasks on his own.

"I don't need a babysitter," he says at long last, successfully swallowing a bit of tea before setting the mug down again.

He can hear the smile in Alfred's voice as he replies, "You sure about that? I'm a fun babysitter, I promise. I won't make you do chores or go to bed early."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know I despise being spoken to like that."

Alfred sighs, "Oh, lighten up. Being all sad about this situation isn't going to make either of us feel better… That's not what I meant. Look, Dad, I'm sorry… I'm being insensitive. You're going through a lot, and I just want to help, y'know? But I'm not so sure how to help."

"You're doing plenty already, and you don't have to apologize. My temper is getting out of hand, is all," Arthur murmurs, rubbing his forehead. "I don't know what to do myself now that I'm like this, and all I've done thus far is brood."

They sit in silence for a minute or two, until finally, Alfred begins clearing the table and suggests, "Hey, how about we go for a walk before I drive you to the doctor's?"

Arthur agrees because what else is there to do? He can either drag himself around the block a few times or shut himself in the house until he somehow spontaneously recovers his sight.

Alfred helps him into his shoes, gives him his blasted, good-for-nothing walking stick, and then they're off at a leisurely pace. Arthur's not sure where exactly they're going, but he supposes it doesn't matter—anywhere away from the confines of the house will suffice.

He starts by walking without Alfred's assistance and tries to master this whole stick business by scraping it from left to right on the cement a few paces ahead of him. It's simple enough in theory, but Arthur can't get over the pangs of fear in his chest that are demanding to be felt as he strides forward into the uninterrupted darkness. His brain is yelling at him to stop moving, but he fights the instinctual urge and allows his body to trump his mind.

"Oww!" Alfred suddenly yelps, and Arthur realizes with mounting humiliation that he's managed to strike the boy in the foot with the walking stick during his internal struggle.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"No worries, Dad. You just caught me by surprise," Alfred quickly assures, laughing it off. "You okay? Want to hang onto my arm?"

Arthur shakes his head resolutely and swallows all of his qualms. "No, no, I need to get better at this, and I might not always have someone to guide me."

Twice, he almost walks into the middle of traffic, not noticing the dip in the sidewalk and the adjacent curb until Alfred grips his shoulder tightly and yanks him back to safety.

"Just slow down and try to listen for the rush of cars—that's when you'll know you're at the end of the block. I know it's kinda hard because it's quiet around this time of day," Alfred says, trying his best to offer a helpful tidbit without making it sound like he believes Arthur simply isn't making enough of an effort to be alert.

They reach a park, and Alfred mutters something about how they should rest their legs before he guides Arthur through a little winding path lined with trees.

"C'mon, let's sit on the hillside," the boy chirps, adding an extra bounce to his step. "The view of the lake is so pretty and—crap, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You don't have to censor yourself around me. I can handle it," Arthur retorts, a little irked that he's being treated like he's emotionally fragile. To a certain extent, he's still not a hundred percent in his right mind, but that doesn't mean he'll get upset as soon as someone says something in reference to their own sight.

They get comfortable on a patch of grass overlooking the lake Alfred mentioned, and Arthur lets his other senses kick in to compensate his lack of vision. The earthy, fresh scent of the plants all around is lovely, and he takes a deep breath, letting it fill every part of his lungs. The feeling of grass being smooshed under his weight is also oddly soothing, and he runs his fingers over the prickly blades of grass on either side of him, entranced by a sudden serenity and calm.

And then, Alfred's cellphone rings. The boy swears under his breath and clumsily takes the call, hastily apologizing to Arthur beforehand.

"Hello? Anya, I'm a little busy right now… Uh-huh… I'm with my dad… I know, babe. I'll call you back later… Well, what do you want me to do about that? I'll stop by tonight when I get the chance. Talk to you soon."

He hangs up, and Arthur turns his head in the direction of the boy's voice and quirks a brow at him. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. Anya's just getting on my case again over something dumb," Alfred mumbles, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "I know you're not her biggest fan, but she's… She's a good person, really."

Arthur softly says, "As long as she makes you happy, that's all that matters."

"Yeah, I know, but I just wish you and Papa would give her more of a chance. I know you won't openly come out and say I should stop dating her, but I can tell when you guys don't approve of someone... I care what you both think."

"We want what's best for you," Arthur replies simply.

"Yeah, that's parent talk for 'we think you're making a giant mistake, but we don't want to tell you how to live your life, so we're just gonna stand back and let you learn the hard way,'" Alfred snorts, cracking his knuckles. "Man, oh man... It's so easy for you guys. You've already got your lives figured out—got married, had kids, got some careers. Meanwhile, I'm gonna be working at that damned gym forever. I'm starting to realize I don't have a future. Maybe college isn't for everyone, and maybe I'm just destined to be an average guy without any dreams or anything."

"Don't say that. You know it isn't true. You have your entire life ahead of you, Alfred. Just because you don't have all of the answers right now doesn't mean you never will. Papa and I have merely been upset because we want to make sure you have a bright and fulfilling future, and sometimes, our worries can come off as anger."

Alfred sighs and murmurs, "It's okay. You don't have to lie to me. I know you guys think I'm lazy and don't want to do anything meaningful with my life, and you're probably both right."

Something in Arthur's heart feels like it's being squeezed. "Alfred, my boy, we love you. While we may seem frustrated at times, we still believe you'll find your way."

"More parent talk for 'we don't want you to think you're a disappointment, but you kind of are,'" Alfred supplies.

Arthur clicks his tongue and huffs. "You'll understand when you're a parent someday."

"Sorry to break it to you, but I'm never going to be a parent. That life's not for me."

"You'll change your mind when you're older."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know this may come as a shock to you, but I was once nineteen, too."

Alfred feigns a gasp and touches Arthur's shoulder dramatically. "You mean you weren't born a middle-aged adult? Whoa!"

"Riveting, isn't it?"

"Well, color me surprised! Who would've thought? Man, I thought as soon as I turned eighteen—poof—I'd be an adult ready to get my whole life together and whatnot, but I feel like a little kid more and more each day."

"That's because you're still a child—I can feel you glaring at me. I don't mean it in a malicious way. Every person your age is a child," Arthur asserts, leaning his head back. "You'd be surprised what a difference a few years can make. Give it time."

Alfred ponders this for a while and doesn't shoot back any snarky replies although he's most likely tempted to do so. "When did you start feeling like an actual adult?"

Arthur searches through his memories and says, "As you know, entry level police officers are often given the menial assignments no one else wants to deal with—traffic control, patrols around the neighborhood, answering minor, non-life threatening complaints—and my job during the winter was to drive around and pick up individuals who were homeless. This usually happened when there was a major snowstorm in the forecast, and I would take these people either to the nearest shelter or hospital, depending on their physical state."

"On one of these nights, I encountered a woman with her five-year-old daughter. They were huddled behind a public school building, and they were both suffering from hypothermia and frostbite in their extremities. The mother's first instinct was to grab her daughter and run, but I assured them they weren't in any legal trouble, and that I only wanted to help. Of course, she didn't trust me, and so, I took one of the blankets I had piled in the patrol car and offered it to them without requesting anything else of them. It wasn't in my power to demand they come with me—I'd been ordered to respect anyone's refusal."

Arthur pauses to take another deep breath and draws his brows together. "But I didn't want to leave them there in the freezing cold either. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep that night if I hadn't done everything possible to try to get them to cooperate. So, I went into a nearby coffee shop and bought a cup of coffee for the mother and some hot chocolate for the child. And then, I sat next to them, already chilled to the bone myself, and spoke with them for a while. I had been taught in training how to approach people and make them feel as though I was an equal, but it's much easier to read about it from a textbook than to put it into practice."

"I asked the woman if she had any friends or family to stay with. Naturally, she didn't. I noticed her daughter had a children's book lying beside her and asked the girl if that was her favorite book. She told me it was, and then began to animatedly tell me about the characters and how the story took place in Paris and how she'd love to travel there someday. I stowed away my distaste for France in general and told her I'd been to Paris once, and how I'd seen Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower. We continued talking for about fifteen minutes or so, and my nose was already running from the cold. I couldn't fathom how these people had managed to sit outdoors all day."

"Finally, I feebly asked them if they would allow me to take them to a hospital, and although they seemed uncertain, the promise of warmth and food seemed to be too enticing for them to reject, and they followed me back to the patrol car. I imagine the mother was terrified that her daughter would be taken away from her, and it is likely they were separated after being treated, but I can't be sure, as I wasn't updated on their case… I think the mother ultimately agreed to take that risk for her daughter's safety and well-being, and making such a decision must have taken a great deal of strength… I think seeing that made me aware of the consequences of my job, and although it might've made me more cynical than I had been before, I felt, for the very first time, like an adult with a sense of duty and responsibility."

Alfred doesn't seem to know what to say, and a tense silence follows until the boy whispers, "We should get going, or you'll be late to your appointment."

Arthur doesn't argue and lets him lead the way.

It isn't busy at the ophthalmologist's office. In fact, it's fairly empty aside from two or three other patients. Within ten minutes, Arthur is called inside, and Alfred helps him down the hallway and into one of the exam rooms. He gets him settled on the exam table and asks if Arthur would like him to wait outside for confidentiality purposes, but Arthur assures him it's all right if he stays—he doesn't mind the extra pair of ears.

And honestly, Arthur would prefer to have the presence of someone else in the room. Lately, he can't bear the thought of being left alone.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the doctor says as he comes inside, warm and cheerful. "I heard you were in quite the accident, Arthur, but we'll do whatever we can to get you back to normal. I'm going to take off your bandages to see the extent of the damage."

Arthur hisses when the compression bandage falls away and the gauze comes off of his wounds because the cool air of the exam room makes the injuries sting a little. He peels his eyelids open, and to his surprise, he can differentiate some spots of light and dark.

The doctor flashes a light at one eye and then the other, and Arthur can see the bright patches followed by the shadows of the light's retreat. The doctor says this is a good sign.

"Your eyes are healing well. I'm willing to bet you'll recover at least some of your vision with enough time."

"How much time?" Arthur asks, and it's the question that's been on his mind since he woke up in the hospital.

"I'd say you should see some noticeable improvements within six months to a year."

A year of not being on the force… A year of blindness… That's a hell of a long time.

He swallows against the rock in his throat and nods, feeling a little lightheaded. He hadn't expected a quick recovery, and yet, hearing the official verdict is harder to accept than he thought it would be.

After a few more tests and the placement of some fresh bandages, he's free to go and is scheduled for a follow-up appointment next month. Alfred leads him out to the car, and once they're seated, Alfred lets out a terse breath and murmurs, "I'm sorry, Dad... I know you were hoping it wouldn't take so long."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. You have a right to be upset."

"Being upset isn't going to change anything," Arthur snaps back.

He spends the rest of the day in the bedroom again, sapped of all strength and willpower. When Francis comes home for dinner, he forces himself to eat and then proceeds to vomit half an hour later, sick to his stomach. As he agonizes over the nausea in the bathroom, Francis and Alfred hover outside the door, whispering to each other about what to do.

Arthur wishes he could just curl up and die.

"How is he? Is he feeling any better since you called me?" Matthew asks when he arrives home for the weekend, barely stepping into the foyer before he's inquiring about Arthur, unbelievably worried.

"He barely comes downstairs anymore," Francis mumbles. "I've scheduled him to go for some counseling later this week—hopefully it'll help. He's depressed, and both Alfred and I have tried talking to him, but it hasn't done any good. He hasn't been eating, isn't able to sleep at night, and only goes outside when he has to. Alfred downloaded some music and audiobooks on his phone for him, and it seems to have brightened his mood at least somewhat."

It's Matthew's turn to try to get through to his father. He sits with him in the bedroom for a while, and tries to talk about everything but his eyes. Of course, Arthur is happy to see him and tries to do his best to be pleasant company, yet, it's clear something isn't right. As much as Arthur tries to tell him everything is all right, they all know it's not. Something in his voice has changed, and the man just doesn't seem to have any energy in him.

In the end, Matthew comes back downstairs feeling more distraught than before. He buries his face in the sleeve of his sweater to muffle his crying, and Francis holds him in a hug, feeling just as helpless.

Alfred watches them with a growing frown and decides he needs to get some air for a while. He heads over to Anya's place on the opposite end of town, where she lives in a small house with two older roommates.

"How's your father?"

"Not any better," Alfred tells her, collapsing on the couch and putting his feet on the coffee table. "I don't know what to do anymore. There's so much drama going on, and it's all kinda tiring. I know that sounds really selfish and dumb to say because I'm not the one who's blind, but it honestly feels like I'm the next one that's gonna be depressed."

"That's normal. Grief is hard on everyone, not just the person who's experiencing it," Anya replies, sounding uncharacteristically mature. "Maybe your dad needs to pick up a hobby or find something to keep him busy."

"He can barely get himself out of bed. I don't see how he's going to start doing arts and crafts or something," Alfred scoffs. "I know this is a weird thing to say, but I feel like it's partially my fault he's like this. He worries a lot about me, and I think he feels like he's failed me somehow because I dropped out of school. He doesn't realize none of that has anything to do with him—it's just me being difficult."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I tried. Getting him to listen is another story."

"Maybe show him how much you appreciate him, then."

"How?"

Anya hums in thought and says, "Be there for him."

"That's what I've been doing."

"Well, keep doing it and try harder."

Alfred shoots Anya an offended expression. "Are you saying I'm not trying hard enough already?"

"Obviously not if your dad's still depressed."

"It doesn't matter how hard I try, the only one who can stop him from being depressed is himself."

"See, that's the problem," Anya points out, holding up a hand to get Alfred to shut up. "You're blaming him for being unhappy and saying it's his own fault. If you have that attitude, you'll never be able to help him. Be a little more compassionate."

Alfred sighs a defeated sigh. "You're probably right… Thanks… I can always count on you to criticize me and put me in my place," he jokes.

"Anytime."

"My parents hate you, you know. They think you're keeping me from going back to school and that you're a bad influence."

"I know," Anya retorts, nonchalant. "They're right."

"Mmm… I think that's why I love you so much."

Anya rolls her eyes and shoves him in the shoulder roughly. "Go back home. Your family needs you. You should stay away from me, Alfred. You should listen to your parents. I'm only going to break your heart."

Alfred smirks coyly, leans over to press a kiss to Anya's forehead and says, "I know."