Wow, I can't believe the positive response the second chapter to this got. I'm really happy that people... liked it? XD I admit I was somewhat braced for a backlash given that I know it's a touchy, potentially triggering subject. However, the incestuous element of this story is presented as horrifying, not kinky (which is totally different matter) so I'm glad people seem to be on board with the abject misery.

As usual I lied about the number of chapters; it will now be four, as there's still quite a bit to go and it seemed like too much to cram into one chapter.

Thanks to: ChasingIridiscence, ioncewasspellbound, natcat5, nuclear taste, susumi1234, zumiez2002, Squirrelybits, Kanoi-chan, Carpenatem, suzako, America, Ella Rose1, cakeassistant, OutToGarden, rocychio, Larn, Iggy Butt, CherryBlossomKisses and two Guests!

Nighthawks

III

["What is this, Francine? Francine!"

"An exercise in misery, mon cher."]

"She was a prostitute," Arthur said. "I suppose the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. She was high-class, though. She wasn't cheap and she didn't sleep with anyone she didn't want to. I met her in a brothel in Paris during my post-graduate studies." A bitter smile. "I was an idiot. I fell in love with her."

"So... she's my mother?" Alfred whispered.

"Yes. ...God, how I loved her. But I... I was nothing to her, just an awkward, desperate student paying my way into her arms night after night. I asked her to marry me and she laughed in my face."

"She... sounds awful–"

"No, she wasn't. She just didn't believe in love." Arthur reached distractedly to his bedside table, finding his cigarettes and lighter. His fingers were shaking. He lit up, sucking smoke over his nerves. "But we had a lot of good times that year. I begged her to come with me when my academic year ended but she wouldn't entertain me. I didn't know she was pregnant and I don't suppose she did, either. Not then, anyway. After that I didn't expect to ever see her again."

"That doesn't explain how I got here," Alfred said. "New York, I mean."

"I came to New York for a semester as part of my PhD studies," Arthur explained dully. "She followed me here." He snorted. "The nerve of it, every time I think that I practically got down on my knees and begged her to come with me, I quite literally proposed to her and she laughed at me." He looked at Alfred, who was hunched on the corner of the bed. "But she only came here because of you. She turned up on my doorstep with you wrapped up in her arms. You were barely three weeks old. She wouldn't come in, nothing I said would make her come inside, she said if I didn't take you from her arms she was going to dash your brains out on the doorstep. I took you from her, I thought it might calm her down. I can't tell you how hysterical she was. To come all that way in that state, not long after giving birth, it's understandable. I mean, it was madness. I don't know why she did it. All she said was that she shouldn't have to pay the price, she'd paid enough already. I wanted to take her to hospital but she wouldn't let me; but I don't think she was right, you know. She definitely had some kind of fever, I could see it in her eyes. I eventually got her to come into the hall and went to get her some water but when I came back she was gone." Arthur shrugged. "That's it. I never saw her again. I've searched for her a few times in Paris but it was so long ago now. I don't know if she even made it back there. She could be dead."

"So why did you leave me on the orphanage doorstep?" Alfred didn't sound very interested in the whereabouts of his mother. "I guess you didn't want me, huh?"

"I couldn't look after you," Arthur said in a low voice. "I barely had enough money to pay my rent, never mind feed and clothe a baby. With my studies, I didn't have the time to look after you properly. And... well, this was August, 1939. I'd been following the news of what was going on in Europe. It was obvious that there was going to be a war and I knew I'd be called up when it happened. What was I supposed to do with you then?" He shook his head. "It seemed kinder to leave you at the orphanage. At least that way I knew somebody would look after you. You'd get a chance at life. I couldn't give you that, not back then."

"So you didn't want me," Alfred said. "Neither of you did."

"I don't know about Francine," Arthur replied, looking up at him. "I really couldn't say. But I... When I looked at you in my arms, I did love you. I can't explain it. I just did. Please believe me that it was not an easy decision."

Alfred's shoulders sagged. He picked at some lint on the bedsheet.

"And... you're really sure it's me?" he asked. "I mean, there are hundreds of kids in that orphanage at any one time–"

"I know it's you. Your name is Alfred, to begin with. I chose that name for you."

"It's not an uncommon name."

"I know – but still, I know it's you. Now that I look at you, I can't understand why I didn't see it before..." Arthur reached for his wallet on the bedside table, opening it up. He slipped a small square photograph from within the lining, handing it to Alfred. The boy took it, silent.

It was a photograph of Francine from the early 1930s, before Arthur had ever met her, in a low-line evening dress of beaded velvet. Her hair was done up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, her eyes were dark and promised the world. She'd given it to him when he'd left Paris: 'the least she could do for him', in her words.

"She... looks like me," Alfred whispered. His eyes found Arthur's. "Doesn't she?"

"Yes. You're just as beautiful as she was." Arthur finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. "You don't seem to have anything of mine. Perhaps that's a blessing."

Alfred handed back the photograph. "So... you're really my dad," he said.

"Yes." Arthur was starting to feel sick again, when his mind reeled through all the times he'd... and Alfred... god, the things they'd said, the...

"Wow," Alfred said. He pressed his hands together. "I... have a family. I really have a family."

Arthur looked away. "What I've done to you is unforgivable. To think... with my own flesh and blood–"

"You didn't know." Alfred crawled closer, putting out his hand. Arthur flinched but Alfred didn't recoil, pressing his palm to Arthur's knee. "Arthur, it's okay. I forgive you. Please don't be sad."

Arthur gave a shaky exhale, looking up at the ceiling. Alfred ventured closer still; Arthur could hear the vacant rattle of his ribcage. He wanted to recoil but didn't dare.

"I'm happy," Alfred went on. "I... finally I'm not alone. Don't you get it, Arthur? I knew there was something about you. I knew I had to follow you no matter what. Please, I beg you..." He squirmed in against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. He held on tight, heart hammering. Arthur didn't trust himself to move.

"Please don't ever leave me again," Alfred whispered. He began to sob; it was like the fading wail of a dying animal deep in the woods. "Please, please..."

Arthur managed the courage to put his arms around his fragile back. He held him close, stroked his hair. He didn't know the difference between lust and despair. Francine: would that he had never crossed paths with her and all his mistakes would be erased.

An exercise in misery indeed.

"Did you ever think about me?" Alfred asked in the morning. He was at the kitchen table with a weak cup of instant coffee, which was all that Arthur had in the way of such things. "I mean, did you ever wonder what happened to me?"

"Of course I did. All the time. I... I admit I'd always hoped that a nice family had adopted you and... well..." He trailed off. There didn't seem to be much point in going on.

"I did get taken twice," Alfred said. "Both times by nice families."

"So what happened?"

"I was problematic." Alfred didn't elaborate and so Arthur didn't ask. "So they had to bring me back."

"I see." Arthur hadn't a word to say against them; after all, at least they'd tried, which was more than he could say for himself. "Well, the past's the past. No point on dwelling on it, is there? You're... you're here now."

"I... really can stay here with you, can't I?" Alfred asked quietly. "Arthur?"

"Of course you can. And... and when my fellowship here is over, I'll take you back to England. You'll simply have to go to school, of course–"

"I'm too old for school."

"You're fifteen. For god's sake, I know when you were born. No more lies about being nineteen."

"I'm still over the leaving age."

"I don't care, you'll have to get something in that head of yours. I'm not having you sleep with men to earn a living for the rest of your life."

"But it was okay when you thought I was someone else's son, right?"

Arthur froze. He took a shaky inhale, looking at Alfred – who simply met his gaze, unruffled.

"It's true, isn't it?" Alfred said. He pushed up his glasses.

"Look, I wish more than anybody that the circumstances had been different," Arthur hissed. "I wish Francine had just married me when I asked her – then none of this would have mattered. Perhaps neither of us were ready for a baby but together we could have managed it, I'm sure we could. But... she was selfish and so was I. You're the one who suffered for it. Don't you think that's bad enough, Alfred? That that's what I think when I look at you? The fact that I've fucked you more times than I care to think about–"

"That doesn't bother me," Alfred interrupted. He shrugged. "I mean, it was a job to me. I guess I liked you a little more than most other customers but that's all you were: a customer. You being my dad is a totally separate thing to anything we did when you were paying for it."

"To you, perhaps," Arthur said faintly. "A-and I envy your approach to the matter, really I do, but I can't separate them as easily. I can't forgive myself for what I've done to you – any of it."

Alfred shrugged. "Well, it doesn't seem to me like there's much to forgive."

"You and I must think very differently."

"I guess so. Maybe I'm just fucked up in the head." Again Alfred looked at him. "Or maybe you are. Who knows?"

Arthur gave a heaving sigh. "Or we both are," he said, exhausted. "And it runs in the bloody family."

Alfred smiled. He dipped his head for a moment, drumming his hands on the mug. "You know," he said softly, "I used to think about you all the time, too. Well, I mean how I imagined you were – you and mom. I used to fall asleep dreaming that you'd show up at the orphanage to get me, that there'd been a mistake or some long elaborate reason why you'd had to leave me there. The other kids said you were both dead, that's why I was there – I mean, that's why most of them were there – but I never believed it. I always felt like you guys were out there somewhere so I waited and waited." He looked up. "Dumb, huh?"

"Not entirely," Arthur said. He couldn't meet his gaze. "You were right about me. I really couldn't say about Francine."

"I imagined that you were some big tall rich entrepreneur," Alfred said, "from like Chicago or somewhere." He laughed. "And mom would be in a fur coat and pearls and there would be another kid, too, a younger brother who looked just like me called like... I dunno, Matthew or something. I always wanted a younger brother. Most of the boys at the orphanage were older and bigger than me and they used to push me around. I really wanted somebody like me to play with."

"Then I must be a disappointment," Arthur said quietly. "I'm not tall or rich or from Chicago – and I've no wife or younger son."

But Alfred smiled. "You're even better," he said. "Because you're real."

Arthur came to the kitchen table, sinking into the opposite chair. He reached across, rallying himself for a moment before pressing his hand atop Alfred's.

"Look, I know I can never make up for everything I've done to you," he said quietly. "The life you could have had, stolen away because Francine and I were so awful and selfish... But if we can't repair the bridge then we can at least begin to build a new one."

Alfred met his eyes. "...I'd like that, Arthur."

"Good." Arthur nodded. "Then we'll try our best with one another." He reached for Alfred's cup. "Are you done?"

Alfred drained it and handed it over. Arthur went to the sink to wash up the breakfast dishes, humming an old wartime tune to himself as he turned on the tap. They had plenty to do if Alfred really was going to settle properly into his life: he'd need proper clothes, of course, a whole wardrobe, and Arthur supposed he really should see what Alfred's academic ability was, if he could read and write, that sort of thing. The glasses, too, possibly weren't the right prescription, he'd noticed that Alfred tended to squint over them sometimes–

He felt Alfred's weight press up against his back and froze. The boy's arms wound around his chest, squeezing him.

"Hey, I mean, it," Alfred whispered in his ear. "About thanking you... I already said it doesn't matter to me about you being my dad. I won't tell anyone." His mouth came very close to Arthur's neck. "It's just... you know, if you want to, I'll happily oblige."

"Get off," Arthur breathed, closing his eyes. His body felt cold. He gripped at the rim of a plate in the sink to keep himself steady. "I mean it, Alfred. Take your hands off me at once."

"Alright." Alfred withdrew. "I'm just telling you that the offer is there."

"Do you honestly think I would still sleep with you knowing that you're my son?" Arthur asked, incredulous.

"Why not? If I was a girl then yeah, I get it, I might get pregnant and have some inbred mutant kid, but we're both male so what's the problem?"

"You're my son!" Arthur exploded. He didn't trust himself to look at him. He started to bang the dishes angrily in the sink.

"So? It didn't do any harm before, did it? You being my dad doesn't make you any less attractive."

Arthur broke the plate. "Listen to me," he said. He turned towards Alfred, seizing him by the shoulders with soapy hands. "Listen, Alfred, because I don't think you understand and in a way I suppose I can't blame you because you don't know what it's like to have a family and that's my fault, not yours. We cannot, I repeat, cannot sleep together ever again. You're my son, I'm your father. Any attraction you feel towards me is inappropriate."

Alfred tilted his head. "Why?"

"Well, it's... it just is. It's incestuous."

"Yeah, I know. I don't see what the big deal is if we're both guys, though. As I said, it's not like we can inbreed–"

"That's enough. I won't hear another word on the matter." Arthur let him go, turning back to the sink. "Do I make myself perfectly clear, Alfred?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes," Alfred said finally. He sounded sullen. "But I don't get it."

"I don't care. That's that."

"Fine. Can I go listen to the radio?"

"Of course."

Alfred shuffled out of the kitchen. Arthur stood still for a long moment, his fingers feeling along the ragged edge of the plate, which had broken clean in two. His heart was hammering in his chest; he didn't know whether to be more dismayed at Alfred or himself. Of course Alfred didn't understand; the difference between familial love and sexual attraction was completely alien to him – and Arthur was to blame for that, abandoning him on an orphanage doorstep and then crashing back into his life sixteen years later as a client buying sex from him. Of course it wasn't Alfred's fault–

(I was problematic)

It was Arthur's.

Over the next few weeks they settled into a veneer of a life together. Arthur took Alfred shopping and bought him proper clothing, not to mention any other frivolous fancy he wanted – comics, toy aeroplanes, bags of small plastic soldiers. In some way he realised that Alfred was probably too old for this sort of amusement but reasoned that at the orphanage he'd probably had very little in the way of belongings to call his own; and had been working at Braginsky's since the age of twelve, his childhood rather abruptly cut short. So he indulged him, taking him for ice-cream and burgers, sitting through excruciatingly-bad sci-fi movies, buying him a View Master with reels of Dick Tracy and Flash Gordon, which seemed to entertain the boy for hours on end.

A trip to the optician's revealed that he'd been wearing the wrong prescription for at least two years; and a visit to the doctor's about the cough, which Arthur was loathe to allow to worsen, highlighted it as lingering pneumonia, nothing too severe, but it would need to be treated. Arthur, who had feared it might be tuberculosis, was relieved but realised that the cough medicine he'd bought all those weeks ago had probably had about as much effect as sugared water.

As for Alfred's behaviour, he seemed to have grasped the concept that sleeping with his own father was a no-go, although he did sometimes crawl into Arthur's bed to cuddle up with him at three in the morning. It seemed innocent enough so Arthur grudgingly let him stay; after all, Alfred had been alone for almost his entire life. It seemed natural enough that sometimes he just wanted to be close to Arthur.

Arthur had been busy making preparations to return to Britain; bringing Alfred back with him was proving to be a headache, with all manner of extra paperwork to fill in. It didn't help that he had no birth certificate for him and, indeed, had no idea where he'd actually been born; was it in France or had Francine been in the States by the time she'd given birth? He'd checked the records of a few hospitals in the area but came up blank. Of course, it was entirely possible she hadn't given birth in a hospital at all. Knowing Francine, she'd done it herself in a hotel room with two hand-towels and bottle of vodka, with a glass of wine and a cigarette afterwards. Either way, it was beginning to look like he was going to have to adopt Alfred officially, which he supposed he didn't mind but it was ludicrous given that he was actually his biological father and this could all have been avoided sixteen years ago, had that orphanage step not beckoned him towards ruin...

In the meantime, he attended the university and gave his lectures and marked his essays; sometimes he brought Alfred with him but mostly he left him in the apartment with money and a key in case he wanted to go out. Alfred seemed happy enough with this arrangement; Arthur supposed he went to the cinema to see every diabolical movie ever made and let him get on with it. Let him have these last few weeks of enjoying New York in a way he'd never been able to before; and then they would go home to England, together, and start their life anew.

Arthur finished early for the day, cancelling his last lecture when only three students turned up due to the glorious sunshine outside. He'd punish them next week with a quiz, he thought gleefully, and drove back to the apartment with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the windows down. It was such a nice day that he suspected Alfred might be out, perhaps at the park or something, but when he came back they'd go out for frosted malts.

Despite their rocky start, Alfred's presence had greatly improved Arthur's mood. He liked having him to come home to, holding onto the hellos and goodbyes all day long; most importantly, he no longer felt the need to fill up those empty New York nights in the arms of thin wheezy rentboys. Sitting at home with Alfred listening to the nightly Batman serial was more than good enough for him.

He parked up the car on the curb outside the apartment block and gathered up his papers from the back, shoving them under his arm. He let himself into the building and made his way up the stairs to his third-floor apartment.

He could hear voices: Alfred's, low, and another man's, deeper. Frowning, he came to the apartment door; it was open, slightly ajar, and with a small, dubious nudge he sent it swinging open. Alfred was standing in the hall, naked but for one of Arthur's work shirts, with a much older man in an expensive square suit. The man was murmuring something, rubbing at Alfred's cheek, and Alfred was shooting him that rehearsed, coy smile Arthur had seen far too many times.

Arthur dropped his books. Alfred and his guest jumped, looking to the doorway.

"Ar-Arthur!" Alfred went white. "You're back early!"

"I cancelled my last lecture," Arthur said faintly.

"Hey, now, Jack," the man crooned. "You didn't say you had such a catch for a sugar-daddy. University lecturer, hm? ...Or is that a little game you like to play?" He shook his head at Arthur. "Tut tut, Professor – keeping a gorgeous thing like Jack up here all to yourself. We all miss him at Braginsky's."

"It's Doctor," Arthur corrected him coldly. "Doctor Arthur Kirkland – and your beloved "Jack" is my son, Alfred."

The man simply rolled his eyes. "Kinky," he said.

"Get out of my apartment." Arthur stood aside, pointing at the open doorway. "Now."

"Sure thing," the man drawled. He patted Alfred's cheek. "Same time next week, darling." He strutted out; Arthur couldn't help but notice the gold cufflinks and Rolex watch as he slammed the door behind him.

"Arthur, I can explain," Alfred said weakly.

"How dare you," Arthur hissed. "In my fucking apartment...! Just because I refused, you bring men in here–"

"No, it's not like that!" Alfred grabbed Arthur's wrist, pulling on him. "Please, just come and–"

"Let go of me." Arthur wrenched his arm back. His face was hot but he shivered violently all over. "How dare you do this. If you want to go back to Braginsky's so badly–"

"No!" Alfred put out his arms as thought he was shielding himself. "Just... please just listen, Arthur...! I-I was worried, everything you've done for me, it's cost you so much money and I know you don't have much! You said yourself the reason you gave me up in the first place was because you couldn't afford to look after me. So I... I wanted to help and this was all I could think of...!"

He darted away suddenly, vanishing into his room; at length, heavy-hearted, Arthur followed him, standing on the threshold. In the few weeks since Alfred had been here, it had been transformed into a childish wonderland, with model planes hanging from threads on the ceiling and comics stacked on every surface and a picture of Superman clipped from a magazine above the bed. It was quite at odds with the rumpled bedsheets and the sour aftersmell of sex. He wondered how he hadn't noticed before now.

Alfred pulled a shoebox from beneath the bed and pulled off the lid, emptying it out. A shower of green spilled all over the carpet, several hundred dollars' worth of bills chasing in every direction.

"I've managed to make three hundred and fourteen dollars," Alfred said desperately, looking up at him. "It's just a few old clients but... but I knew you'd be angry so I didn't tell you. I was going to give it to you when we got to England."

"It wouldn't be any good there," Arthur said woodenly. It was all he could bring himself to say.

"Wouldn't it?" Alfred picked up some of the bills, looking at them in confusion. "Why not?"

"We don't use American dollars in Britain. We use sterling."

"What's sterling?"

"It's what wankers like me pay fucking rentboys with!" Arthur put his face in his hands. He felt like sobbing but the tears wouldn't come. His eyes burned in their sockets.

"Arthur..." Alfred got up. "I'm sorry, I... I was just trying to help..."

"I know." Arthur took a deep breath, raising his face again. He looked at Alfred, who stood forlornly in the middle of the room with dirty money scattered around his bare feet. Oh, patron saint: no matter how much Arthur prayed, it went unheeded.

"Never mind," he forced out. "Just... just don't do it again."

Alfred looked away. His shoulders sagged.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I know I... it's just that it's all I'm good for–"

"Enough." Arthur turned away; he couldn't bear to listen to any more. "Get dressed. It's a lovely day. We'll go and get frosted malts."

"What about the money?"

"We'll sort it out when we get back." He started away, then paused. "Alfred, I... appreciate the sentiment. I want you to know that. I just wish that you hadn't acted on it."

"I was scared," Alfred said quietly. "I was scared that... I don't know, you'd run out of money and wouldn't be able to take me with you to England. I didn't want that to happen. I want to stay with you no matter what."

"Alfred, I..." Arthur felt his voice stick. He fought to clear his throat. "I-I wouldn't leave you behind. Not again, not..."

Alfred wiped at his eyes. "I just wanted to be sure."

That you had no excuse. Arthur let out a breath. It was shaky.

"Come here," he whispered. He put out his arms, gathering Alfred close. "I'm sorry, Alfred. You deserve so much more than me."

"I don't care," Alfred sobbed, clutching at him. "As long as I can stay with you then I don't care what happens. I love you so much, Arthur."

Perhaps Alfred still didn't understand – but then, who was Arthur to talk? He was just as new at being a father. He and Alfred were as naïve and stupid as each other.

He kicked the door shut on the money so that he wouldn't have to look.

Final part soon! Thank you for your support with this trainwreck.