The deliveries came fast the day he moved in; he rearranged furniture more than once, and the dresser and bed he bought for Joseph even fit perfectly in one of the extra rooms. But maybe Joseph wouldn't want to visit or stay for the summers…A guest room he'd call it then, for whomever might come to town…

But he liked the new furniture's blank slate, only new memories connected to it when he slept, ate, made love, drank himself into a stupor, what have you. Any happenings, both good and bad, would be his and only his in this place. And that heartened him, even as he planned to fall into old habits with no one looking over his shoulder in judgement.

That first night he drank a week's worth of whiskey and woke like a lead weight latched to the floor, his clothes off, eyes clamped shut against the harsh light coming through the windows. A deep cut on his left palm and glass shards from a blue vase strewn chaotically across the wooden floor spoke of a misery he couldn't recall. He threw up in the fine new toilet of his bathroom and finding nothing in the house to eat, wretchedly drank water from his cupped hand, watching the water soak into the makeshift bandage he'd wrapped around it, pink fluid dripping down his fingers. And the rest of the day he lay curled tightly on the bed, staring at nothing, listening to sounds of his breath and the city moving forward without him just past the windows.

But on Tuesday, John ran to all the unemotional tasks his new home provided. He noted missing things, realizing he'd never had his own place, not even at university. Sheets, salt, cutlery… a broom. Digging into the details of building a home that week became the best distraction he'd had in ages, for it was nothing but simple errands and mundane shopping. And five flasks a day, sipped through the hours, to keep the symptoms at bay, just enough to stay productive. He tried not to think about drinking more than the measured swallows, but his body whispered for it, then pleaded, the physical discomforts of withdrawal surfacing.

And so that Friday John picked up two large bottles of Evan Williams pure rye and a dozen sweet rolls from the bakery on the bottom floor. He'd see Joseph at 10:00 that morning then come home...drink….perhaps call on Flora. For once she could make a house call and he'd get her out of that molding, decrepit hall end room.

But it was like going to the barn for branding every time. Flora didn't care about him…didn't even like him, really; their "dates" were an exchange of practiced words and precious money and for him just a moment to transform hard feelings into pleasure. But to look into her eyes was to look into Julia's once again. And every time the shame disappeared for a few fleeting seconds of release then left him with a sadness compounded.

It was a sexual attempt to create Pavlovian response, Kriezler said. "You think you can rewrite everything hurting you into something new, but your methods are snake oil. Learn to accept yourself and you'll never feel shame again."

John winced, remembering Kriezler's words.

"I accept myself fully, Laszlo, no one has ever had trouble telling me what I am. I know my truth better than anyone."

But Laszlo turned away from him, looking out the warped window. "None of us are the definitions forced upon us by others, John. You should know that by now."

Of course, he hadn't seen Flora in many months….not since Sara and the early days of their first case. But why not go back to Flora for their daily ritual. And what ring to give her at this point now that he had two, he thought, the musing so bitter that he actually laughed.

At the school doors, Joseph rushed to meet him, took him by the arm and before he even said hello, the boy laughed, something John thought he'd never hear again during all Joseph's months at Kriezler's institute, when he'd crawled within his own silence for many weeks then slowly found his words again, extracting himself carefully over time into a brighter place.

They walked the grounds and talked about Joseph's classes, how much he enjoyed football. He cautiously admitted that it channeled a lot of his bad memories and made his mind lighter. And he asked what happened to John's hand, brows knotted in concern; but as he reached out to inspect the bandage, John shoved his hand in a pants pocket, changing the topic back to school with a small chuckle.

When they arrived back at the schoolyard, John handed him the weekly care package still tucked under his arm, the sweet rolls, a new wool cap and warm coat for the fall, and a leather bound sketchbook from Bergdorf's.

"Thanks," Joseph murmured but with a genuine grin that John desperately needed, suddenly realizing how much of a salve that smile was in comparison to the distractions he'd planned for the upcoming days.

But when he asked if Joseph would like to come into the city for the weekend, the boy looked embarrassed to say no.

"Well, some of the boys, we're working on some plays. Our first game is next Tuesday."

"Ah..," John said with guarded disappointment. "Well, perhaps another weekend, and I'll attend the game on Tuesday, if you don't mind my being there!"

Joseph nodded but picked at the skin on one of his fingers, like he wanted to say something else but settled on, "Ok, Mr. Moore," and John put a hand lightly behind Joseph's neck then rested it on the top of his head with an encouraging smile.

"You're doing so well here, better than I did even. I'm proud of you."

Joseph looked straight into John's eyes and he returned the gaze hesitantly, his smile breaking a bit at Joseph's intensity.

"Mr. Moore? Can I…. Are you my dad now?"

John felt his chest go tight.

"Well….I'm your guardian, but you're free to call me…..what would like to call me?"

Joseph looked down at the skin along his nail, errantly bit it then looked away.

"It just feels like we should figure things out, people ask me…who's the man who comes to see you every weekend, that your father?" He shrugged. "I don't know what to say. They don't know anything about…about when I was…and I wish there was somethin' I could say. Just…anything. I don't know. I got nothing to say."

John's mind raced. The boy needed to steer his future however he could, especially since others had steered it for so long. But what if he told Joseph what he wanted? Worst case scenario, Joseph would turn him down. And John had heard that often enough, of course, he could take hearing it again. Or could he.

"I dunno…I just sort of need to know is all. And guardian sounds like….It shouldn't matter, but I've had a lot of owners… And bosses and customers. All those sons of bitches…..You've never been like any of them…but I called all of them Mister this or that, too… So what are we?"

With more defeat than intended, John let out a held breath and said, "Joseph… I'd be honored to be your father, but I don't want you to consider that unless it's what you want."

"But that's what you want?" Joseph said, his voice tight and hopeful.

And John let go of the retreat he'd invested so heavily in lately, even as he clung to it like a safety line.

"I'd love to call you 'son,' it would mean the world to me. But not until you're ready…this is your life, Joseph.….You're young, and smart. Resilient. More resilient than me," John laughed, feeling his eyes well up. "Only you know what you truly need. But when you're ready…I'm ready to be your father."

"Why wouldn't I be ready? So you're my dad. Thanks for coming today…Dad." Joseph's smile on that last word was pure sunlight, then he called over his shoulder to a group nearby. "Hey, boys! C'mere, have you met my dad?"

After leaving the school, John went straight home, forgoing the plan to call on Flora and stop by The White Horse for extra alcohol in case he was too trashed later to procure more. He went upstairs and pulled the two large bottles of beautiful caramel fluid from their crinkly wrapping; and as the sun went down over the East River poured both bottles slowly to the ground below. When the second bottle had one last dreg, John put it to his lips held it around his tongue and teeth for a precious few seconds before spitting it out, as well.

He wiped slowly at a drip running down his chin and stared at the splattered dark blot five stories below then leaned against the balcony wall, taking a deep breath, maybe deeper than he'd taken in ages. He looked down at his bandaged, shaking hands; the harsher tremors would return soon, the night sweats. But a slow smile came to his lips, as wide as Joseph's when he called him "Dad."