So... this was the hardest thing I've had to do in a while. Honestly.

Here's the skinny. I promised another fantastic fanficer by the name of Promissa Fidel to a little "challenge", if you could call it that. Basically, were were to give each other a word or a quote or a phrase, and both of us had to write a story based around it. The person who gave the inspiration would switch week by week. It was her week.

Her word was "stars".

I don't hate her... but I hate her (I don't! You're amazing!)

This had to be the most grueling challenge I've ever had to face. Ever. Period. End of story.

Not only was coming up with an idea terrible, but I'm pretty sure I crashed and burned before I even began. Honestly. So please be prepared to read by terrible mess of a story. But hey... despite all that, it was super fun.

BTW, this is my interpretation of the word "stars". Please please please go to her page and read her version. It can be found in her one shot series.

Onto the story!

o0o

"they saw each other... like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues..."

~Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

o0o

"Mr. Peabody," the teacher he was seeing, Sherman's teacher, struggled with her words, coming out with strangled noises for only a moment, fingers fiddling. "Your son… he's quite smart,"

The dog being addressed beamed. "Of course he is. He's mine, isn't he?"

"Oh, of course!" Her hands went up, their fiddling ceasing for a bare moment, "No one is questioning your… incredible… brain power, sir."

"Well naturally they shouldn't."

"It's just that I want you to make sure you realize just how smart your son is."

"I already know how he's doing in school. Despite his small… bump in the road, he's doing fine. And if you're here to tell me that he's moving up in school, that's no surprise. I have an entire curriculum already devised for him if you'd care to-

"No." Another pregnant pause. "Mr. Peabody, your son… he isn't a genius."

Peabody's face dropped, just slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, your son is smart!" Because he was. "But he isn't like you."

"And you're saying that his lower intelligence is dragging him down."

"No," and there was a flash of pearl as teeth bit down on her lip. "No, more like the other way around."

Sherman had hid a test from him.

It wasn't an altogether bad grade. A B+. But that wasn't an altogether good grade either. The situation may have been resolved with a quick metaphorical slap on the wrist. Peabody was always good at dealing with academia based chastising. He knew everything, so it was easy to correct errors as they came.

Unfortunately this was a situation a bit bigger than that.

Sherman had lied.

He'd hid the paper from his father. Hadn't wanted it to be seen. Tried to wiggle his way from a bad situation and in turn made an even worse one. And to say Peabody had been furious would be an understatement. He had been beyond that. Terribly angry. And after a promise to see that this sort of a thing never happened again, the dog had gone to talk to the teacher about the situation, hoping to see sense in his son and the establishment that was turning his child into a hooligan. Honestly, first it had been his new friend Penny, and now the school was promoting average grades and lying streaks.

He'd marched into the teachers room that day armed with a militia of proof that his son was the little genius he knew he was and that they were all to blame for his newfound behavior.

The meeting had crashed and burned before it had even begun. And before long, the dog found himself in front of a teacher who was just as ready to blame him as he was her.

Peabody glared her way, feeling the pressure on him beginning to greaten. And he was not one for being diverted when it came to the challenges he had been pursuing. "I fail to understand, madam."

"Your son is so smart. But… it's just that… well…" Her head shook, giving up. "I think maybe it will make more sense if you just read this." She slid the folder that had been sitting in front of her towards him, lifting it into her own hands. "We had to write biographies about our families yesterday. Sherman's was the reason for the call."

"Look, if it's about the fact that he put his father down as a member of the canine species, I can tell you that what you see before you is genuine and there is no cause for alarm. Now, if you're quite done, I have a boy that I must get to scolding. Honestly, he is causing too much trouble for his own good today and-"

"Mr. Peabody, it isn't his… family situation that worries me." She rifled through the bright yellow folder, finally extracting the paper she was looking for. Holding it between her fingers the woman hesitated. "You have to understand, Mr. Peabody, that this isn't an immediate cause of alarm. It's just… a warning signal, if you will. Something we want to be able to catch before it gets out of hand."

"Yes, of course." he outstretched his paw. "May I?"

She was reluctant, but finally did pass it over. He took it, scanning it with interest. The document seemed normal enough for a first grader. Large line paper covered in even larger pencil marks, carefully displaying their intentions out through his words.

My Family! was written on the top, surrounded by a few happy smiling people and a cat.

1. Tell us about your home.

"You see, Mr. Peabody, there is a sort of a sign that we look out for when it comes to the relationships to families and their children. Not that this always points to abuse of course. In this situation you are far from a candidate from that sort of horror. But theres so many other things to consider.

My house is big. It's three stories. It sits on top of other apartments. I like my house. It has big windows and a cool pool and I have my own room. My favorite place in my house is the kitchen.

2. Tell us about your pets.

"And of course there are other children who also had answers that were worth taking second looks at. But Shermans such a happy boy, and it worries me that he hiding something. Though he doesn't have much of a poker face, does he?"

"No, he certainly does not."

I have four cactuses for pets. Their names are Raphael, Van Gogh, Washington and Amelia. I like them very much. Even though they are not cuddly.

3. Tell us about your siblings.

"Why would you be worried, though? That is my primary question, I suppose. Does Sherman seem off to you? Or is this your only hint that something may be amiss.

I do not have any siblings. But that's alright. I have lots of really nice friends. And Carl says that his brother throws socks at him. I do not need a brother at this current time.

4. Tell us about your mother.

"No, this is the only time. Of course, we've talked to him. And that's the other sign, I suppose. The poor boy just shies away whenever we bring it up. School policy forbids me from getting too involved, as you know. Hence you being brought in."

I do not have a mother. That is alright though. I have Mr. Peabody.

5. Tell us about your father (the page cut off after that, it would seem, lines drafting to the other side.)

"And where does your concern lie? These look like fairly normal answers for a seven year old. Perhaps not to the extent as to show his intellectual gifts, but normal nonetheless."

"Oh, they are. Most of them, at least. It's numbers five and six that I worry about."

"Five and six."

"Yes… just… just, uh, flip the page." She motioned with her hand, leaning back so as to appear relaxed. But her fingers, a tell beyond the scent of anxiety wafting off of her, began to rap to a beat on the desk.

He eyed her for a moment. She shifted under his gaze, her own eyes flickering to the paper, pleading. Peabody obliged, if only to put the poor woman out of her misery. "Of course." He did, shifting it in his paws. The second page, holding only two questions, was filled to the brim with writing. Large writing, but writing nonetheless. Scribbled here and there, forgetting to stay in the lines and drifting off into forbidden places of margins and headings. Number five still standing, staring him in the face.

5. Tell us about your father:

Mr. Peabody is a genius. He knows everything and can do everything. He can dance, play every sport, known how to use every instrument, discovered new natural energy sources, traveled in time, cooks good food, makes really good ice cream, can use big words like accordion and onomonopia. He is very good at being smart and being Mr. Peabody. He is my hero. I wish I could be like Mr. Peabody.

The dog, despite the audience, felt a burning behind his eyes at the last statement. But there was an audience, so he blinked it back and flashed the teacher his most winning of smiles. "Yes, well, this is quite charming, is it not. And a true testement to his knowledge of just who his father is. Though he spelled onomatopoeia wrong. But that hardly matters."

"Number six, sir."

He huffed, training his eyes to the very last question.

6. Tell us about yourself:

I am just Sherman.

There was a long silence filled with a suffocating amount of tension. Mr. Peabody stared at the paper. The teacher stared at Mr. Peabody. No one moved or spoke. Both parties simply waited. One waiting for the dog to move, to say something of worth or understanding. The other waiting for the words to shift themselves on the page, turn themselves into something with more light, more interest, more value. To magically slide from the page and hopefully watch each letter in that accursed word J-U-S-T fall into a heap at his feet. They did not. In fact they remained quite stubbornly in their place, smirking up at him.

"We really weren't sure what to think of it, to be frank, sir." Peabody jumped, realizing that the teacher still existed and was in front of him. "We just thought you should see it."

"Oh- oh! Yes… um… of course." He moved the paper in his hands, and it crinkled and crumpled with frail hisses; justjustjustjust…

"Sherman's such a bright boy. Not much brighter compared to other children his age, you see. But about the same. He's such a sweet child though. More so than any other one that's been through this class. Everyone loves him, poor thing. He just never seems to take the time to really make many friends. Except for Miss Peterson, of course. But even she seems to be holding on at this point."

'What do you mean? Sherman always talks about all of his friends."

"... Yes… I suppose he would…" She swallowed and adjusted her own glasses. The beaded chain that held them, crossing behind her neck, tickled her sweater. The beads began to ebb, moving and clinking against the other with a sort of coded message; justjustjustjustjust… "He knows everyone to be sure. And, like I said, they're all fond of him. Bullying hasn't been much of an issue. Not that I know of, at least. No one dares to mess with Penny, you see," the words were her escape into an attempt at humor, and the smile that flickered over her features was brief, but did nothing to ease the pressure in the room. "But Sherman… he doesn't really get to speak to his friends much."

"That's odd. He's usually so talkative."

"Oh, he is, make no mistake. Class wouldn't be the same without his fountain of information. But… the teachers who supervise lunch tell me he hasn't been there in weeks. Not sitting with his friends, at least."

Peabody tilted his head. Sherman's lunchbox always came back mostly emptied. The boy ate, and he seemed like he was getting enough nutrients. "Then where is he."

She squirmed. "In the library."

"Oh?"

"Most of the librarians know him well now. He goes there every day to study. That's all he does now. Just studies alone in a corner. That worried us enough, but now this." She motioned to the paper. "It's pointing to signs of loneliness. Not neglect," she added quickly, seeing the dog take on a defensive look of his own. "But… very lonely. The poor dear… he was near devastated when he got the B+ on his test. He studied days for that one. His friends hardly saw him. He was quiet in class." She sighed, leaning forward. "You must understand, Mr. Peabody, that I am an advocate for children learning. And please remember that when I say that Sherman has to stop taking all this knoledge stuff so seriously."

"What?!" All the sorrow for his boy was quickly overtaken by a red anger, shadowing anything else that might have lived there. "Mrs. Nadine, may I remind you that without the power of knowledge I would have never risen to any positions that I have achieved today? I would have been just another dog in a pound and not the father of the little boy you are currently berating for… for learning! That, excuse my language, is practically mindless prattle!"

"Mr Peabody, please-!"

"And might I also remind you," he stood on his chair, slamming the paper on the desk, "that Sherman is a gifted student as well as my boy. He will do great things with the dedication his has! Yes, he did falter for a moment, but I assure you that you will be seeing no more grades of a lesser value!"

"Mr. Peabody-!"

"And another thing-"

"Mr. Peabody!" He clapped his mouth shut, though he was hardly finished. She took her chance and went forward. "I understand! I do! I really, truly do! Your achievements in this lifetime have been great and numerous! You are a genius. You are fantastic. Hell, your child thinks you're the most perfect sentient being to walk across this planet! But that is what is terrifying him!"

"I don't follow."

She groaned, not caring that the action was highly unprofessional, and rifled through another drawer. "These are more documents that we've collected. None of them are too drastic to put him under surveillance, but apparently you need to see them anyway." She removed the folder, leaking with papers, and slit it towards him. "This is everything Sherman has. It's his first grade profile. You aren't supposed to see it until later, but I think that you should at least take a peek."

"Mrs. Nadine-"

"Just look, please. For his sake, look."

So he did look.

The folder was a litany of art projects, spelling practices, math sheets. He flipped through them with his thumb, the papers fanning out with his thumb; justjustjustjust…

I wish I could be like Mr. Peabody. One worksheet screamed up at him.

Another one bellowed; I'm not like Mr. Peabody. He's a genius. He's super smart.

Yet another; Mr. Peabody is a star. And the cutting edge; I'm just Sherman.

"Oh…" he said. "Oh…"

"He's smart." The teacher's voice was gentler now, more sympathetic. "He really is, Mr. Peabody. But… he has so many other incredible qualities. And it's so hard for him to actually see them. The boy really does look up to you. I just think he's scared that he'll never be like you." Mr. Peabody looked up at that. His face had shifted. Once defensive eyes were desperate, confused. "Most of all, I'm quite sure that he's scared of what you'll think of him if he doesn't turn out like you-"

"That's ridiculous." But the tone of the words was weak at best. "Sherman knows that I'm proud of him no matter what."

"Does he?"

The dog floundered, swallowed. "I… think he does?" The sentence was an unintentional question. "At least… maybe… I don't know…"

She smiled, and the wrinkles round her eyes were soft. "Why don't you tell him that. I'm sure he needs to hear it."

Peabody nodded soundlessly, sliding off the desk. With a look back and not a word of goodbye, he stepped out of the room.

His father was a star.

Sherman knew that as well as he knew that he was Peabody's son. It was a reality that he was adopted in to. The camera lights, the newspaper articles hanging on the fridge, the stream of delegates and presidential figures who wandered through their door. It was all just another sign that his father, his great and incredible and genius father, was a star. Which was fantastic, of course. It meant that Sherman always had a tutor around. It meant that Sherman always knew that his father would be under national protection. It meant that Sherman would always be able to count of his father having a way out, climbing up social ladders in order to pick them back up onto their feet. It meant that Sherman was the son of someone great and wonderful.

And it also meant Sherman was just… Sherman.

He had realized it, possibly, by the time be was five years old. Barely the age to be out of kindergarten, he spent his time stacking blocks and coloring and learning the commutative property of math. Mr. Peabody had elected for him to be homeschooled until he reached 1st grade, at which point he'd be placed into an elite private school with other children. But he, Sherman, would be different.

Mr. Peabody, as he liked so often to remind his son, would be ahead of everyone in school.

How could he not, with every history lesson and the advanced vocabulary that flowed through his house like rich piano music. That wasn't all that he had to learn. Genius', after all, do not become genius' by simply knowing the commutative property.

"Sherman." his father had said, sitting him down one sunny day by some windows. Sherman had been coloring, but dropped his crayon to look up and listen, "You know that I want what is best for you? Don't you?"

"Yeah!" He looked back down, grabbing a red crayon next. There was a shape on the paper, a swirl, possibly. The little boy had been attempting to copy a Van Gogh by memory. So far there was no success, but he was sure he'd get there at some point. "Can I have a snack now?"

"Later. Sherman, you of course know that you'll be starting school in a mere two years, and I want to make sure that you are ready."

"Uh huh. Why can't I have a snack?"

"Because it's almost dinner." He adjusted his glasses, watching his boy move crayon across paper. "What I mean to say, of course, is that you must be prepared for the education system. Academia is not a game, Sherman, it is a business. One filled with competition and sweat and tears."

"Can I have an apple?"

Mr. Peabody groaned. "Yes, you may have an apple." His boy reached for another crayon. "I am trying to tell you, Sherman, that with my help I intend to assure your spot at the top of this metaphorical stepping ladder by the time you successfully graduate."

"Uh huh…"

"And what that means is that there will be much less time to play around, and much more time spent nurturing your brain."

At that, Sherman did look up, his head tilting. For a moment he looked like a puppy, confused by a new command from it's master. "Whad'ya mean, Mr. Peabody?"

The dog coughed, straightening his bow tie. "You realize, of course, Sherman that as the son of someone as prestigious as myself, you will be held in the highest of standards by every university. I simply mean to tell you that I will be conditioning you to reach those expectations. You are the son of a genius."

"I am?"

Peabody had blinked at that, brow furrowing. "Of course you are."

"Who?"

There was another long pause. Mr. Peabody blinked some more. Then he blinked again. "Me, Sherman. I'm a genius."

It was like the sun coming over the horizon. Or, possibly, going down, pressing his world into darkness. He'd always known his father to be standoffish. He'd always known his father to be different. But he'd always known his father to be his father. There were no labels or obligations that had been in place. He wasn't in a position. Sherman had always assumed that he was Sherman, son to Peabody. Not Sherman, son to genius.

In that moment, Peabody went from being just a father to being so much more. Sherman, in his most humble of opinions, did not like 'so much more'.

"Oh." Sherman had said. He didn't pick up another crayon, but he did stare at them on the floor.

"Yes. Now, as I was saying, as the son of a genius, you will be seen as somewhat of an example. I've asked for you to be taken out of all media, naturally, but you cannot escape fate. And fate says that you will be somewhat of an avid learner and one to follow in my path. You are my ward. I expect nothing less than greatness."

Sherman didn't feel so good anymore. In fact, he was sure that he felt rather bad… But what could he say? His father was beaming down at him, waiting to hear an answer from the five year old, who felt smaller than he'd ever felt before. "Um… okay, Mr. Peabody."

"Excellent!" His father- the Genius- clapped his hands together. "Now, about that apple-"

"I'm not hungry, Mr. Peabody." He wasn't. His stomach was too tied up in knots and his throat was tight.

"Oh?"

"No… I'm alright."

"Well, that's fine then. I'll call on you for dinner. Go about your business." Before he left he poked his head over the redheads shoulder, staring down at the artwork that lay innocently against the white computer paper. "Interesting use of color combination, Sherman. Though work more on your angle structure. Your lines could always show more definition when it comes to creating dimensions on paper." Then, hands clasped behind his back, he strutted into the kitchen.

It was one of the first times this sort of thing would occur. And it wouldn't be the last. Every one of them hit, and hit hard. Another reminder that his father, the Genius, was a star. And he was just Sherman.

He wasn't sure if he liked being just Sherman.

So when he'd gotten that B+, ruining a chance at proving that he could be just as able to be pefect in every way, someone Mr. Peabody could be proud of, he wasn't sure what to do. His world imploded in on itself. All paths leading towards success disappeared into nothingness.

Penny, of course, had tried to console him in her own way. But her method of dealing with things wasn't so… praiseworthy.

Sherman hated hiding things from his father. He rarely did. And whenever he tried, the beagle could usually smell the guilt from a mile away. So when he stuffed the test under his pillow, the one laiden with a large B+, the guilt nearly knocked him over. Hiding it had been Penny's idea in the first place. They'd discussed it at lunch in detail, the conversation going something like;

"He's going to kill me."

"No he's not!"

"How is he not. I'm supposed to be the little genius remember."

"Sherman, you're very smart."

"Not smart enough!"

"So what! Its a B. It's not the end of the world."

"A B+, and yes it is. I've never gotten below an A."

"You're saying this to someone who rarely gets above a C."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No biggie. My parents don't mind. As long as I try."

"Well mine wants to make sure that I'm on top of the intellectual metaphorical ladder of wisdom."

"What does that even mean."

"How should I know. I'm stupid."

"You aren't stupid, Sherman. You got a B. B's happen."

"B+."

"Whatever. And if you're so scared, why not just hide it."

"What?!"

"Just hide the test. Don't tell him about it."

"How could I do that?!"

"Easy. Put it under your bed."

"Penny!"

"Oh, don't act like I'm asking you to murder someone, Sherman. Just… I don't know… put it away for a while. Then, when you get him all buttered up, tell him what happened."

"How am I supposed to butter him up?"

"He's got an ego. Stroke it."

"He doesn't have an ego!"

"He's a genius, Sherman, they all have ego's."

"I don't."

"Isn't that why you said you weren't a genius?"

"Oh. Yeah."

'Stop sulking. If you want to tell him so bad then just tell him!"

"But he'll kill me!"

"Then do what I said. Hide it. He won't even have to know."

"I guess…I just… yunno… really wish I could be as smart as him. He never got B's. He never failed anything. He's just… perfect. And I'm… just Sherman."

"Perfect is boring. And I like just Sherman. If you were smart, I might not like you."

"Thanks Penny."

"No problem Sherman."

Five hours later he was stuffing a B+ under his pillow and praying that his father wouldn't find it. Because that would be worse. Lying was bad enough. Being caught lying would be even worse. And the last thing he needed was to be caught trying to hide that he was Just Sherman and not the genius he was supposed to be.

But fate would have it, he was caught. Red handed. That very night in fact. And it had been an awkward and terrible one. One filled with harsh words and confrontations and growling. His father had elected to speak to his teacher, much to the distress of his boy, and announced that he would be meeting with her the next day. That he was disappointed in him- for reasons Sherman had to guess- and he hoped that he knew the error of his ways.

Sherman did.

So after he'd walked home, not wanting to be the subject of more yelling, he'd hid in his room and waited for his chastisement.

Perhaps it would be a month grounded. No trips in the WABAC. No friends over for weeks. Not that his friends would be too miffed. His absence had hardly been the talk of the town nowadays. He wasn't even sure if he had any friends any more. Not with how he'd been ignoring them. But it was so hard sometimes being the son of a star.

Sherman had learned from his father that stars were like photographs and memories. They'd most likely already died, but their light would be seen for decades to come. It was the tiny pinprick that man marveled at since time began. The newer stars were still invisible, their own pulses of energy not having reached the planet or, more likely, the human eye. Those ones were dark. And would be invisible and unknown and unseen until the next generation or the next was looking into the sky.

And that was Sherman. He was that new star. Except he really wasn't sure if he'd be able to be seen at all. Not that he cared much about anyone else seeing him. It was that brighter than bright star that stood next to him that he worried about. Because when his light faded Sherman's own will have still gone unnoticed. And he wanted to make sure that he was marveled at just enough to be considered a star as well.

Mr. Peabody wasn't sure of what to find when he got home. But he was sure that he'd find a nervous boy knew he was in trouble. Lying was not acceptable in the household. That was one thing he'd been taught since early childhood. And usually he didn't. But when he did it was always met with consequences far worse than if he'd merely told the terrible truth.

He did find Sherman, eventually, after calling out his name into a seemingly empty apartment. The redhead had apparently dove under his covers at the sound of the approaching elevator, and had huddled himself into as small of a position as possible. Perhaps to try and be undetected. Hard with a father who followed his scent trail to him. But it was the thought that counted.

"Sherman?" He knocked on the doorframe, eyes on the lump. "Sherman? I need to talk to you."

There was some high pitched mumbling. A sniffle. Peabody's chest contracted.

"Sherman, come now. You knew that I was going to have to speak to you at some point."

"I'm sorry…" came the tiny whisper. "Okay?"

Peabody harumphed, shuffling into the room. "No that is certainly not okay." He reached the bed, tugging off the covers to reveal a shock of red, messy hair. "I want to be able to say my part first."

The face came next, streaked with old tears. Sherman quickly wiped them away, but they'd been seen. His father sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know how I feel about lying-"

"I know, Mr. Peabody! I know! And I swear I'll never do it again! I'll get only A's and you'll see me do better in my classes and-"

"Sherman! Please! Calm down!" He grabbed his son's shoulders. "Let me speak, won't you? I need to make sure that I can get this message across before you pass out from hyperventilation." Sherman swallowed in more air with large and greedy gulps, but did nod all the same. "Good. Now, I went to speak with your teacher. And we discussed this… grade. She… doesn't think it's much of a problem. In fact she thinks that it's normal for a boy your age to struggle sometimes."

Sherman blushed, and the dog wasn't sure if that was shame from lying or something else. "Yeah… I tried to tell her that… that I couldn't be normal. But…"

"Quiet, Sherman."

"Sorry…"

"Anyway, she says she believes it to be normal. And… I agree with her."

The boy's head snapped up. "What!?"

"Sherman, you're seven years old. You aren't supposed to be receiving stellar grades at this age." The words came out unpracticed, and his tone was grinding. So new was it to even express the idea of normalcy and adequate and okay that he hadn't realized he'd never even muttered them before in his life. "There's no need to… no need to worry about something as simple as this." Sherman didn't say anything, but his expression was more than shocked. "And… and of course, if you need more help in the subject I'm always happy to offer it. But for now… you're doing fine. So… yes… okay."

He moved to leave the room as if the talk was over, but found he couldn't. They both just sat there. Peabody looking at his hands, Sherman looking at Peabody. No one knowing what to say. It was as normal a talk as one had by a family not made by a dog and an adopted boy. Just a regular talk. But they were not a regular family and the situation was not regular. It demanded to be shaped, to be mutated with longer words and complex equations and with love that had been stifled for so long. So much pressure building up behind a need.

The ceiling fan above their heads rotated menacingly, each swish- justjustjustjust- grating at Peabody's ears. His boy exhaled and inhaled softly, scared, each one- justjustjustjust- flooding his ears. His own heartbeat- jujustjujustjujustjujust- pounding against his wrists. Until finally Boyle's Law was enacted in an amazing display of pressure versus volume when Mr. Peabody turned to his son and said;

"Do you truly think you're Just Sherman?!"

"What!?"

He took his son by the shoulders and grabbed him, tugging him against his own body into a tight hug. "Sherman, you are so much more than Just Sherman. Don't ever think you're Just Sherman. In comparison with so many others that exist you will never be a Just. You're far too kind, far too intelligent. You've been known to make people fall in love with you. Davinci, Washington, Lincoln, Queen Elizabeth, Penny and the Petersons…" He squeezed his son tighter to make a point. "Me."

From where they were he heard his son shift, felt glasses bump his shoulder as his sons face was buried into his fur. They stayed like that for some time. And when Peabody pulled away, pushing his son back, there was a tense silence between them. Sherman looked like he wanted to cry again, and the guilt was easy to detect, smell too easy to take in.

"Sherman… when I found you in that box, I was hardly ready to be a father. And I didn't realize that. I imagined it to be easy. Simple. Because I had solved so much in my lifetime. But it has been far from easy for me. I can't just meld you into something that I want. You aren't a machine that works the way I want or need it to. You are Sherman. And I don't want you any other way."

Sherman rubbed his eyes. "But… but I wanted you to be proud of me."

"I am. I always am."

"Really?!"

It broke his heart to hear the word. As if he didn't know. But if his son needed to hear it then he'd hide the pain and smile. "Of course I am."

"But… I got a B+..."

"Yes. You did. But you're also so kind, so smart, and so incredibly generous with everything you have to offer to this world." Because he offered Peabody far too much love every day. More than the beagle deserved. And he'd never stop giving it, he knew. But Sherman was like that. Eager to please and never stopping to look back. "And… I am sorry… for so much pressure on you about academia."

Sherman nodded slowly, sniffling. "Okay. But I have been studying more! I swear!"

"I know." The words were sour. "But… and this will sound foreign coming from me… might I encourage you to possibly not study during your school hours?"

"But if I don't-"

"You may study from home. The world will not change if you do that, Sherman. But you may not have many friends for long if you continue down this path. Believe me, I have gone too far down to turn back. I've lost many a friend and do not have many to show for my troubles."

"I thought the Petersons were your friends."

"They are." Which was new. He hadn't expected it to happen, and it had been a long while since he'd had anyone to call a friend. But it appeared that times were changing. And quickly. "But I do not wish for you to lose yours."

"Oh. Okay."

"Promise me, won't you? That you'll at least try to keep your friends around."

"Can I invite them over?"

"Of course." He tried to not sound too thrilled at the progress, but his sons smile was infectious. "Anytime. After you ask me, of course."

"Cool!"

"And no more lying."

"None." His son intoned solemnly.

"And come eat dinner."

Sherman nodded, throwing off the covers to drop to the floor.

"And Sherman?"

"Yes, Mr. Peabody?"

"... never mind…"

He'd never know how to say the words. But one day he wanted to tell Sherman. One day he wanted to explain to the boy that yes, he was a genius. And yes he was an inventor. And yes, he had changed the world. But Sherman… Sherman was brilliant in his own ways. Practically a star.

It was a tragedy that he'd never know it. And it was impossible to explain.

But Mr. Peabody, from that day on, was determined to try.

So... there it is. It was also one of my first attempts at really looking at a situation from the kind of sort of perspective of Mr. Peabody. Hope it wasn't too terrible. Usually I do it from Sherman's view. So this was hard to do in itself. Hopefully I won't have to do too much more of that again. However, this week is MY turn to torture her.

MWAHAHAHAHA

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!