Set in the second season.
Disclaimer: all theirs, nothing mine, even though they don't have anything left. Aargh!
Flowers on Algernon's Grave
By OughtaKnowBetter
"Your theory certainly appears sound, Bea." But the words belied the doubt in Adam's tone. "What's going wrong?"
In appearance, the woman he spoke to exemplified all the characteristics of too little, too late. She was of moderate height, but the extra pounds spoke of too many hours working and too few exercising. Her hair was cut utilitarianly short, and the make up inexpertly applied suggested too little practice over the years. Her clothes, while comfortable and easy to work in, did nothing to enhance the view. Had she taken the time she would have been a handsome woman, but this was clearly someone with more important things on her mind: her eyes gleamed with intelligence—and need.
"It's the longevity factor, Adam," Bea replied, trying to keep the tiredness out of her voice. She allowed herself to slump against the back of the park bench, crossing her legs one over the other and spreading an arm across the long pressure-treated wood beam. Brown leaves, having given up their red and gold glory, drifted down to join the pile of detritus at the side of the path and a pigeon tottered along to examine the clumping for any tidbits to consume. "I push at one end and pull at the other, but nothing seems to affect it. Two weeks after treatment he's right back to square one. It's incredibly frustrating."
"After twenty years of trying, I should think so," Adam agreed. A lesser woman than the one in front of him, he judged, would have crumbled under the strain of the past two decades. Not Beatrice Sutter. A delicate breeze sauntered by, carrying the scent of something fragrant by his nose. Bea was clearly angling for help, and was going to use everything at her disposal to obtain it—even meager feminine wiles. Knowing what she was up against, Adam didn't blame her. "I assume you've tried modifying the linkages on the sixth chromosome?"
"Three times," Bea confirmed, "using three different techniques. It wasn't the answer. And neither was anything I tried that involved the fifteenth."
"Adding polychromosate to the mix didn't help?"
"I could have been pouring saline down his throat for all the good it did." It was hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I need to find another way." And the one thing she hated to admit: "I need help, Adam."
The object of her endeavors looked up from where he was playing in the sand. He grinned, a guileless and trusting light in his puppy-dog brown eyes. "I'll help you, mommy."
"I know you will, Benji," Bea replied absently, not really hearing him, too wrapped up in her misery. She patted him on the head, and he went back to building his lop-sided sandcastle. The dirt was too dry; one side of the structure tumbled back onto the ground.
But Adam was revolted. Not by what sat in the sand in front of him, but by the lack of ethics that had caused the tragedy in the first place.
Benji had all the sweetness of a four year old, but his body had left that behind more than twenty years ago. Not content with merely growing to adulthood, Benji stood just shy of seven feet tall with close to three hundred pounds of muscle packed onto a solid bone structure. From a distance, Benji was a magnificent specimen. Close up, one could see the vagueness in his eyes that ensured that he would need an adult's supervision for the rest of his life.