A/N: What can I say? Not much except thanks for reading and thanks to all of you I'm now in saga-writing mode again.

As always, enjoy x

Chapter 46: Minefield

Saturday 26th November, 1.53am, Paul's House, Elmhurst, Queens

If he was my kid, I would'a-

Bang.

If he was my kid, I would'a-

Bang.

If he was my kid, I would'a-

Bang.

Paul wanted nothing more than to shoot his father and rid his life of him for good. And Jeremy knew it. He saw the hatred and determination in his son's eyes, after all those years of telling him to have a backbone and speak up for himself and man up and stop crying and stop acting like a little girl; he finally did it. Jeremy so believed that bullet had his name on it he froze on the spot, lost bladder control, and flinched. The bullet pierced the wall, landing in the non-existent petal of the wood cut-out sunflower clock from Gina's old condo, and Jeremy felt the humiliation of urine running down his leg and betrayal of the highest order.

The baseball bat dropped to the floor as Gina saw the wreckage of every glass and almost every plate broken and smashed with pieces of crockery and glass on every surface and all over the floor. Though she ran downstairs after she heard the gunshot because she didn't want to lose Paul to death or the system, but the mess Jeremy made told her he had to go immediately before she lost her man to a mental facility. The police sirens wailing in the distance echoed the urgency of getting Jeremy out of their home, city and state as soon as possible. "Paul." Her voice called him out of his reverie, where Jeremy the tormentor was no more.

"Gotta clean up this mess." Paul said robotically, as though he'd done it before.

She nodded and opened her hand. "Gimme the gun."

2.33am, Paul's House, Elmhurst, Queens

Cleaning put Paul in an escapist trance and gave him purpose; to clean up the mess and put things in their place. Jeremy's exit was the complete opposite of his arrival; he left wordlessly with a fistful of money. It was the last time father and son would see each other again in that lifetime and there was no resolution or happy ending for them. To ensure that he left the state on the first plane flying, Gina drove him to LaGuardia in Paul's truck. And he cleaned. He cleaned up so much mess he finally understood how crap it felt to be on his knees; to be the one charged with putting things back together again. But when it came to firing at his father, he felt no guilt, in fact; it was one of the most satisfying experiences of his life. And when he was done, he noticed the dried blood on his hand from where he'd cut himself and if it scarred; it would serve as a reminder of the day he cut the ties that bound him to his horrid childhood and his father. Fixing things with Taylor wouldn't be so easy.

10.04am, Evelyn's Condo, Williamsburg, Brooklyn

New York had a calming effect on Reggie because he didn't feel the pressure to perform on the football field or with the girls, especially the one who was giving him the cold shoulder. The lazy Saturday at Evelyn's didn't suit him as he was restless from missing workouts and the guilt of the locker room tantrum he threw before their last game. Gregory was already awake and though he wasn't teaching music that day, he sensed another youngblood might need his assistance. "'Morning Mr G."

Gregory smiled, because his stomach growled along with his greeting. "'Morning Reggie. You're right on time for breakfast."

He couldn't see any food and assumed that meant cereal. "Yeah?"

"Of course. There are enough eggs and mushrooms for an omelette."

Reggie didn't mind cooking if the pay-off was worth it. "Cool."

"You know, you remind me of someone I used to know."

"Really?" Reggie asked while going through the fridge.

Gregory fried some turkey bacon rashers. "Yes, a young man back home who loved the ladies. And the ladies loved him."

Reggie liked this story and started beating a half-dozen eggs. "For real?"

"Yes, so much so, his first wife caught him with one of his…admirers and left for the U.K. with their children."

Reggie looked up from the mixing bowl with his mouth wide open with shock. "The U.K.?"

"Yes. She called it 'starting all over'. The cheese grater's in the top cupboard to your left."

"Thanks. So what'd he do next?"

"Cried, mainly. A lot of pacing up and down the empty house. But he got it together some years later. Found the Lord, met a nice woman, an accountant, tried to do things the right way."

Reggie grated half a block of cheese in no time because he was good with his hands. "So they got married?"

"Yes. Had a son and a daughter and things were swell for 8 years."

"Then he stepped out again?"

"No." Gregory cleared his throat and put the kettle on. "She died suddenly, the children were still young so he raised them on his own, despite some generous offers."

Reggie didn't know any single dads, or many dads at all. Most of his childhood friends were raised by single moms so he didn't feel as left out until college where most of his teammates parents were always in the stands, somethings with siblings, cheering them on. "How'd he do it?"

"Raise them? With a lot of mess-ups and laughter. They turned out alright, I suppose. Made it to 18 with all their limbs intact."

"I don't get it. Why didn't he just marry someone new?"

Gregory smiled at how much he had to learn. "Because he wasn't looking for a mother for his children. He was looking for love. Us men don't realise it at first. See, women know they need love like they need air and water. And you show them you love them with respect and thought and faithfulness."

"That sounds like work." Reggie replied. Too much work for me.

"It is. It's also called: being a man."

He'd never thought about it that way. "So, what happened to your friend?"

"Well, he matured. Ended up with five children and nine-and-a-half grandkids on three different continents…and an overzealous wife who bakes a mean coconut cake." He patted him on the back. "You'll get there one day, Reggie. We all do."

"How'd you know for sure?"

"Because you have the gift of foresight; you already know how this story ends." When Gregory was satisfied he'd made his point, they got back to the matter at hand. "Now, see if you can find baking powder and vanilla essence."

Reggie would be scratching his head over that story for months. "For what?

"Pancakes. Women like breakfast, too. Breakfast and compliments."

"You got style, Mr G."

"I try, youngblood."

1.47pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

Besides the grey L-shaped sofa, coffee table and fully-loaded kitchen (with the christened kitchen island) Mr and Mrs John Harvey Nichols didn't have much furniture. The custom 8-foot-wide bed was still being made by an out-of-town carpenter because John liked rustic, wooden things but it didn't look like their home because two crucial things were missing. "We should move in." Joss said randomly as she picked a lint ball out of his hair.

John was so engrossed in the latest intel from Shaw about a jilted fiancée on the war path and her plans to throw the enraged woman in the backseat of her car for a joyride just to spite Finch that he missed it. "What'd you say?"

"Let's move in. Like…today." She could barely believe the words were coming out of her own mouth, but they were and there was no dread turning her stomach upside down.

"Today?" He asked, almost dropping the tablet in shock.

"Today." She said, resolutely. "Unless you're scared?"

"I'm never scared." That wasn't entirely true; the only thing John feared was a fatal bullet with Joss' name on it.

"So, when are we getting the rest of my stuff?"