Chapter Two: Letters and Memories

Greg hunted through the refrigerator for anything quick; unfortunately, the kids had demolished the last of the leftovers that morning. Alanna appeared, practically out of nowhere, diving down into the cabinet where Greg kept the ingredients for his mother's Italian dishes. "I've got this," she announced cheerfully. "Go; talk to him."

Greg blinked at her; once home, she'd dropped the shyness like a bad habit. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" he asked, a touch of wry humor in his voice.

Violet eyes rolled in his direction. "We're not dumb, Uncle Greg; this is probably your last shot at this, am I right?"

No point in denying it; he nodded with a sigh.

"So go make a good impression," Alanna chided, "I can handle dinner and you can come back later to nitpick." He never did that; as he blinked, she snickered. "Boy, you're easy tonight. Go on, get your son back."

With a wry return grin, Greg saluted his niece and got. Lance was regaling Dean with his mathematical tale of woe…a tale of woe that had his uncle's ears pricking; something to deal with later. Dean countered with a tale of his English teacher, laughing over how she'd marked him down for going with a playful tone in his latest paper instead of staying 'scholarly'.

Instead of joining the boys at once, Greg detoured to his bedroom and located a wooden chest that he'd put together himself, years ago. He'd done it at the rehab place; a place that had practically dropped in his lap a day or so after he'd visited Haley. Each board, each nail, each drop and daub of glue had been painstakingly put together; the struggling father determined to do something productive instead of going back to the bottle. At the end of the project, the woodshop instructor had helped him with carving the letters of his son's name into the top of the chest. The few things of Dean's left behind, every letter that had been sent back, even a few mementos that Greg had wanted Dean to have; it was all in the simple wooden chest.

With a deep breath, Greg hefted the chest and carried it out to the living room. Lance, mid-story – the tale of him tricking Alanna under a water park bucket if the hand motions were anything to go by – disappeared as Dean turned towards his father and automatically glanced down at the chest Greg carried. Greg carefully set the chest on his usual chair and shifted back to let Dean close. Dean's eyes were wide as his father pulled the lid of the chest off. "This is yours, son," Greg began. "After you and your mother left…I went downhill fast; no point in sugarcoating it." Dean nodded without looking up. "Long story short, I got into rehab; that's when I built this…"

"You built it?" Dean questioned, surprised as he looked closer at the chest itself.

"I had a lot of help," Greg replied, voice wry. "There were a couple things of yours left behind; they're all in here." Dean's eyes fell on the letters and he touched them, looking up curiously. "I started sending those while I was still in rehab," Greg explained, running a hand over his head. "They all came back unopened, return to sender, so I put them in here."

He fell silent as Dean dug through the stack, his surprise growing as he took in just how many letters there were in the box. When he found the first one, marked with both tears and the Coke Greg had been drinking in lieu of alcohol, he almost choked at the date. Brown eyes came up, meeting Greg's. "You got into rehab three weeks after we left?"

Greg gestured helplessly. "The place I found…it just kinda…landed right in front of me. I got right in; they took me almost before I'd signed all the papers." Even now, he had no idea how he'd found the place, but it had been a lifesaver, a miracle.

Dean just stared at him, waiting, with his head cocked just so to the side; Greg's heart ached as he realized he did the exact same head cock with his team sometimes.

With a soft sigh, Greg gestured to the chest. "I started building that maybe two weeks in; took me most of the rest of my rehab to finish it. Sometimes, building that thing was about the only way I could keep on the straight and narrow." Dean huffed a breath of laughter and surprise. "Obviously, it wasn't the only thing I did there, but, well, it's been with me ever since." Greg cleared his throat, considering how to continue. "Once I finished the rehab, I spent a bit more time on leave, figuring out where to go next. Almost ended up leaving the force all together." Now his son's eyes went wide with surprise. "Then I spotted an opening for the Strategic Response Unit and applied for it. I, uh, didn't have high hopes going into the interview, but, um, I guess they liked me enough to give me a shot. Been in the SRU ever since."

"And now you're the best," Dean mused. At his father's startled look, he elaborated, "That lady, at the desk, she told me that there was no one better than you at doing what you did today."

"My team likes to think that," Greg conceded, "and maybe they're right, but I've never seen myself that way, son. I know all too well how far I still have to go; how easy it would be to fall right back into doing what I did back then."

"You won't." Greg's brows shot up at that soft, confident statement. "My cousins, your team…I'm not blind, sir. They won't let you fall."

Alanna, assisted by her brother, had outdone all her prior cooking performances on dinner: Greg and Dean arrived to a veritable feast and the pair had also arranged for father and son to have the best two chairs. Dinner stayed away from any heavy topics; Lance and Alanna chatting with Dean about his school and friends, interspersing a few questions about what Dallas was like.

Greg kept quiet, watching his son and his nipotes interact; the three teens cheerfully trading banter, barbs, and stories, but never once did his nipotes drop so much as a hint about their magic. In a way, it was sad; Dean could never really get to know them with such a big part of their lives hidden from him. It made Greg grateful, all over again, that with his team, the secrecy had lasted all of maybe four, five hours. His nipotes hadn't had to hide who and what they were from his team; they hadn't been forced to keep back their best stories and talents like they were doing now with Dean. Maybe, if Dean came back again, he could get his son clearance to sign onto the Official Secrets Act and get the full story. If Dean came back…

Dean laughed aloud as Alanna loudly insisted that what Dean called soccer was actually football. Lance nodded agreement with his sister in the background, but Dean, still laughing explained, "In Britain it is called football, but in America, it's soccer."

Now Alanna gave the older boy a perplexed look. "Why call it two different things then?"

Dean shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. "Don't know, 'Lanna. Wish I did."

Violet eyes shifted to Greg, who chuckled at her expression. "Sometimes," he mused cheerfully, "The English language does not make a bit of sense, mia nipote."

This prompted a roar of laughter from Dean; he'd relaxed more and more as the evening went on. As he recovered, his eyes fell on a nearby clock and laughter vanished as he sat up straight. Greg and the other kids went on the alert, picking up Dean's alarm at once.

"Dean?" Greg inquired at his son's dismayed expression.

Dean looked at his father, eyes wide. "I'm late," he blurted, "The movie ended hours ago." Distress shone. "Mom's going to be really mad at me."