A/N: I know I said this was a one-shot AGAIN. I fully intended for it to be a one-shot. There are other things I fully intended, but the characters won't listen to me. They just go on and say and do whatever they feel like, and all I can do is transcribe. I have no idea how long they will continue to jabber at each other and prance about for your amusement. i.e. I have no idea where this is ultimately headed or how long/short it will be. Only that by the way this chapter ends, there pretty well has to be another one. So…without further ado, read and let me know what you think. I cringe, because…well, I cringe. You'll know why soon enough.

Chapter 2 - The Guilty Party

The bell on the door of the bookstore chimed twice as it opened and shut. No one was at the front counter.

"Hello?" No answer.

Matt and Chris' desks were abandoned, though piled high with manuscripts and bills and wonky-jaw stacks of books. Oliver found his father amid the rubble, book open before his hungry eyes, loose leaves of paper lying scattered all around him on the desk, pages covered in scribbles of black and red ink, in some sort of mysterious order - his elbow was resting on one of them. There was an uncapped pen in his hand, but his son would have wagered it hadn't written anything in at least twenty minutes.

"Dad?" Jess flinched, sending papers floating and skittering in all directions. It was a very un-Jess Mariano-like moment, except for the "Ah, jeez!" that escaped his lips.

"Sorry, I, uh…" Oliver hiked his thumb toward the front of the store to indicate the bell…his greeting… He hadn't exactly crept in.

"No, it's…" Jess shrugged. "I was just…" he motioned toward the now nearly empty desk where the papers had been, vaguely referring to his previous preoccupation. "What's up?"

"Could I, um…talk to you?" Oliver's feet scuffled on the floor, and his voice had an anxious undertone. Jess raised his eyebrows with a half-nod and motioned to Matt's desk chair a few feet away. Oliver rolled it over nearer his dad's desk.

"What's goin' on?" Jess asked his son in a tone that attempted casual, but his son obviously wasn't in a casual mood, so it was difficult. Oliver turned quiet. Jess restrained a sigh. Oliver was like his mother in that respect. He could prattle a mile-a-minute in normal conversation, but as soon as he actually wanted to talk to you about something, suddenly he couldn't seem to form sentences. Jess waited. The clock that normally wasn't audible suddenly sounded loud.

"I, um…" he trailed off and looked at the floor, resuming silence. He glanced slowly and nervously around the room, gaze darting toward the stairs and back, skimmed near his dad's face and landed back on the floor.

"There's nobody here," Jess answered the silent question. Oliver's chin dipped downward, embarrassed to be that transparent.

"S'about yesterday…" his voice was barely a whisper, and he tried to get by with as few words as possible.

" 'Kay," Jess replied, waiting…waiting. Clock again. Jess could see by his body language that Oliver's nervousness was growing worse by the second, but couldn't fathom a reason. Everything had been settled. He thought everything had been settled. Oliver twisted the ring on his middle finger around absently. Jess looked down at his left hand and suddenly let his right fall away from it. "What about yesterday?" he prompted.

"You shouldn't-" He bit at his lips trying to will himself to finish the sentence. "I don't think you should'a let me off so easy," he said rapidly, gazing back toward the door, briefly at the ceiling and over at a painting on the opposite wall, cringing as he did so. Jess' eyebrows shot up. In nineteen years of fatherhood, this was the first time he'd heard that one.

"Really?" He leaned back in his chair, eyeing his son bewilderedly, but with an assessing gaze. "What should I have done?" His brow wrinkled, and he brought the knuckle of his right forefinger up against his lips, waiting for his son's response, which, again, was slow to come.

"Paddled me." His voice was stronger when it did come, and ruefully bitter. Jess sat forward suddenly, frown deepening in confounded disbelief, and his forehead came to rest against his hand, elbow once again heavy on his desk.

"I don't get it," he told Oliver frankly, starting to be honestly worried. Was this a complex? A fetish? Or was he just…what? "Yesterday, your mom - today, me. Yesterday, I thought it was an apology. Today, I don't know what it is, but I can tell you, you're starting to worry me," Jess said, his natural directness serving him well for once. Oliver's head sunk lower.

"Mom forgave me, and…so did you, but-" His eyes began their wanderings again, and his face looked grief-stricken. "I can't!" Jess heaved a sigh. It was plain, simple guilt. That was less frightening. "I've tried. Doesn't work." Oliver's voice was small.

"Why?" Jess left the question unadorned.

"Because! I…I…She was crying, Dad. I yelled at her, and she was crying, and I just shoved her out of the way, like a…like a…" His voice broke.

"Tyrant?" Jess suggested. Oliver nodded, staring at the floor.

"That works." He sounded tired. "I was gonna say 'bully'-but either way…" Oliver took a couple of breaths that sounded like soft sobs, though he wasn't out-and-out crying. "'Lowlife scum' works too!" Jess could hear in his voice that he was remembering the unspoken comparison to his own step-father, and wondered if he'd been out of line there.

"It was a crummy thing to do," he acknowledged, nodding. "You hurt your mom. That's gotta feel awful." Oliver nodded, eyes shining, starting to well up. Jess bit his lower lip, still nodding. "I've hurt your mom a lot worse than that." Oliver's eyes snapped up. "Not physically. Not intentionally. But, much worse," he admitted, to his son's continued surprise. "I wasn't much older than you…three…four years. I hurt her really badly. More than once." He looked down, and then up into Oliver's eyes. "You know, I've felt guilty about it ever since."

He reached a hand forward and put it on Oliver's knee. His shoulder was too far away. "That's part of growing up too," he told him, "dealing with guilt. When you're a kid, it's not too hard. You just go to Mom and Dad, tell 'em what you did, that you're sorry and you won't do it again - and they lecture you, or spank you, or ground you, or send you to your room, or whatever it is they do…and that's pretty much it. You're done. Clean slate." Jess didn't bother to mention that very little of what he was saying came from personal experience - a little with Luke, but mostly it was what he'd pieced together and figured out from books and movies and observation of human interactions.

"When you grow up, it's a lot harder. It's up to you. There's nobody that can 'make it all better.' You've gotta try to forgive yourself, and sometimes that's rough. Really rough."

He could see Oliver mulling his words over in his mind. "The question is, are you ready to deal with this as an adult?" His son looked up, wondering if this was rhetorical, or if his dad actually wanted an answer. "Now, if it's what you really want, I can help you to deal with this as a parent and child. We can go home tonight, and I can take you in the office and give you a paddling that will pretty well guarantee that you have nothing more to feel guilty about. If that's what you want. Or, I could ground you from here to kingdom come - if that would make you feel better." He paused. "But, if you want to deal with this the way a grown-up would," he sighed, "then you're gonna have to figure it out. I'll be right here, and I will back you up one-hundred percent, and I will support you in every way that I know how. But you will have to figure it out." Oliver's expression was grave, and he gave no indication of being ready to reply.

"I want you to know, that I won't think any less of you if you're not ready for that. There are very few things that I would more vehemently rather not do than take a paddle to you…especially at fourteen. But if that is what you need from me, in order to get past this, then that is what I'll do. Seriously grounding you is no picnic either, but I have no problem going there, if that's where you need to go. Or, I can stand right by your side, while you handle this. No judgment, either way." Father and son were looking straight into each other's eyes, and the dark brown eyes said, clearer than words, that the last sentence had been a promise.

"I…" Again, forming sentences seemed beyond Oliver's capability at the moment.

"You don't have to answer right now," Jess assured him. "You can give it some thought and tell me tonight, if you want." Oliver got up slowly.

"Thanks, Dad," his voice was soft, and his nervousness had lifted, mostly. Without another word, he headed for the door.

Once he was gone, Jess turned to his desk and bashed his forehead into his palms. "Why did I hafta go and say that? She's gonna kill me!"

He glared grimly at the miniature globe on his desk, and sighed with lips shut tight. He retrieved and opened his phone, hitting a single button.

"Rory, can you stop by here on your way home from work? There's something we really need to talk about…"