Peter tried his best not to fidget, fighting down the urge to play with the silverware set out on the immaculate white tablecloth. He hated restaurants where dining was meant to be an “experience” rather than simply a place to fill your stomach on the run, but this lunch was supposed to be a special occasion. He didn’t think that a burger joint would quite cut it.
Balling his fist in his lap, he hoped that would keep the roving hand out of trouble and not mess up the beautifully set table. He never could handle inaction and his present nervousness only made that normal tendency worse. At least he only had to worry about one hand getting into mischief.
The other was confined, along with his arm and wounded shoulder, in a complicated sling of braces and straps that restrained the injured limb against his chest as it healed. Peter grit his teeth, trying to ignore the pounding ache that seemed to have settled itself permanently into the joint. He knew he should count himself lucky. The bullet they dug out of him had torn up a lot of muscle and clipped the bone, but would not cause any lasting disability. A few months and the only sign he'd been shot would be the puckered scar that would mark his skin. All he needed to do was follow his doctor's instructions, rest, and endure a few weeks of physical therapy when the sutures came out.
If only the trail facing him now could be settled so easily. This was a mistake, he thought as his hand strayed up to play with the stem of his water goblet. He and his father needed to talk. Once Peter had been freed from the hospital, he struggled to find a way that they could do so without opening a lot of old scars that have never quite healed. Doing it in semi-public at the expensive Italian restaurant might be enough to keep his infamous temper in check and keep him from drawing undue blood or saying anything particularly embarrassing.
Yeah, right, Peter mussed. What they hell was he going to say to Caine? Something like, Hey Dad, nice to see you. Where’ve you been for the past thirteen years? The joy of finding his biological father so unexpectedly was quickly replaced by the hurt and resentment that Peter had been carrying around for so long, now that the excitement had worn off. Being confided to a hospital bed for a few days had given him too much time to think and too little chance to talk to his father.
As for his foster parents.... Mom's thrilled, he considered. Paul? He's keeping any misgivings to himself. I wouldn't blame him for being jealous. I mean, how would I feel if I raised a kid and suddenly someone else came along to take him away from me?
And his own misgivings? Those would hinge on what his father had to say about where he'd been for so long, and how he'd suddenly come back from the dead now. Frankly, Peter couldn't come up with any excuses that he would find valid for the long absence. It hurt too much to think that Caine might have better things to do than retrieve his son, especially after so long.
The restaurant did not cater to an particularly large lunch crowd, making Peter glad that he'd set the meeting during the day. While no one would be sitting right on top of them, there were enough warm bodies around them to remind him to keep a rein on both his temper and his mouth. That was what he hoped for, but he couldn't count on it. He knew his own nature better than most. If he lost it, he really didn't want it to be in front of the entire city.
He looked down at his watch, noting that only five minutes had passed since he sat down. Caine still had a few minutes before he was due to show, but Peter's nerves were getting the better of him. Not a good trait for a cop, even if normally of a high strung personality and was at the moment on major pain medication. He needed to keep cool. Keep control. That did not prevent his palms from sweating, nor the rise of fear in him as the appointed time drew near with no sign of his missing parent.
He's not coming, Peter worried, his dark eyes darting about the restaurant. Only men and woman in suits there, some at the bar, some dining on overpriced and overcooked pasta. No sign of a slightly battered Shoalin priest. Peter took a long sip of water, trying to steady his nerves. He had to give his father a little more time before giving up. After all, Caine was new to the city. He might not have been able to get a cab, or find the right bus.
Or he could have changed his mind and disappeared again. That thought frightened Peter more than anything else could have. It was too easy to believe that Caine might have just given up and left, leaving Peter to his life and family. After all, what right did Caine have to come in now and disrupt Peter's happy existence with the Blaisdells who so obviously cared for him.
He’s visited only a few times while Peter was still bedridden, not wishing to strain his son’s strength during the lengthy recovery. Once Peter was mobile, he would have thought that Caine would come around more. The disappointment when he didn’t came hard. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk since Peter was released from the hospital. Perhaps he thought he was doing the kindest thing by leaving his son to the family that had raised him and obviously cared for him so deeply.
That would be like Caine, Peter admitted to himself uneasily. Kwai Chang Caine, from Peter's earliest memories, was always ready to sacrifice his own wishes for the benefit of others. It was one of the reasons why he had entered the temple in the first place after Peter's mother had died. Not that he felt any real devotion at first. He wanted to give his son a peaceful life, one of stability and happiness that he couldn’t as a single parent. The dedication came later, and he had sought to pass it on to his son, to continue the traditions practiced by their family line for so many years.
That was before the Night. That horrible fall evening when evil strangers came and destroyed their peaceful existence. Peter closed his eyes, not wanting to remember the fire and screams that still woke him from his sleep. That night had put a scar on his soul, worse than any bullet could ever mark his body. Everything he had taken for granted--the safety of the temple, the companionship of the other boys and men around him and the love of his father--gone in a flash. He hadn't had anything to fill the gaping hole that the loss had torn inside him until he was taken into by the Blaisdells. Even with their unstinting love and support, it never quite came close to the bond that had been between Peter and his dead father.
He briefly wondered if Paul ever was bothered by that. Annie had quickly become “Mom” to the traumatized boy. Peter had no real remembrances of his mother, and no real fears that by transferring that love meant disloyalty to her memory. His father was another story. Good, bad or indifferent, the memories were too strong for Peter to ever call another man “Pop”. No matter how deep the love they shared. He hoped that Paul understood just how much he meant to Peter, how much his foster son loved him. Especially now.
He thought he knew himself, had his life and destiny settled. It was simple. The past was gone, the future was something that might or might not happen. It only paid to worry about the here and now. But now Caine was back. Peter was no longer that scared, emotional battered little boy the Paul Blaisdell first pulled out of the orphanage. Instead, he was a scared, emotionally battered man who had no idea of what he was going to do if his father didn't show, and even less if he did.
"Peter," a strangely familiar voice said in it's quiet, halting cadence. "Am I late?"
Peter looked up, seeing the matré de leading a figure that looked decidedly out of place in the classically lavish surroundings. Caine had dressed in an expensive looking silk tunic that fastened tightly at the throat, the black silk embroidered with a dragon in red and blue thread, but looked decidedly odd against the backdrop of expensive suits and neckties. Peter wondered briefly where he’d gotten the shirt but while it looked out of place in the restaurant, it looked perfectly tailored to Caine. It lent him an exotic, almost otherworldly air that caught one’s attention and he attracted more than a few stares from the restaurant’s other patrons.
Peter tried to stand, but Caine motioned for him to remain seated. Though rapidly healing, the wounded shoulder still made movement difficult and Caine did not wish his son to strain himself any more than necessary. Indeed, he should be home and resting, not traipsing around the city and trying to eat in expensive restaurants. If Peter hadn’t insisted on getting together...
Peter smiled tightly, waiting for Caine to seat himself then accept the menu and wine list. Caine placed the wine list aside. “I do not think we should order wine,” he said softly. “Not if your are still under medication.”
Peter nodded in agreement, not really wanting any in the first place. “Besides, you don’t drink,” he answered. He could never remember his father drinking at any time other than at festivals, and then sparingly.
Caine nodded, one hand reaching up to adjust the collar of his tunic, as if it were too tight. He seemed almost uncomfortable, but hid it far better than his son did. Peter was obviously very uneasy, radiating his distress but trying to cover it up. They made their orders, getting the small things out of the way to allow themselves to converse freely.
Caine allowed a slight smile to touch his normally somber features. “It is good to see you up and around, Peter,” he said softly. He gestured at Peter’s restrained arm. “The wound is healing well?”
“Oh, yeah. Just fine.” He gently touched the spot where he’d been shot only a few weeks earlier. “Another week or two and they’ll clear me for desk duty. It’s going to be at least a month before they even think about letting me back on the streets.”
That last sentence was said with more than a trace of bitterness, drawing a smile from his father. He shook his head in bemusement, both surprised and delighted to see that some things about his son had not changed since childhood. Peter did not miss the slightly faraway look in Caine’s eyes and asked, “What’s that for?”
Caine shrugged slightly, allowing himself to think back to another time Peter had complained about the limitations set upon him by physical injury. “I was thinking about the time you’d broken your foot. You did not like being forced to take the time to heal then either.”
Peter remembered that time himself. He’d been ten years old when he had been hurt during fighting practice back at the monastery. He’d been sparring with another boy, who rather than dodging the kick Peter had been aiming at him, raised his arm in defense. The instep of Peter’s foot met squarely with the other boy’s elbow, resulting in a wicked blow to his partner’s funny bone and a sickening crack in Peter’s foot. Two priests held Peter down while Ping Hai set the bone and splinted his foot. It was nearly two months before he was permitted to return to fighting lessons, and Caine suspected that it might be even longer before he could return to his normal duties now.
“I was bored out of my mind,” he complained. “I was missing my classes, I couldn’t play with my friends. You wouldn’t let me do anything.”
Caine’s gaze was one of tolerant fondness for Peter’s consistent impatience. It was almost a relief to see that some things had not changed since his childhood. “Your body needed time to heal then, as it does now. Pushing yourself too soon will only further delay the healing process.”
Peter snorted in irritation. That was exactly what the doctor had told him, though in a much less roundabout manner. The shoulder was a delicate thing where bone, muscle and tendon met, flexing and arching to make the arm work. If any one of those things suffered any sort of permanent damage, it could mean enough weakness in the limb to remove him from street duty permanently. He knew all this, but it didn’t make his forced convalescence any easier to bear.
Caine watched his son carefully, seeing the tenseness in his bearing that had nothing to do with his wound. It did not take a mind reader to figure out what had Peter so agitated. “You did not invite me here to discuss your wound. You want to know where I have been all this time.”
Peter was taken aback by having his wishes so bluntly stated. He was going to try to be a bit more subtle, but Caine had taken the initiative and cut out the need for small talk. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered, trying to cover his surprise. “Sort of. I mean, you can’t blame me for being curious.”
“As I am about you. The last time I saw you, you were a young boy. Now I find you a man and a...” Caine smiled, as if amused by what he found. “A cop.”
Peter felt himself blushing, as if embarrassed. What the hell did he have to be embarrassed about? So he wasn’t a priest or something equally benign. He liked being a cop. He liked his work and he liked being able to help people. He didn’t like the idea of his long lost father judging him, and he couldn’t understand why suddenly Caine’s opinion suddenly meant so much to him.
“You haven’t changed,” Peter accused. “You still make me feel like a ten year-old kid caught playing hooky.”
Caine cocked his head curiously, trying to understand his son’s statement. “I understand that I make you... uncomfortable,” he stated calmly. “You make me feel much the same.”
“I do?”
He nodded. “You accuse me with your eyes. There is much anger and hurt in you.”
Peter blushed furiously, hating the fact that his face was so easily read. Unless he was really trying to lie, he was like an open book. The last thing he wanted was for Caine to see that pain in him and defuse it, try to manipulate it and render it harmless. Right now he was angry and wanted to hold onto that anger.
“Well, where were you all this time?” Peter demanded, his softly spoken voice a bit sharper than he intended.
Caine sighed, not missing that the battle lines had been drawn. His son’s words were no so much a question as an accusation. He had not wanted to turn this into a confrontation, but it was clear that Peter had suffered so badly after their separation and that pain had to be countered and set free. As his own pain would have to be dealt with.
“Wandering, mostly,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t stay very long in any one place. A few weeks here, a month there.” He smiled sadly. “I hardly remember the names of some of the places I stayed. It almost felt as if I was looking for something, but I cannot say what that thing was.”
“Me, maybe?” Peter asked, his voice flat and revealing none of the hope the surged up within him. He wanted to hear his father say yes, say that he’d been looking for him all this time. Maybe that would make sense of the separation that had parted them.
Caine’s dark eyes met his son’s, seeing the ache there and wishing that his words could soothe it. “No. I don’t think so. Your essence, perhaps. The feeling of wholeness we shared together, but you were lost to me. I truly thought you were dead and to search for the dead has no purpose.”
For once, Peter wished that his father were a less honest man. Another man would have seen that hope and answered it, to defuse the conflict and heal the breach between them. Caine’s candid, blunt answer was more salt on the wounds.
He exhaled loudly, not saying anything for several minutes. Not until he could trust himself to speak calmly again. “No, I suppose not. You can walk through a burning building, open a locked door without a key, but you can’t tell if your son’s alive or not. Can’t fault you for that.”
Peter’s tone was harsh and biting, wounding Caine. “Peter, I saw your grave,” he said, trying to explain. “Ping Hai told me you had gone to save another boy and died in the attempt. I could not feel your presence any longer,” he insisted, trying to keep his tone even in spite of the hurt he felt at his son’s accusation. “I wanted you to be alive more than anything else, but you were gone.”
Peter could not miss the sorrow welling up in Caine’s expressive eyes, the normally placid expression now marked by a decade’s worth of pain. He wanted to hold onto his anger, wanted to hurt back as he’d been hurt so often and Caine was the logical target to vent that rage at. He held his tongue while the waiter placed their salad course in front of them, then quickly retreated as if sensing that this conversation would not bear further interruption. “You want to know what happened to me?” he demanded.
Caine nodded, ignoring the food before him. He wanted to know everything, every minute of joy and sorrow that his son endured and that he had missed. “You spoke briefly about an orphanage,” he said quietly, having not forgotten the bitterness that Peter had shown towards the memory of that institution.
“Well, Ping Hi didn’t dump me there immediately. He dragged me from one place to the next. We stayed in peoples’ basements and spare bedrooms. He kept saying that we had to hide from Dao, that he would try to kill me now that you were dead.” He paused in his narrative, taking a sip of water, trying to steady his nerves. “One day he tells me that he was sick and couldn’t look after me anymore. He left me at an orphanage. Spent a couple of years there before the Blaisdells took me in.”
The way Peter said the word “orphanage” spoke volumes of his opinion of the place. Caine felt a shudder of sadness run through him. It was clear that his son had been monumentally unhappy in that lonely place, and why should he not be? Alone, separated from everyone he knew with no hope left, the scars left on his spirit from the experience were still vivid. He dreaded the thought of what might have become of Peter had Paul Blaisdell not entered his life.
Caine smiled softly. “They sound like very wonderful people.”
The thought of his family seemed to cheer Peter somewhat. “The best. Without question. They took me in like I was their own. Mom... I mean, Mrs. Blaisdell is amazing. She’s completely blind, but she always had a way of knowing where I was and what I was doing. I could never put one over on her. Paul took me fishing, to baseball games... they never missed any of my games or birthdays. It was like having a real family. It was a real kick, being normal all of a sudden.”
Caine inhaled deeply, the sadness apparent in his eyes. “As opposed to living in the monastery with me,” he asked softly. There had been many moments in Peter’s youth when he longed to be like the other boys his age. To go to school, dress in blue jeans and tee-shirts. It was hard to be an adult and stand out so markedly from the crowd, how could he have asked a young child to assume such a challenge?
Peter heard the pain in his father’s voice and sighed, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, but the words sounded weak to his own ears.
“There is nothing to be sorry for. You found a life that gives you contentment. That is nothing to be ashamed of.” Caine folded his hands, pausing to gather his thoughts, forcing down his own pain. “I knew that the bond between us would be changed, it is merely disturbing to see how much. You are not the man I would have expected.”
Peter knew that Caine had meant no reproach, but he responded as if openly challenged. “Of course I’m not! I got out into the real world! You can’t save people with roots and wise sayings.” He realized that people were starting to stare and modulated his volume. “Pop, in case you haven’t noticed, the world changed a lot over the past thirteen years. There are drug dealers and gangsters and all kinds of scum out there. And they hurt people. I can help them, show them that there are people willing to stand up for them.” Peter quickly fell silent, seeing several of the other diners’ heads turning in his direction.
Caine’s gaze was remarkably unruffled in the face of that outburst. “I did not say otherwise. You have chosen a worthy path. It is merely not my own.”
Peter snorted, sipping from his water glass. “No, it sure as hell isn’t.”
Caine paused, trying to gather his thoughts and word them in a manner that would not incite his son’s anger. “I know you have cause to be angry with me... but please, believe me Peter. I did not leave you willingly. Had I known that you still lived, nothing would have stopped me for coming for you.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?” Peter snapped. “I’m just supposed to forget how lonely it was all that time, how much I missed you?” He saw the flash of pain in Caine’s eyes and reluctantly relented. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”
“No you are not,” Caine stated flatly, forcing down his own pain so that it could not interfere. It could be dealt with later. Right now, his son needed his guidance. “You are hurt and angry with me. You need a target for that anger. I am the logical choice.”
Peter shook his head in amazement. “Does everything have to turn into a lesson with you? I’m sitting here pouring out my heart and all I get is pop psychology. What next? A lecture on emotional displacement?”
Caine looked away from his son’s face. If he got caught in those dark eyes, he would be lost in Peter’s own pain. “I did not mean it as such,” he relented, hoping to soothe Peter’s temper somewhat. “I... I tend to analyze things too much. I have been too long a teacher.”
“Yeah, well... school’s out.” Peter nudged his lunch about the plate with his fork, turning it into an unappealing pile. “This was a mistake.”
Caine inhaled deeply, seeing that the battle was lost for now. It would be wiser to step back and allow his son the space he needed. It was clear that Peter’s physical weakness was having a direct bearing on his spirit, one pain feeding on another. The emotions were too strong to deal with now. Perhaps with a little time, Peter would find himself better able to face his past. Rising to his feet, he stepped away from the table, laying his napkin neatly down by his place setting.
Answering his son’s questioning gaze, he said gently “There is too much for us to speak of to finish at one time. Perhaps we should speak of these things again later... when we’ve both had a chance to absorb what has happened.”
He reached out, his large hand gently cupping his son’s surprised face. He smiled gently. “Do not worry. I will not go far. When you are ready, you will find me.”
As Caine’s form slowly and gracefully retreated from the restaurant, Peter had to force down the urge to call out to him, to beg him to come back. He couldn’t believe that he was leaving just like that? Couldn’t he see what this meant to Peter? Didn’t he know how much he needed his father. So much time had been lost, and he just threw away a chance to regain even a small bit of it because he couldn’t keep his mouth under control.
“Damn it,” he whispered to himself, fighting back tears. His hand clenched into a tight fist, aching to hit something. Anything. A waiter came over to see what was wrong, but at seeing Peter’s state quickly backed off to give him a bit of privacy. It took several minutes for Peter to regain his composure enough to see to the bill and leaving as quickly as dignity would allow.
This wasn’t like the last time, he told himself firmly. Caine wasn’t going away forever. He said he’d be there when Peter wanted him. He wasn’t going to vanish.
Then why the hell didn’t he feel better about it?
Paul Blaisdell looked up from his mound of paperwork, not entirely surprised to see his son walking tiredly through the door. Peter looked like hell, his skin pale and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration in spite of the cool weather outside. Damn it, he knew Peter wasn’t ready to go running about with a barely healed gunshot wound.
“Damn, kid. Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered, moving to help Peter into a chair.
“Thanks, Paul. I am a bit winded,” Peter admitted reluctantly. He noted the donut box resting on Blaisdell’s desk and grinned. “Mom know you’re scarfing donuts again? You’re gonna blow your cholesterol count.”
Paul grinned, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Oh, I only got them in case you showed up.” He grabbed the box and held it out to Peter, revealing that it was filled with all of his foster son’s favorites. Including the kind with sprinkles that he knew Paul hated.
“Gee, thanks.” Peter grinned, picking out one with his good hand. He really wasn’t all that hungry, but it seemed like the polite thing to do since Paul did go through the trouble. Besides, if he didn’t eat it, sprinkles or not, Paul would and donuts were the last thing his doctor wanted him eating.
Blaisdell put the box aside, giving Peter a second to relax and catch his breath. “So, how did the big lunch go?” he asked. He’d been obviously itching to know what had happened.
Peter looked up, his mouth drawn into a tight line. “Do the words ‘unmitigated disaster’ mean anything to you?”
Paul winced. “That good, huh?”
Peter sighed, turning his gaze down to his feet. “I really blew it. Every time he opened his mouth, I was ready to jump down it. I sounded like a whinny kid. I mean, you had to see it. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him in over ten years and what do I do? I sat there bitching and moaning the entire time and I barely let him get a word in edgewise. He must think I’m a real jerk.”
“Peter, you’re hurt and sick. You always tend to run off at the mouth when you’re not feeling well. If he didn’t take that into consideration, then he’s just as much of a jerk,” Blaisdell advised. “Besides, you have a right to be angry.”
“Not at him,” Peter admitted, wishing that he could have come to that conclusion when it really mattered. He gave a harsh sound that was somewhere between a disgusted snort and painful laugh. “I know he didn’t leave me on purpose but I sat there practically accusing him or doing just that. I mean, what kind of moron am I?”
Paul shook his head. Peter could be impossible to reason with when he sank into a funk like this. “Peter, listen to me,” he ordered softly, gently tilting his foster son’s head up to face him. “You’ve been under a lot of stress in the past few weeks. A lengthy undercover assignment, getting shot and having your father come back from the dead? That would be enough to throw anyone off their game. Did he storm out and tell you that he never wanted to see you again?”
Peter shook his head. “No,” he answered softly. “He said we both needed time... that I’d find him when I was ready.”
Paul reached out and gripped his good shoulder, offering reassurance. “There, you see? It’s not like he’s running away... he’s just giving you both a little room to breathe. I’m sure this was as big a shock to him.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” the younger man muttered. “I’m sure he’s not exactly turning handsprings over how I turned out.”
“What do you mean, kid? Any father would be proud of you.”
Peter sighed, wishing that it was time for his next painkiller. His shoulder was throbbing and made thinking difficult. “Paul, he’s a Shaolin priest. They believe in peace and harmony and living in balance with the universe. They don’t believe in shooting people and they certainly don’t believe in half the stuff I do on a day to day basis. To them, resorting to violence is an admission that a battle is already lost... it’s a last measure. What I do goes against everything he believes in.”
“Does his opinion mean that much to you?” Paul asked softly, wondering that if this Caine disapproved of his son’s profession, what would he think about the man who raised him in this manner. It felt strange and disconcerting to suddenly have to answer to someone else how he raised Peter.
Peter shrugged as much as his injured shoulder would allow. “I don’t know. I mean, I was kind of hoping for a better reunion than this. Part of me really wants him to be happy with how I turned out, and another part wants to tell him to go to hell if he doesn’t. He wasn’t there for me, so why should I give a shit what he thinks?”
Blaisdell paused momentarily, trying to put his thoughts into carefully chosen words. “All sons want the approval of their parents, no matter how different they might be. I’m not going to delude myself into thinking that you decided to be a cop all by yourself. Part of your decision to go to the academy was because of me, and I know that. I’m just relieved that once you got there, you decided that this was what you wanted to do with your life. But if you’d decided to go to medical school or stick to hockey and try to make a professional career out of it, I’d still be just as proud of you and I’d love you just as much. I’m sure Caine feels the same way.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Peter asked morosely, sinking deeper into his depression. “His beliefs mean so much to him. They’re at the center of everything he does and he tried to teach them to me when I was a kid. I don’t know if he could really handle the fact that I’ve completely rejected them.”
Paul leaned closer to his foster son, offering a bit of physical comfort. “I’d hardly say you’ve rejected them completely,” he argued. “Well, the non-violence bit, maybe. But your father seems like the kind of man who wants to help people. That’s what you do, every time you go out there. You’re not a criminal. You got shot because you were trying to protect people from criminals like Tan. I think your father’s philosophy would have room for that.”
Given a moment to consider, Peter realized that his father had said as much. “A worthy path” he’d called Peter’s chosen profession. That still didn’t ease the fears swelling up within the young man. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I wouldn’t think very much of your father or his beliefs,” Paul said flatly. He wished that his words could put his foster son’s mind at ease, but knew that they were just meaningless platitudes. He just hated to see Peter like this and felt completely helpless.
“Peter, listen to me. You were so overjoyed when you found out this was your father. You were practically jumping for joy,” Blaisdell reminded him. “Now you’ve had a chance to sit and think about it and maybe you’ve been thinking a little too much.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked, cocking his head curiously.
Paul pursed his lips, trying to put his thought into carefully selected words. “You’re looking for things to go wrong, even when they aren’t. It’s almost like you’re afraid that your father is going to take off again, so you’re pushing him away to avoid feeling hurt if that happens.”
Peter considered the idea, finding more merit there than he would have preferred. He knew he had a habit of holding people at arms length if they tried to get too close, or pushing them away to avoid emotional pain. He did it when the Blaisdells first came into his life. It took them nearly a year before the troubled boy could really accept the love that they were offering, but the defenses he’d developed over a lifetime were not so easily disarmed. He managed to alienate the first real love of his life and then his fiancee. Not exactly a track record to be proud of.
Paul saw the calming in his foster son’s eyes and gently patted him on his uninjured shoulder. This was all too much for Peter to deal with in one day, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. “Go home Peter,” he ordered gently. “Get some rest. I’m sure it will all work out.”
The corners of Peter’s mouth drew up into a quiet, sad smile. “Thanks for giving me a chance to vent, Paul. I know this hasn’t been easy for you either.”
Blaisdell gently hugged his son, taking special care for his wounds. “Hey, that’s what fathers are for. You going to be okay getting home on your own?”
Peter nodded. “I’ll take a cab. See you tonight at dinner?”
Paul settled back behind his desk. “It’s a date. Tell your mother that I’ll be on time this time.”
“I’ll alert the media,” Peter chuckled, getting tiredly to his feet. “This deserves national coverage.”
“Will you get out of here and let me get some work done?” the police captain demanded, settling back behind his desk and putting on his glasses. “Wise-ass.”
Peter’s grin widened at the playful irritation in Blaisdell’s voice, seemingly relieved that whatever happened between himself and his biological parent, the support of his foster family would not waver. He’d so desperately needed to hear that from Paul, to feel the warmth of the love that the normally gruff police captain felt for him.
Blaisdell watched his son carefully make his way though the squad room, accepting wishes for good health and an occasional hug from his fellow detectives. He had many friends there, well liked in spite of his irascible temper and his tendency to throw the rule book out of the window. The other cops loved Peter because of his kind nature and the fact that he was willing to lay everything on the line for one of his fellow officers and the citizens they struggled to protect. If Caine couldn’t see that, than the hell with him. Peter was a good kid, and there was no way he was going to let this long-lost parent come along and hurt him again.
Strenlich poked his head into Paul’s office and asked “Got a minute, Cap?”
Paul sighed in exasperation, looking up from the pile of paperwork that did not seem to be decreasing in spite of his best effort. It was nearly eight o’clock and he’d long since missed dinner at home, much to his wife’s consternation. He highly doubted that he was going to get everything finished that he needed to and even a brief interruption was hardly welcome. “What’s up, Frank?” he asked, sliding his glasses from his face and rubbing his eyes.
“There’s someone at the front desk who’s asking for you. Says his name is Caine.” The stout police chief considered the name and asked “Any relation to someone we know?”
Paul winced, wondering why the mysterious Mr. Caine had elected now to bother him. It had been nearly a week since the disastrous luncheon with his son and he’d finally gotten Peter calmed down over the matter. Just last night, Peter seemed his old self again, laughing and joking at dinner and teasing his younger sisters. He didn’t want to see all that undone again and he would set this Caine person straight before he could hurt Peter again. “Give me a minute, then show him in, Frank.”
Strenlich nodded, leaving to retrieve Paul’s’ guest.
Blaisdell hadn’t quite known what to expect of Peter’s biological father, and it was almost as if he felt his presence before the man walked into the office. Suddenly the squad room seemed more quiet than usual, the familiar chaos subdued for a change. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.
As for appearances, there was no denying the distinct resemblance between Peter and the man who stood before him. The finely drawn features were much the same, though Caine’s were much harsher in design, the lines about his eyes and mouth engraved by hard living and much sadness. It was very much the face Peter would wear in another twenty five years. He had dressed neatly in honor of meeting his son’s foster parent, his faded jacket and jeans clean, a worn felt hat carried in his hands.
“I am sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Blaisdell, but I did not wish to bother you at home,” Caine said softly, seemingly uncomfortable with his surroundings. “I think that we need to speak.”
Paul nodded, motioning for Caine to seat himself. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No... thank you,” Caine said, slowly shaking his head. He took the offered seat, sinking down into the battered chair with a weariness that spoke of an exhaustion that went beyond merely the physical.
“What can I do for you?”
Caine hesitated, his long hands folded neatly in his lap. “I came to speak to you about Peter. Is he well?”
“Why don’t you call him and see for yourself? Or better yet, go and see him. You’ve got him turned pretty well inside-out, you know,” Paul accused, irritated that the man would think that he was going to act as a go-between for himself and Peter. “The least you could do is check up on him yourself.”
“I... I wanted to,” Caine explained hesitantly, clearly not comfortable with justifying his actions. “But that would not be good for Peter. He needs much rest and peace in order to heal. Seeing me again will only aggravate him. I do not wish to put him under such strain again until he is better able to deal with it.”
The answer was logical and compassionate, his own needs put aside in favor of his son’s well-being. Paul could see that, but he couldn’t help from turning it around and thinking that in avoiding his son, Caine was avoiding dealing with the conflict between them. Still, the man deserved an answer.
“He’s doing better,” he assured the younger man. “The wound’s not bothering him as much. The doctors will probably let him return to desk duty in a week or two.”
Caine seemed to sigh in relief, the news easing some worry within him. “That is good news,” he breathed softly, his dark eyes seeming to lighten somewhat. For an instant, Blaisdell thought he could detect a hint of genuine emotion escaping the other man and it gave him a bit of satisfaction. Caine was too composed, too controlled for his tastes. He would love to have seen an emotional outburst, something to show that he felt at least as much pain as Peter had over their separation.
“Especially for the rest of the family,” Paul added. “He’s not a good patient and he tends to drive everyone around him slowly insane.”
Caine had to smile to himself at the flash of memories that played in his mind, of his son ill in bed and pestering everyone who dared come near to entertain him for the duration of his recuperation. Even the venerable Ping Hai would find his patience tested by the constant demands for stories and games. By the time he was ten years old, only his father could stand to be around him for any length of time when he was ill.
“Has he spoken of me?” Caine asked, trying to force down the sadness within him.
Blaisdell nodded. “Almost non-stop since you showed up. First he’s excited, then worried, then excited again, then depressed. It tends to go in cycles,” he informed Caine.
“He has always been like that,” Caine said, his eyes misting over as the years melted away in his mind. “Even as a child, his temperament was a bit erratic.”
Normally Paul would have been eager to listen to stories of Peter’s childhood. In spite of the closeness they shared with him, the Blaisdells had been able to learn very little of his childhood before his arrival at the orphanage. They’d known his mother died when he was an infant, and that his father had raised him under what could only be called unusual circumstances. He’d often wondered what Peter had been like as a boy before the years in the orphanage left their mark on him, tempered his boyish vivaciousness with mistrust and suspicion. It had taken them so long to break through those shields, so many months to gain his trust and he couldn’t help from feeling that all that progress was no at risk.
He looked up at the quiet man, feeling more than a little resentment. What right did he have to come here and think he could intrude on Peter’s life and upset everything that Peter had come to take for granted, including his belief in himself. Paul had never heard Peter doubt himself as a cop before, and he honestly believed that those doubts were running a lot deeper. And it was all this stranger’s fault.
The expression on Caine’s face surprised Paul. It was a look of confusion and helplessness, emotions that he doubted were commonplace to Caine’s experience. The priest sighed and said, “Please pardon me. It is... The last time I saw Peter, he was a young boy. To find him now a man... it...” He struggled to find the words. “It is like greeting a stranger.”
Paul nodded, understanding in spite of himself. He didn’t want to sympathize, but found it impossible not to. In spite of his efforts at composure, the sadness was practically radiating off Caine in waves, washing over Paul and drawing upon his own uncertainties.
It suddenly dawned on him that Caine had just as much to fear as he did. He worried that he might lose Peter over this, but Caine feared that he might never regain the love and closeness he’d shared with his son. And there had been a close bond between them, that much had been obvious form the moment Peter had first come into their lives. He’d missed his father so terribly, to the very day Caine returned from the dead. This was his “Pop”. He badly needed this man’s love and, yes, his approval. It would heal Peter in a way that all of Paul’s love never could. In a way, that hurt.
“I understand,” Paul offered. “Peter feels very much the same. He know he’s changed a lot from that boy and he’s very afraid that you won’t approve of the man he’s grown into.”
“Won’t approve?” Caine questioned, looking up in confusion. “Why should he think that?”
Blaisdell inhaled deeply, running his hand tiredly over his chin. “He seems to think that his being a cop goes against everything you believe in and your opinion of him means a great deal. Being that I don’t know beans about what a Shaolin priest believes in, I wasn’t exactly in any position to argue with him.”
Caine shook his head in confusion, his eyes gone strangely wide in concern. “He... he knows that while we reject violence, we acknowledge that there are times when one must fight to protect others... to protect ourselves. We defend, that has been our role through history. What Peter does is an extension of that belief.” He looked up at Paul, a sad and distant look in his eyes. “Always, when he was a small boy, he tried to defend those who could not fight their own battles. I always knew that he would be a defender when he was grown. He did not disappoint me in that.”
“Then I wish you would tell him that,” Paul snorted. “He seems to think that he’s going to be a complete failure in your eyes.”
Caine nodded. “I tried to do that, but the words did not...” He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I did not say it very well.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, Peter thinks he came across like a grade-A jerk. I take it that he opened his mouth one time too many.”
Caine smiled tightly. “He made his displeasure with me well known.”
The tone of the priest’s voice was so rueful that Blaisdell had to laugh. “No, he doesn’t suffer in silence, does he?”
Caine shook his head, sighing sadly. “He has much to complain of. I have failed him very badly.”
Paul rested his elbows on his desk, leaning forward slightly. “What happened, Caine? Peter could never bring himself to tell us the whole story. How did you two get separated?”
Caine drew himself up, regaining a trace of composure with the alteration of posture. His voice remained steady and controlled, though the pain in his eyes at the memory was readily apparent to his audience of one. “An enemy of mine attacked our temple. I had been in the gardens when they struck. We fought the intruders, but they had already set fire to the temple. I saw Peter try to help another boy to escape, but the flames prevented from going to his aid. A beam fell and struck Peter. He fell to the floor and did not move. I tried to get to him, but the ceiling broke and fell upon me. When I awoke, the flames had been put out. Many priests and novices died in the fire. Ping Hai, my mentor at the temple, told me that Peter had died. He showed me the grave and I could only wish that I had died with him. The temple could be rebuilt, but how could you replace the most precious person in the universe to you?”
The pain in those softly spoken words was so pure and genuine that it struck Paul to the quick. The father who had agonized over every hurt and tear that his children shed could not help but wonder at how he would have responded had he watched his precious child die before his eyes. “You really thought that Peter was dead?” he asked.
Caine nodded, his face stoic against the pain though his eyes reflected every instant of suffering. “I saw him fall. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer. Then the flames came and separated us. I could not find him after that.”
Paul watched Caine carefully, the anger within him slowly unraveling. He wanted to hold onto that anger, use it as a shield to protect Peter from further grief but the visible pain in the other man’s eyes forced him to acknowledge that this man had been just as much a victim as Peter was. “Then you really didn’t know he was alive?” he asked.
Caine shook his head. “Ping Hai lied to Peter as well, so we would not seek each other out.”
“But why?” Paul shook his head in confusion, completely bewildered at why someone would do such a thing. “That’s... that’s cruel.”
Again, that boneless shrug. “I cannot guess at his motives. Perhaps he sought to protect us from Dao, the man you knew as Tan. He was a great evil. If he had learned that either I or my son had survived the destruction of our temple, he would have stopped at nothing to kill us. Ping Hai saved my son’s life. For that, I will always be grateful.”
Blaisdell’s shaggy eyebrows rose slightly in amusement. “Ironic that the three of you would find one another again like this.”
Caine smiled softly. “The cycle winds on and we returned to the beginning place. Now it is time for a new cycle to begin. I would like very much for Peter to be a part of it with me.”
“It’s going to take time, Caine,” Paul warned. “He’s been through so much, I don’t think he could handle being hurt again.”
Caine’s smile grew brighter. “What do we have but time? With both of his fathers to aide him, Peter will recover. That I am certain of.”
“Both of..?”
Caine nodded. “Did you think I’d come to take him away from you?” Paul was shocked by the question, but had to admit that Caine’s words touched exactly at his deepest fears. At his reluctant nod, Caine quickly added “I owe you a debt beyond repayment. You took my son into your home when he had no one else to care for him. You gave him the love and support that I could not when he needed it most. I would be a true monster if I tried to sever the bond between the two of you.”
The priest’s softly spoken but no less earnest words surprised Blaisdell into silence for a moment as he absorbed their true meaning. He had not looked at the situation in that light before, but he had to admit that Caine was correct in his assessment. He had fathered Peter, given him the foundations of his beliefs and morals, while Paul had built upon that strong foundation, raising Peter into manhood. It began to dawn on Blaisdell that while Caine had no right to come between Peter and his foster family, Paul had no right to jeopardize the relationship the chance Peter found to renew his relationship with his surviving natural parent.
“In all honesty, I wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of you coming back from the dead,” Paul admitted reluctantly, choosing his words with utmost care. “From the moment we met him, Peter meant a great deal to us. He was so lonely at the orphanage, so angry at everything. It took us a very long time to get through those walls he built up, but it always meant so much to us that we did. He needed a family.”
“Not so many men would be so quick to raise a child that was not their own,” Caine insisted. “You are a rare man, Paul Blaisdell. Do not underestimate the place Peter holds for you in his heart. He does not wish to regain the bond he’d shared with me at the cost of loosing your love.”
Blaisdell smiled, nodding in understanding. “He never has to worry about that. You’ll have to forgive me, Caine. I allowed my own fears to color my perception of you rather unfairly.” The priest nodded in perfect understanding. “I do not doubt that I would have acted much the same had someone come to take my son away from me.”
Somehow Paul doubted that. Thought he’d really known Caine for only a few minutes, he could not see him acting out of anything other than the utmost generosity. He looked down at his hands, trying to gather his thoughts. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked suddenly.
Caine shook his head. “My appetite has been... lacking lately.”
Blaisdell smiled. “I know how you feel. Why don’t we grab something? I know a pretty good Chinese place on the way home. Then maybe we can see if Peter’s still awake and up to a little talk.”
Caine’s eyes widened slightly in surprise at the offer. “If you think that it would be a good idea,” he said softly. “I do not wish to upset him.”
Paul rose, stretching slightly and pointedly ignoring the pile of files and paperwork awaiting him. That could wait until morning. There were more important things to attend to. “I think that he needs the both of us now very much. We can deal with the rough spots when we get to them, but I think he needs to know that we’re not going to be fighting over him like two dogs over a bone and that we’ll both be there for him.” He looked pointedly at Caine, needing to extinguish his last lingering concern. “You are going to be around. Aren’t you?”
If Caine took any offense at the meaning behind Blaisdell’s words, he made no sign. He only shrugged and asked “Have I somewhere better to go?”
Paul nearly sighed in relief. As the oddly matched pair left the office together with a singular purpose, he felt the worry that he’d carried within him for the past few weeks finally begin to fade. For Peter’s sake more than they own, they had to see that they overcome their differences.
Who knew? Maybe this might work out after all.
