Chapter Seven

There were no hot breakfasts on cookie baking days. Arthur hunched over a bowl of cornflakes, his upper back stiff and his eyes feeling gritty from the simple half-day of frosting he'd done before. His mother handed him a cup of coffee before sitting down herself, her posture, as always, perfect. He took a couple more bites of breakfast before deciding to just dive right in.

"So, Mom, you and Coach Edwards?"

"What are you talking about, dear?"

Arthur sighed and sat up a little straighter, feeling his spine crackle as he did. "Please don't play dumb, Mom, you're better than that, you always have been. No guy his age who has spent his life single, living off microwave meals, suddenly swings by to help make Christmas cookies."

His mother took a sip of coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream, hot and harsh, brewed by a Mr. Coffee well past its prime.

Arthur took a long drag of his own coffee. Carol had gotten him hooked on coconut milk in his coffee and the splash of milk-milk now left a funny film on his pallet.

"Look, no one would blame you for stepping out, Dad least of all. I mean the guy made high school gym a nightmare and I'll threaten him before leaving town but—"

"It hasn't even been a year since we lost your father," his mother snapped but not as harshly as he expected.

Arthur couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Mom, no one, and I mean No One would expect you to wait whatever is considered the 'appropriate' amount of time. Hell, no one would blame you for installing a dance floor on Dad's grave-"

"Arthur! Please!"

He sighed and rolled his head around. The pillows in the guest room were particularly flat, so between that and hunching over cookies, his neck was not happy with him either.

"Okay, fine, it's just you had me way too young and you wasted your fun years on Dad, who was way too old. Please just, just don't fall in with some meathead…" he struggled to find a word that was allowed in the house, "jerk who is only looking for some helpmate to get him through his later years. Get out first. And I don't mean go on a mission or pilgrimage," he added quickly. "Go someplace fun. A real vacation. Disneyland, Paris, New York, Vegas."

"You haven't exactly been to any of those places, either."

"I'm going to New York," he blurted out, defending himself since she did have a point. Arthur had gone from small town to state university to his rust belt Agency posting.

"When?" Her question was oddly sharp.

"In… in a few days."

"For work?" Counter interrogation training was absolutely useless when it came to mothers.

"No. Um… Martin has some things in New York to take care of over the holidays. I mentioned I'd never been, so he offered to tack on a couple of days, play tourist with me. It's not like I don't have vacation days built up."

"I see." There was a strange tone in his mother's voice that he couldn't quite figure out.

"The point is you need to get out of the house. Live a little." He tried to turn the conversation back around.

"The cost—"

"You've got Dad's pension and his life insurance." As part of his 'I work in insurance' cover he had made sure his father had two excellent policies. One for his mother and one to cover Hanh and his sisters. "Please, please think about it before diving right into another relationship. Get out of this town and see at least a little of the world."

"I will think about it."

"That's all I'm asking."

His mother took another sip of her coffee.

"And how is Mr. Grove doing?"

"Better," Arthur replied around a mouthful of cornflakes. Martin had been gone a few weeks when his mother had asked for a contact number or address so she could properly thank him for all his help arranging the funeral. Arthur had panicked and spun a story of a bad car accident and a coma. The fact that his eventual injuries had worked for that story did not make Arthur feel any better. "He's still getting migraines, but I haven't seen him on the cane for a while."

"I'll keep him on the church prayer list. Now finish your breakfast. We need to make fudge today."

Because nothing says the holidays like second degree sugar burns.

Arthur smiled. "Yum."

The agonizing burn on the inside of his wrist had settled into a dull but persistent sting. He could handle vast pots of fry oil, gallons of boiling stock, ovens blasting on high, but for some reason whenever he made candy he got burnt. Every, single, time.

He'd long ago developed a technique of popping outside and shoving his arm in the snow until it went numb and then wrapping the burn in wet paper towels and plastic wrap. Completely not what any first aid manual would recommend, but it left him with just a few bits of browned skin that would flake off in a few days.

"Did you find the box?" he heard his mother call from the parlor.

"Yes," he called back.

As he'd been wrapping his arm, she'd casually mentioned that there was a box of his old things in the closet and if he could sort out anything he wanted to keep so she could put the rest in the charity box when they dropped off cookies tomorrow, that would be helpful.

So now, instead of face planting onto the guest bed, or calling Martin, he was faced with a large box of things that looked like they were mostly leftover from high school.

His mother would have automatically dumped anything she found overly offensive, which is why the bags he had packed off to college had been suspiciously heavy.

On the very top was The Teen Boy's Guide to the Bible and the Christian Guide to High School.

Nope.

He plopped those into the ‘to go’ pile.

The next level wasn't much better with a stack of yellowing paper. Why on earth would I want old Honors Government essays?

He bypassed the donate pile and dumped those right into the trash.

His phone pinged. To most people it would sound like a standard phone, but each of his apps pinged in an ever so slightly different tone and for different reasons. That was his 'personal' email but coming from a work server.

Who in the hell?

He flicked it open. It was from Carol, and it was a background check on Coach Edwards.

Shit.

It wasn't a huge amount. Just what could be dug up by any local police department running a background check or insurance company deciding on a policy. Truth was, Google or Amazon probably had more information about him sitting in a server farm out in California, but it was enough to work with.

He didn't ask how Carol found out Coach Edwards name. The amount of information that people willingly gave up out there made the job of the Agency and similar organizations so much easier. Carol could say 'I ran into a girl from my 8th grade math class', and Arthur would only need a day, if that, to have a list.

He flicked on his messaging app. You didn't have to but thank you.

Merry Christmas. Call your bf. He was seeming a little more locked down than usual at lunch. Reading God Created the Integers. Literal doorstop.

Arthur frowned. He had not, in a million years, expected Martin to suddenly buddy up with someone else in the office just because he was out of town, but he had hoped that he wouldn't completely retreat back into himself.

I will. Thanks.

Martin carefully sorted through the school application information he had been able to gather from the children. Some of the essays would need revision. Not necessarily to make them better but to twist them into something closer to what the schools were looking for. A handful of parents had yet to sign the paperwork and he would need to speak with them after the holidays. He would also need to speak to a few teachers who obviously did not appreciate the heights their pupils were capable of. All the schools were dragging their feet on transcripts.

He rubbed at his eyes, his frustration building. He knew going in this would be difficult and, with a few parents he spoke to, it felt more like a rescue op or hostage negotiation, but the fact was those were easier. And he had experience with those. Hostage takers all wanted something. Usually something tangible and obtainable. Parents, families, those worked on emotion, good, bad, or otherwise. There was no prisoner exchange that could be done for a child who wasn't 'technically' being abused or neglected. Just a child stuck in a home or system where they couldn’t be a priority.

His phone rang and he snatched it up, not even checking the caller ID, which was foolish and he knew better.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

A knot of pain that had been building at the base of Martin's neck suddenly vanished and his shoulders slumped a little.

"Hi." He had not realized how much he'd missed the sound of Arthur's voice, a tangible sign of his presence, and was surprised at the slight breathlessness of his own voice. "How are you doing?"

"Eh. My mother has me cleaning out a box of my stuff from high school. I miss you. How are you doing?"

Martin had gone years without anyone inquiring as to the state of his health or emotions in either seriousness or passing. He'd had to learn that when Arthur asked how he was, he meant it with all possible honesty and sincerity. "I miss you as well. I am attempting to put together the school registration packets. However, certain schools, teachers, and parents are proving… frustrating."

"You'll figure it out. You're good at talking people around to things, so I hear."

"Perhaps not as good as I thought I was."

"You'll manage this." Arthur's voice was soft but also reassuring. "I have faith in you."

"I've never heard you speak of faith."

"My relationship with the very concept of faith is complicated, at best, but yes, I have faith in you."

Martin felt an actual blush rise in his cheeks. He honestly couldn't say when the last time that happened was.

"Thank you."

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line. "I'll see you in less than a week. We'll be in New York together. We'll do stupid tourist stuff."

"I am looking forward to that. Call me tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."