Peter ignored both the scent and the rumbling of his stomach as it reminded him that he had missed lunch – and breakfast had been on the run a long time ago.  A fire crackled and spat in the fireplace, giving the room an occupied feel.

Only it wasn't occupied.

Not by the man who should be there.

Paul Blaisdell's absence was felt no more acutely than here in his "lair", as his wife termed it with wry affection.  For the first time in twelve years, Peter was lost in confusion over the one person he had grown to count on.

It all sounded so tragic and noble.

I have to go away.  Demons.  Nightmares.  Unpaid debts.

Only, Peter didn't understand it then, and now, a week later, he still didn't understand it.  It ate away at him.  Everyone he loved left.  First his mother.  Okay, he admitted, that was fudging a bit.  He couldn't really remember her.  Just a vacant ache inside that nothing seemed to fill.  And then his father.  Not once, but twice. 

At the temple, Kwai Chang Caine had had no choice about abandoning his son.  But the second time… the second time he had left by his own choice.  A decision he hadn't seen fit to discuss with his only child.  The one person in the world he was leaving behind.  A courage he didn't know he possessed had kept Peter from pleading with his father that breezy day Caine had walked out of Chinatown.  A courage that didn't replace the feeling of abandonment.  Six months his father had been gone.  Six months without so much as a postcard.  And, he thought ruefully, he knew his father could mail a postcard.  He knew he could write.  Hadn't he left three journals in his son's care?  One of which was penned by his own hand.  But, still, there had been no contact, no attempt to reach beyond Peter's loneliness-driven nightmares.  It seemed a cruelty.

Quickly, he backed off from that thought.

The last thing he wanted to do was put more distance between himself and his father.  He felt he was standing on shifting sands and he would never recover from a fall.

You use some pretty fancy imagery for a street-wise kid.

Tyler's words flitted through his mind.  Just another loss in a life that seemed destined to be full of them.  He still didn't understand why she had to leave.  She'd known he was a cop long before they had halfway moved in together.  Her arguments didn't wash when Peter considered that she had gone into the relationship with her eyes open.  No secrets.  No false fronts.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, his mind argued.  I deserve to, he hit back.  Paul was the constant in my life.  The one person who was always going to be there.

And here he stood in an empty den.  The same den he'd bearded his foster father in the first time he put a dent in the car.  Where he'd approached Paul when he wanted permission – no, his blessing – to go to the police academy instead of whatever Paul's lofty plans for him might have been.  The same room he'd told Paul and Annie about his father's miraculous return from the dead.

A lot of his history was in this room, layers of memories and free-floating images.

And now it was empty.  He couldn't stop the shiver of fear up his spine.  If Paul was gone now, he wouldn't be returning.

But that was ridiculous.  Paul had promised to return and he never broke his promises.

"You're brooding."

Peter spun at the softly spoken words.  His foster mother stood in the doorway, her arms folded, unerringly placing his position by the nod of her head.

"I'm not," he protested automatically.  "Okay," he quickly amended as her smile teased him, "maybe I am a little."  He crossed the room and bent to kiss her on the head, a habit he had quickly picked up from Paul, not the least of reasons being that he had always been taller than she.  Even as a gawky, lanky fifteen-year-old.  It made him feel protective of her.  And suddenly he realized that, as much as he was suffering, she must be miserable.  Paul was her link to the sighted world, her "cane" in the darkness.

"Mom, I'm sorry…" he started, then choked off the words when he realized that he really had no idea of what he intended to say.

"For what?" Annie countered.  "Because Paul left?  Because you're here and he isn't?  What are you sorry for, Peter?"

It was as close to a cross examination as she had ever given him.  "I guess so, yeah," he ventured.

"He didn't leave you, Peter."  Annie put her hand on her foster son's arm and patted it.  "He didn't leave any of us.  Can't you understand that?"

"No," he murmured.

"I know, darling," she said and the lilt was back in her voice.  "So, I'll understand for the both of us and you can stop fretting about it."

"That doesn't make it go away."

"Come, sit with me by the fire, just a few minutes.  If you ruin my dinner, I'll have your head."  She guided him toward the couch, cozied up to the fireplace, and sat him down.

Not for the first time, Peter thought she was leading him through a world only she could see, where her sight was unerring and his faulty.  He sat at the gentle, insistent pressure of her hand on his arm.  She settled next to him.

"You're not going to understand why he had to leave, Peter.  All you can do is accept it."

"Do you?  Understand?"

"No, but I accept."

"That's something my father would say."

"Your parents have more in common than you give them credit for."

"I know that."

"Tell me how you're feeling."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is," she sighed.

"I know he's doing what he thinks he has to do.  Following his path just as my father did.  But it hurts.  It doesn't hurt any less because it's Paul than it did when my… my dad walked off."

"You're angry with him."

"No."

"Yes."

"Yes, okay, I guess I am."

"I am, too."

He glanced at her, shocked.

"You're… you're mad at him?"

"I'm angry that he's put distance between us.  I miss him more than I would miss life itself."

"Mom, I'm… I'm sorry.  I've been so wrapped up in how I feel that I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't."

Another sidelong glance.  Now she was angry with the both of them.  Peter wasn't sure how he had managed to lift this particular rock.  There were a lot of traits he shared with Paul Blaisdell, but his mother's displeasure wasn't one he wanted to explore.

"I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly.

"Stop that."  There was finally an edge in Annie's voice.  "You're not the one who walked out.  You had no control over that.  In fact, I don't really think Paul did, either.  That doesn't make me hate it any less."

"He could have stayed."  Peter was aghast at the betrayal he heard in his own voice.  Hearing the disloyalty to the man who had extended him a life-saving hand when the whole world seemed determined to beat him into submission.  But the day that Paul left weighed heavily on his heart.  "He didn't have anything to prove to any of us."

"Maybe he had to prove something to himself."

"That's a poor excuse."

"It's the best I can come up with at the moment, Peter."

"It's not right that we should have to sit here and think up excuses.  It's not fair."

"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard 'It's not fair' from you three kids?"  Annie smiled and reached up to gently touch her son's cheek.  She ran her fingers down the high cheekbone, along the sharply-angled jawline and rested them on his chin. 

"It's what we have to live with, Peter.  You and I.  Kelly and Carolyn.  And Paul.  Until he comes home."

"Will he?  Will he really come home?"

"If he doesn't, I'll go looking for him myself."

The image of his petite mother on the trail of the errant police captain brought the first smile to Peter's face.  Annie felt the shift of expression beneath her fingertips.

"That's better," she said.  "Now let's go eat before the spaghetti sauce burns."

"Mom."  Peter's voice caught her before she could get to her feet.

"Yes?"

"Promise me your path is right here."

Annie laughed.  "Peter, I won't make any promises I may not be able to keep.  But I will promise you one thing."

"What's that?"

"There are very few people that I truly love.  I have no intention of leaving any of them.  If your father called me and needed me more than you or the girls, then I would go to him.  But I would also go to you if you needed me."

"But I do… I mean… Kelly and Carolyn…"

"I'll always be part of you, Peter, all of you."

"That's something Pop would say."

"Then it must be right."

"Mom…"

She reached up and traced the thin line of his cheek with her thumb.

"What, sweetheart?"

"I love you."

"Then get in there and get the sauce off the stove for me."

Peter laughed, but he was gone before the sound of that laughter died.

Annie stood in the center of the den for a second after her son's departure, remembering the scent of her husband.  "Paul Blaisdell," she whispered, "come back soon.  For every ounce of your son's pain, I'm suffering a pound."

She turned and followed the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen.