Sam Radley walked into the living room in time to see Fenton heading up the stairs.

“’Morning,” he called out, stifling a yawn as he did so. The night had been way too long and he was already considering a mid-morning snooze!

Fenton turned on the stairs. “Good morning, yourself.” His gaze flickered briefly towards the kitchen door as he came back down the stairs.

“What’s up?” Sam asked as his partner came to stand in front of him.  “I was just going to grab a coffee.” Neither man had spoken to the other since Fenton had gone with his sons to the emergency room.

“Laura and Joe are in the kitchen,” Fenton said quietly, “just give them a few minutes before going in.”

Sam looked at his friend in sympathetic understanding – this was going to be hard on all of them.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked; his own gaze unconsciously shifted towards the closed door. He turned back when he heard his friend speak again.

“I really don’t know,” Fenton admitted, sighing heavily.  “So far he hasn’t spoken to me or Frank about anything – not that there’s been much of a chance....”  He paused.  “He was a mess last night. You saw him. He didn’t get any better after we left…never spoke a word until the doctors threatened to admit him, and then he just said he wanted to go home.”  Sam remembered how the boy had been, sitting on the cot with Frank – distressingly quiet, his face a mask of grief and shock. He suppressed a shiver just thinking about it.  Fenton continued, “I don’t know what he’s told his Mom—” he shrugged vaguely, “but I think he remembers everything now.”

Sam offered him a supportive smile as he placed a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging little shake. “He will be fine, Fenton. Just give him some time….Joe’s a pretty resilient kid – both your boys are – and with you, Laura and Frank in his corner…how can he not be?”

“Thanks, Sam, for this…and for what you did last night,” Fenton said with feeling, gripping the hand on his shoulder.  His dark eyes were bright with intensity.  “You saved my boys, old friend. There just aren’t the words to express my depth of gratitude to you for that.”

Sam blushed under the weight of his friend’s appreciation.  He spoke softly, his hazel eyes searching the darker ones in front of him.  “How could I have done any less? You’ve made me more than a partner, Fenton – you’ve made me your friend….You’ve opened your family to me and invited me in—” His eyes burned and he blinked quickly. “And I consider myself damn lucky to have a share in this family. I never had a brother until you…” He paused.  “And that kid in there—” he pointed towards the closed kitchen door, “he has me in his corner as well. You all do…I’m here, Fenton, for as long as you need me to be – just tell me what you want me to do!”

Fenton opened his mouth and then shut it – he shook his head, rested both hands on Sam’s shoulders and smiled.  “You killed Oscar Smuff for us, Sam – that’s what you did….That’s one less monster in the Hardy closet.”  The sandy-haired investigator returned the smile, and then Fenton pulled away.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and talk to Frank.”

Sam nodded and then watched his friend hurry up the stairs. Glancing once more at the closed kitchen door, the detective just shook his head, wishing he could solve the rest of their problems as easily as shooting Smuff….

* * *

Fenton stood outside Frank’s bedroom door for a few minutes, his mind on the unexpected talk he’d just had with Sam. He had always suspected how Sam felt about his family, but had still been pleasantly surprised and warmed to hear the man admit it so bluntly.

‘He called me his brother,’ the sleuth recalled, stunned by that revelation.  ‘I guess I never really thought about it before like that – but, yeah, he is…In some ways more a brother than Gert is my sister. He was Uncle Sam to Frank and Joe when they were younger…’ he paused, thinking of his partner’s conviction to help them through this and amended, ‘he *is* Uncle Sam.’  Strangely consoled by this, Fenton took a couple of deep, settling breaths, raised his hand and knocked on the door.

* * *

Frank frowned as he saw the soaked pajamas that Joe had left in the bathroom, hung up to dry. ‘What the-?’ he’d have to ask his brother about them later.

Toweling dry, he stepped back into his own room and quickly dressed, wearing navy blue shorts and a white t-shirt. The day was another scorcher, and as he fanned the air in front of him, he wondered why the air conditioning never seemed to work as well in his bedroom as anywhere else!

A soft knock on the room door interrupted Frank’s musings. “Come in,” he called out, wondering why Joe would knock. He was surprised to see his father, having expected his brother.

“Hi, son, do you have a few moments?” Fenton asked, stepping into the meticulously-kept room and glancing around.

“Sure,” Frank said a bit warily. ‘This must be my lecture for acting alone’, he thought, sitting down on his bed as his father turned his computer desk chair around before sitting in it.

“First,” the detective started, cutting to the chase, “I have to tell you how foolhardy what you did last night was…. Not only did you put yourself at risk by going to confront Iago, you put Callie at risk too—”

Frank swallowed hard – he hadn’t really thought about it like that…

“...no one knew what you were doing, and you had no real backup.” Fenton raised his hand to stay his son’s protest.  “Yes, I know Callie was there, but in any capacity – other than a lookout – she has no training.”  Fenton sighed and rubbed his face with his hand.  “You broke into Iago’s private office—”

“The window was open,” the boy defended, and then shut up when his father shot him a look.

“Splitting hairs, Frank,” the detective warned before he continued, “Now, while private investigators are NOT the police and are therefore not as dictated by protocol as Ezra and his boys are, we still have to respect legality or we can face charges ourselves of breaking and entering, or worse, tampering with evidence.”  He watched his son carefully, making sure that the boy understood that he was not condoning what Frank had done; however… “However, with that all said and done – and trusting you’ll use this as a learning experience – I also have to congratulate you on a job well done!”

Frank stared at his father in shock; he’d not been expecting that!

Fenton smiled at the look on his son’s face.  “You saved your brother’s life – how can I possibly say you did anything less than that?”  He reached across and squeezed Frank’s shoulder.  “I’m proud of you, son.  Damn proud.”

The boy beamed, even as his cheeks reddened. He never knew how to handle praise – especially his father’s!

The detective’s smile widened, pleased to see the effect that his words had on the boy – and then his smile faltered.  “Frank,” his voice was concerned, “are you okay?”  He added, “About the shooting?” Frank had never shot anyone before, and Fenton was worried that it might be gnawing away at the boy – he hadn’t killed Oscar, but still....

Frank’s gaze shifted for a moment before he looked his father in the face; dark eyes met dark eyes.  Fenton wasn’t shocked by the amount of conviction he heard in the boy’s voice when he finally spoke, giving him the answer he had expected to hear:  “I did what I had to do to keep him from hurting my brother.” The teen paused.  “I saw my shot and I took it.” 

Fenton felt the shoulder beneath his hand tremble, belying the words, and his heart ached for his child as his burning hatred for the dead detective coursed through him again. His jaw tightened and he had to force himself to calm down before saying anything. “But it still wasn’t easy, son, was it?” Fenton said after a long moment, “its one thing to pull that trigger on a gun range and quite another on another person. Even someone as vile as Oscar Smuff.”  

Frank looked down at his hands, now fidgeting agitatedly in his lap. His voice was quiet and quivering.  “I – I’ve never been so scared—” he raised his eyes to meet his father’s again, “I was t-terrified I’d hit Joe!”  His voice rose in distress reliving those moments again; he let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. He felt the bed move slightly and then a powerful arm slid behind his shoulders, gently drawing him close; he leaned in against his father and pressed his cheek against the strong chest, hearing the comforting heartbeat beneath the thin shirt and drawing on his father’s strength.  

“It’s okay, Frank,” the sleuth whispered to his shaking son, swallowing back the lump in his throat and wishing he and Sam had gotten there earlier, “You’re okay and your brother is—” he hesitated to say ‘okay,’  “your brother is safe.” He reached out and put his free hand overtop of the fidgeting ones in Frank’s lap, stilling their agitation. “You just need to give yourself some time—”

“I – I don’t regret shooting him, though,” the boy stammered; his voice was slightly muffled against his father’s shirt, “but…” he trailed off as he sniffled and scrubbed hastily at his eyes, chagrined by just how upset he was!

“But you still wish you hadn’t had to do it,” his father finished quietly for him. The boy looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes and nodded his head slightly. The hand around his shoulders gently rubbed the top of his arm.

“Y-yeah,” Frank agreed slowly and then sighed heavily, “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Makes more sense than you think,” His father disagreed, smiling fondly into the bloodshot eyes, “And makes me even more proud of you for what you did. You took control of the situation instead of letting it take control of you, no matter how scared you were.”

“I wanted to kill him when I saw Joe’s arm,” Frank admitted quietly; he rested his cheek back against his father’s chest and closed his eyes. He felt so drained but oddly comforted at the same time. The teen couldn’t remember the last time his father had given him reassurance like this… or the last time he had needed it.

Fenton’s jaw tightened again as he thought about the broken arm – broken by Smuff, he had no doubts.  After a moment, he realized he hadn’t addressed Frank’s comment. “But you didn’t,” he reminded the teen.

“No, I didn’t,” Frank agreed slowly, “but I’m not sorry that he’s dead.”

“Me neither,” Fenton admitted. He tightened his grip on his son, feeling very blessed to be able to do so. If he and Sam had been even a minute later….He suppressed a shudder. It didn’t happen. They did get there in time and Oscar Smuff was dead, not one or both of his sons…

“Does it get any easier?” Frank’s question broke his dark musings.

“Does what get any easier?”  His father wasn’t sure what he was being asked.

“Shooting someone?” The boy lifted his head to look at him. His gaze was measurably calmer.

Fenton shook his head.  “No, it doesn’t.  It’s not supposed to,” he admitted. “And that’s what sets us apart from people like Oscar Smuff.  A shooting or a killing can’t be justified – it is, however, sometimes necessary.”

Frank considered that for a few moments and then nodded.  “Thank you, Dad.”

His father smiled and then pulled him into a tight hug, “And thank you, Frank,” he whispered, his throat tight with emotion, “for being you…”