Omega

Chapter 3.5

Lawrence dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching and pulling in a knot in the blond strands, making him wince. He'd been severely in need of a haircut for weeks now, but hadn't been able to find the time. Now, with Galen lying in the infirmary bed, he wasn't likely to in the foreseeable future.  He clicked the retractable pen in his hand idly, trying to focus on the supply orders that needed to be filled. Trying to force out the image of the boy laying on the cot almost rent in two. 

Eggs, check. Oatmeal, check. Several jugs of detergent, canisters of instant coffee, and rolls of paper towels, triple check. The list seemed overly mundane, aggressively trivial, mocking him with its simplicity as his son lay dying down the hall. What had Lawrence really expected though? For the world to stop on its axis? For the days to stop fading to night? Where would that leave his pack then? Already their emotions poured into him through the pack bonds, their combined grief almost crippling the already haggard man.

The worn leather office chair groaned in protest as Lawrence leaned back from the desk, staring up at the collection of framed photographs adorning the opposing wall. In the peripheral candid shots of the McAllister pack captured their daily life. Mothers bounced infants on their knees or hips, young pups ran in their own self governed packs, some on two legs and some on four, soldiers leaned against the training ground fence, sweat slicked after the day's sparing. Black and white images found their way among the bright throng of the others, perhaps the only surviving pictures of elders long since passed on, some old enough to have been physically painted rather than immortalized on film. But more important than even those were the photographs displayed proudly in the center of his study wall. 

Lawrence stood, gently lifting one frame from its nail before sinking down into the well-loved leather armchair that was nestled between two oaken bookcases. His fingers stroked the roughly sanded pine before tracing along the hand craved words in the bottom.

"Daddy" shakily carved with as much careful precision as an eight year old could master. Lawrence could remember when the boy had given him this, emerald eyes glowing with excitement as he thrust the frame into his hands.

"Look what Talo helped me make!" Galen beamed, his wide smile just about splitting his cheeks and showing off the several gaps where his baby teeth had recently come loose. He wriggled closer to where Lawrence sat, almost knocking the book from his hands. The man set the book down gently on the side table before scooping up his foster son and settling him into his lap. Tattered scraps off newspaper haphazardly taped together wrapped the small rectangular package. Upon closer inspection Lawrence saw that the entire thing was plastered in the Sunday comics, each one carefully selected and taped onto the others. Sharp pangs of affection speared his chest as he realized Galen had chosen ones from his special collection to adorn the package.

Careful not to tear any of the comics that the boy had painstakingly cut from months of Sunday newspapers, Lawrence freed each edge of the wrapping paper. Underneath bare wood peaked out at him. He could feel the nervous excitement flowing off Galen in waves as he fully removed the frame, flipping it over to reveal the front. "Daddy" carved slightly off center into the bottom, accented in a bright emerald green paint. Suddenly, Lawrence found himself unable to recall how to breathe.

"Do you like it?" A worried sort of hopefulness filled the child's voice. "Daddy?" Still Lawrence struggled to push through the painful lump rising from his chest, lodging itself in the back of his throat.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" Galen's tiny hand reached up to touch Lawrence's cheek, surprising them both as the soft touch was met by a stream of silent tears.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just so happy right now." Tears continued to roll down Lawrence's face and into Galen's hair as he pulled the boy tight to his chest. They'd finally made it. Two years of fighting through night terrors, of working to overcome panic at the slightest of touches, of waiting to hear the words that came next:

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too. So very much."

"Can you read me a story?" As Lawrence reached over for the thick leather bound book he'd set down, leaving the pine frame in it's place, Galen snuggled closer into his chest. The boy let out a contented sigh as he placed an ear against his father's chest, listening to Lawrence's deep voice resonate as he began to read:

"But as I listened, I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's eyes gleamed, and he said. 'Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!'"

Lawrence's thumb made another pass across the letters as he took in the photograph of the three boys, brothers in every manner besides blood, despite the glaring contrasts between them. In the center, arms flung across the shoulders of both older boys, Galen is frozen mid laugh, paper birthday crown slanted and slipping down low on his brow. It surely couldn't have already been sixteen years since that day? Even now Lawrence could still hear the sound of the carnival music fading into the distance as the boys charged down the boardwalk towards the pizzeria where dinner awaited. Though their swim trunks were unique, each boy wore an identical tank top emblazoned with the pack sigil, bought as a joint birthday and adoption day gift for Galen. 

Talo's naturally russet complexion and Galen's freckled skin, meticulously coated in SPF 50, had fared far better than Dmitri's, who's pale shoulders were baking to an angry red. The ornery teenager had insisted that only babies wore sunblock, much to Galen's protests that at eight years old he was no longer a child. Both boys had later teased him relentlessly while Lawrence was forced to rub aloe cream into the burns for the remainder of the trip. 

Oh how he wished that the sun's rays were still the worst he had to fear for his sons. With a final glance Lawrence shook the memories from his head and stood, replacing the frame on its hook.

" Mica, please come to my office to retrieve the supply order. Anna wants it by this afternoon." Lawrence projected the thought across the pack bond, waiting until he felt an acknowledgement before folding the list and leaving it tucked into the door jam as he shut the office door behind him.

As he made his way towards the kitchen, Lawrence puzzled more over the young rogue recovering in his infirmary. The whelp had clearly been on his own for quite a while, on the run from someone or something. He knew the signs well, his boys being only three of the many young wolves he'd helped to foster over the years. The boy's behavior was to be expected given his likely less than stellar background. Galen's actions however were more troubling. It was no secret that his son was ruthless with rogues, killing most before ever letting them speak. In fact, William was the first to enter into their territory in some time, most having heard of the gruesome fate that awaited any strange wolf in McAllister lands. What had happened to compel his son to save the boy, at the price of starting a clan war and almost giving his own life?