Shattered

George

"George," Morgan sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, "put the pancake batter down. You just had your hand reattached."

"I'm fine," he grunted, adjusting his grip on the plastic bowl. "Wouldn't be much of a host if I didn't provide a decent meal."

The two high ranking agents of Avalon were in his kitchen; Morgan sitting at the island in the middle sipping on a bottle of red wine she had brought as a housewarming gift, while he fumbled around the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. Decades on the road and living on MREs had greatly diminished his ability in the kitchen.

I can kill six men with a pencil, but I will always burn the pot roast...

"Whatever," the raven-haired woman sighed, rolling her eyes. "Don't listen to the woman who magically reconnected your severed hand. It's not like she knows what she's talking about or anything." She snapped her fingers and the half-empty bottle slid across the granite countertop.

George set the bowl on the counter next to the oven and fished out a cast iron pan from one of the well-stocked cabinets. "Wasn't planning on it," he grunted, turning on one of the burners.

They sat there in a relatively comfortable silence as he ladled out the batter into the hot pan, while Morgan continued to drink his gift. He didn't mind her drinking it though, as he wasn't much of a wine drinker; the classiest he ever got was a bottle of Boone's Farm Fuzzy Naval, but that had been years ago.

He also knew that the bottle had never been intended for him, and that Morgan's surprise visit was her way of looking for comfort.

Oh, he knew about her and Brian's little trip to the Hamptons. He knew that Richard Edward Dare and that idiot engineer had managed to poke Morgan's buttons enough to make her lose her cool.

It was just such a shame though that the girl she was supposed to save had died.

"So... how's PB adjusting?" the tattooed woman asked, breaking the silence.

George craned his neck so he could look out the kitchen window to check on his daughter, something he did with great frequency. PB was just where she said she'd be, in the backyard practicing archery with several other former hunters. As one of their first projects together, they had built an archery range in the backyard. Various targets of all shapes and sizes were hung at the forest's edge, some of which even moved about. Some of the other parents didn't approve of their girls continuing to practice their old habits, but George knew better than most how hard it could be to just stop doing something after so long.

Also, it makes a lot of the girls come over. So PB doesn't have to leave often and I've made her popular. That's gotta be good parenting.

"It's been less than a week, but she's doing good," he shrugged, turning his attention back to the- Now burning pancakes! Shit! He pulled the heavy pan off the burner and threw the blackened breakfast food into the trash. "I'd say the old man was definitely right about keeping them secluded though."

"Why's that?"

George poured more batter into the pan and smiled to himself, remembering his departure from Camelot following the emergency surgery to reattach his hand.

They had just reached topside and had a few hours to kill before their flight to Vermont, so he decided to take his daughter for some ice cream. It was incredibly cliché, but he was trying to reconnect with PB. He should have noticed that something was off; PB's stance was rigid and her eyes darted around. He thought it was because it was all the new sights and sounds, that she was trying to absorb everything, but he should have known that she was expecting an attack; he had been the same way when he finally made it back stateside.