Interlude

Blake watches as Damien unlocks the door to his house. He gives a wave goodbye before stepping in, leaving Blake alone in the car.

Rain starts to fall, splashing against the window.

It had been a long night, and he hadn’t really given himself a chance to process any of it. Mob bosses, magic, Elena’s budding romance. All of it fantastic, and yet unbelievable.

Blake snorts, then rests his head against the steering wheel.

He’d killed men, and yet, nothing. Not a twinge of guilt. That more than anything scared him.

He lifts his head and pulls out of the driveway. Rain and darkness are his only comfort as he makes his way home. Eventually, he turns into a house that had seen better days, the paint chipped, and the pipes rusted.

Blake steps out of his car, locks it, then walks up to his door as quietly as he can. Carefully, he unlocks it, and steps into an equally run-down interior. An old couch, old TV, and unvacuumed rug.

The light flicks on, revealing a grizzled middle aged man with bags under his eyes. “Where the hell have you been?”

Blake looks up into the haunted eyes of his father. “You’ve killed people before, haven’t you sir?”

The man pauses, finally taking in the blood on his son’s shirt. His gaze softens by the smallest amount. “What happened?”

Blake looks to the tv, his hand tightening around the door knob. He blinks, realizing that he’s still holding the door open, and closes it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Follow me.” The man turns around and walks into the kitchen.

Blake follows the order, and steps into the old kitchen. The only new thing in it being the fridge.

His father opens the refrigerator and pulls out two cans of beer. A hand holds out the second can, a peace offering of sorts, maybe something more.

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Blake looks up at his dad in surprise.

“The day you have to watch a man die, is the day you can drink a beer without trouble from me.” He explains, something in his voice twisting Blake’s heart.

“Thank you sir.” Blake grabs the beer.

The older man gulps down a swig, then looks at his can as if it holds the universe inside it. “What do ya wanna know?”

“What do people feel when they do it?”

“Each man feels something different. Some break down, some get angry, others nothing at all. Some crazy bastards feel joy.” The man crushes the beer can, then throws it into a recycling bin.

Blake sips at his beer, then frowns. “What are you supposed to feel?”

The man laughs a humorless laugh. “You aren’t supposed to feel anything. Like I said, each man takes it different.”

“What did you feel?”

The man pauses for a good long moment, and his words come out soft, unusual for the military man. “I felt anger. Anger at the world. Anger at the man that fought on the wrong side. And anger at myself. Because I knew what I was doing when I pulled that trigger.”

Tears streamed down the man’s cheek, and for the first time in Blake’s life, he watched his father cry. That was not the father he knew. The father he knew was the man that yells at him to get his ass off the ground and do something.

“Thank you sir.” Blake says, looking at the barely drunk beer in his hand. “I think I understand now.”

“Good.” His father turns to the sink, hiding his face. “Clean yourself up before your mom sees you.”

Blake looks down, then turns to leave the kitchen.

“I won’t ask you what happened.” The voice stops Blake mid-step. “You’re a good kid, and I know that whatever happened, you made the best call you could. But… when you’re ready, I hope you’ll tell me.”

Blake doesn’t answer as he walks away, leaving his father behind.

The man pulls another beer out of the fridge, and opens it. He drinks alone, thinking about the men he’d killed, and the friends he’d lost.

Blake didn’t blame his father for the tears he saw in that moment.