TWENTY-NINE

The scent of sulfur from the industrial side of Templeton Hills was strong tonight. The evening bustled with life. Zach was one with the crowd, another face in a sea of people. He went unnoticed. No one could know the truth.

He tried to take his time. His steps were slow, agonizingly so. But all too soon, Zach was standing in front of the home of Falcon. For a number of minutes, he didn't move. He couldn't bring himself to lift his foot for one more step – there were only three left.

Zach dropped his face into his hands.

What the hell am I doing?

He put a hand on the railing. It was freezing. He gripped it tighter. Zach walked up the stairs. He lifted a hand to knock, when the door swung open. He sucked in his breath, his heart jumping into his throat. He stumbled a step back; his hand clamped the fabric on his chest. His heart thumped wildly.

Falcon stood in the doorway.

No… Not Falcon.

Hawke.

The man was wearing normal, everyday clothes: dark classic style jeans, a black belt with a silver buckle, and a light blue pinstripe collared shirt with a dark grey suit vest. He was wearing a tie with reminiscent wings from the Falcon suit.

"How did you kn—"

"Cameras."

Huh. Should've known. That made the night before a lot more sense, then. Actually, scratch that: nothing about the night before made sense – absolutely nothing, including the whole 'I am your biological father' nonsense, crap, idiocy stuff. Ugh.

A wave of nervousness crashed like a tsunami over his senses.

What were they gonna do? Talk over tea?

"Are you going to stand out in the cold all night or are you going to come inside?" asked Hawke with a light smirk on his lips. He motioned inside. "Come on, it's freezing."

He was so welcoming. It was annoying. How dare Hawke have the personality of a teddy bear. He's Falcon, dammit!

His palms grew damp with sweat. Zach strode inside, trying to maintain the last ounce of his self control. Breathe. Just breathe. The door closed behind him. He could feel the man's presence at his side. A hand rested onto his shoulder. Zach stiffened.

"Take off your shoes."

"Right," murmured Zach.

He rolled his shoulder. The hand withdrew. He stood still, refusing to look up at the man. There was a low exhale of breath. Hawke walked down the hallway and disappeared from sight.

Something strange flooded through Zach's chest. He rolled his shoulder again, trying to get rid of the lingering feeling. It'd been a nonthreatening touch, casual and gentle. He inhaled deeply. This was bad. That had been too familiar. No adult since his parents had shown him something like that.

Such simple, easy familiarity with adults had long died with them.

Zach pulled his sneakers off, leaving his socks on. He loitered in the hallway, unable to bring himself away from staring at the paintings again. He couldn't look away. He couldn't face that man.

"Mom," murmured Zach, gazing at her name. "Tell me what I should do."

But no answer came.

Instead, her handiwork was all he had of her. His mother had touched these canvases. Abigail had taken paint and had carefully brushed the canvas with her thoughts and imagination. Every stroke had been hers. She had existed. She had lived, loved, and breathed.

Zach had only seen her finish one painting. It was a miracle he still had it in his possession.

It wasn't right.

Hawke or Falcon – or whoever this man was – he didn't deserve these paintings.

Were there more?

If so, there wasn't anything more Zach wanted to do than to see them, to touch them, to feel the long past essence of his mother.

Sorrow loomed over him. Zach gritted his teeth, battling against the torrent of emotions; they threatened to overpower his control. He couldn't take it any longer. He strode out of the hallway and into the living room. Hawke stood in the kitchen with his back towards Zach.

The last time Zach had been here, he'd been too anxious to notice everything. The décor of the large room was bright and clean. The kitchen had white cabinets, furnished with white appliances: a fridge, a stove, and a microwave. A countertop island separated the kitchen from the small dining set. The flooring was elegant marbled tile.

The three seat sofa was a light brown, with a brown arm chair off to the side. The glass coffee table had a few miscellaneous things on its surface: a couple of magazines, a book or two, and a TV remote. A television set was on a wooden desk.

There was a second hallway, connected to the kitchen – no doubt leading to a bedroom or two. There were a handful more paintings on the wall.

Zach itched to go see them.

"So. Hungry?" asked Hawke, drawing his attention. Zach walked towards the island, coming to a stop on the other side. The man turned around, lifting an eyebrow. Zach crossed his arms in front of his chest, turning his head away. His stomach ached.

"No."

Another lie.

"Sounds like your stomach has made its case," said Hawke with a chuckle. "You know I'm not deaf, right?"

Zach stiffened. "Well," he snapped. "I'd have to be pretty stupid to eat anything from you. You could've poisoned it."

"You know better than anyone that if I really wanted to kill you, you'd be dead," said Hawke, his tone light. Zach's jaw clenched. "I haven't poisoned the food and I haven't drugged it."

"Mmm, riiight," drawled Zach.

"If you don't believe me, then just wait for me to take a bite," said Hawke, amused.

The man pulled out ingredients from the fridge. Zach didn't move, watching intensely. Soon, the island was overflowing with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, sliced deli meat, cheese, mayo, ketchup, and whole wheat bread. With a clink, Hawke placed plates onto the countertop. He waved a hand.

"All right, have at it."

Huh?

"Come, make your own," said Hawke, opening the bag of shredded lettuce. "I wasn't sure what you liked, but there should be enough variety here. It's not a fancy dinner, but nobody can say no to a good sandwich."

Zach looked at the food; his eyes flicked back towards the man. He didn't move. Hawke sighed.

"I didn't poison my own food," said Hawke in a low voice. He grabbed some bread. "I bought some of this today, if that makes you feel any better."

He… went grocery shopping? For me?

Hawke went about making his own sandwich. It quickly overflowed with ingredients: a lot of turkey, one slice of cheese, a bucket load of pickles, two slices of tomatoes, some shredded lettuce, and a mixture of mayo and ketchup. Zach winced at the combo.

Huh, who knew. Falcon was an actual human who needed food for sustenance. What, he didn't need the blood and flesh of the dead to survive? Hah.

It was surreal. The simple act of making a sandwich revealed quite a few things about the man.

"Go on," said Hawke, taking a large bite out of his massive creation. "It's not going to make itself."

With a slight tremor to his hands, Zach made the exact same sandwich, sans the ketchup and pickles. It was the safest route.

Hawke smiled. "We like the same thing," he said with a grin.

"No, we don't."

"Well, almost the same thing."

"Stop that," snapped Zach. "Don't try to find similarities between us. I made the same sandwich simply to avoid being drugged."

"I told you—"

"Right, because I'm so gullible to believe everything you say is the absolute truth." Zach rolled his eyes. "Please."

Hawke clamped his mouth shut. He sighed. With an indistinct mutter, the man took another bite, chewing with a grudging gaze towards the side.

Zach studied his profile.

With those high cheekbones and prominent jaw line, the man's features had a distinct ageless appearance – perhaps being clean shaven played a part in that. Though Zach didn't have the same black hair, he had gotten the man's wavy texture.

Zach frowned.

He could've sworn when he'd met Hawke, the man had a bit of greying or white at his roots. Now his hair was all black, not a strand of grey in sight.

Mmmm.

Hawke turned his head, looking at him.

Those crystal blue eyes.

The evidence was more than apparent, even beyond the eyes. The more Zach studied the man's features, the more the resemblance could be seen. The similarity in the eyebrows and the jawline were uncanny. The way the man's mouth moved with his expressions reminded Zach of himself. The hints were subtle, but they were there.

He couldn't deny it any more.

He was the man's son.

The realization landed on his shoulders, bearing down on him with the weight of a thousand tons. He hadn't paid much attention yesterday. This was more than letters on a screen. Written in flesh, the evidence was there.

He had never been Michael Bennet's son.

Zach had never looked like him. Everything he'd known about himself was a lie. A wave of emotion tore through his soul.

Complex genetics, eh?

They were cruel in their simplicity

He took a bite of his sandwich. Saliva built up in Zach's mouth; his eyes burned and watered. His emotions grew and climaxed.

Lack of sleep and lack of food, these things had torn down his protective barriers. His body and hormones overtook his control. There was no stopping the tears from slipping down his face. He ignored them. He didn't bother to wipe them away. With trembling hands, he continued to eat.

Yet another tear slipped through his defenses, unwanted and unbidden.