TWENTY-FIVE

Something grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away. Zach slammed a hand to his face. Saliva filled his mouth; bile crawled into his throat. He was moving, but he was too focused on not throwing up on the floor.

Just in time, hands bent him towards the kitchen sink. Zach doubled over and vomited. Bile mixed with his sparse dinner poured from his mouth. He coughed, grimacing. His eyes watered with burning tears; his throat became raw from the acid.

A hand rested on his back, rubbing it in a soothing motion. Chills slid down his spine. Zach gagged, vomiting again. He shivered, having no strength to shrug the hand away. He was stuck.

How dare the man attempt to comfort him. This was all his fault. His touch would pollute him. Zach shuddered beneath the benign touch, hating it with every fiber of his being.

Quit touching me!

He couldn't stop, his stomach contracting and expelling itself, until there was nothing left. He stood there, hunched over the kitchen sink, his throat burning and tears streaming down his face. He coughed on the lingering bile in his mouth. He gasped for breath.

"Don't touch me," hissed Zach, his voice raspy.

The hand withdrew, stealing the warmth it had provided. Zach snarled at himself, hating his body's betrayal. His eyes glanced around; he grabbed a nearby paper towel and wiped his mouth. He grimaced at the bitter taste. He turned around and glared up at the man.

"How the hell are you my father?" whispered Zach icily. Another wave of sickness flowed into his throat. The very thought… "How'd that happen? Who are you?"

The man's lips twitched. "Well," Hawke drawled. "When a man loves a woman very much—"

"SHUT UP!" screamed Zach.

His voice echoed through the room. Silence reigned, the only sounds lifting through the air were the gentle ticks of the clock. His body trembled violently. His hands gripped together; he couldn't control the tremors. He sucked in a starved breath.

"Don't," hissed Zach. "Don't joke about this."

More silence.

The man's body sagged. Hawke let out a low, tired sigh. He leaned against the counter and looked down at the floor.

"I was married to her… Abigail," whispered Hawke. "For a time."

Zach reeled. His hand slipped against the sink; he quickly regained his balance. Married? Then… but that meant… That would mean…

Relief warmed his veins. The all consuming disdain, distaste, despair, and revulsion were washed away by that single answer. Somehow, he trusted it.

No, stop it.

Proof.

I need proof.

I need more answers. He could be lying. This could be a plan.

It could be anything. Whatever this was, it could've been some elaborate plan of Falcon's for some… for some stupid reason. He couldn't think properly. He couldn't divine his questions. His mind was shattered. Zach didn't have the answers; the possibilities were endless.

Stay suspicious.

Yet…

The way he looked at Zach… There was something sincere in those eyes. Maybe this was truth: Sebastian Hawke and Abigail Doyle had been married.

But Zach wanted that to be the truth. Other answers, other possible truths – those were too horrifying. Zach was more than aware that his own feelings were clouding his judgement. He didn't want to know if his mother had been assaulted by this man. He didn't want to know if he'd been conceived out of cruelty, evil, and pain.

But what if she had loved him?

Such a thought spun a different story. It told a story of young love, of two people finding each other, of getting married and beginning a life together.

If this was the truth, then what had happened?

Zach only knew Michael Bennet as his father, as the only man in his young life. Never had the name of Sebastian Hawke been spoken. There were so many possibilities. Zach's head pounded, pain rising in his temples.

No, he was done.

Forget the answers.

He didn't want to hear some sordid tale, like one of those laughable soap operas on television. He didn't want to listen. He wanted it to all go away – go back to his stressful life of trying to make ends meet, worrying about losing his friends, and trying to capture an elusive criminal. Anything was better than this – this was too much.

The computer was lying. This was a joke. Zach wanted nothing more than to laugh it up.

This was hilarious.

"No," whispered Zach. He shook his head. "No, we're not doing this. No—" He sucked in a deep breath, his chest rising high. Each word burned his tongue. "Mom and Dad were married to each other. Abigail and Michael, all right? They were married. They had wedding rings. They had a certificate. Not you. You weren't in the picture. Just—stop this. Stop everything. Stop lying—"

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"I'm not lying," snapped Hawke, his tone rising. His eyebrows twitched in an annoyance. "I was married to Abby. Mike was at our wedding. I have the wedding certificate to prove it. I have pictures."

Zach's heart stopped. Pictures?

No.

Photoshop was a thing.

More nicknames. More familiarity.

The more Falcon acted like he knew them, the more Zach felt uncertain, the more he believed him.

This was dangerous.

A sense of injustice raged through his heart; a flood of new feelings washed over everything else. All this time… All this time, he could've had a different life. If this was all true, then where had Hawke been? This was Falcon, the man who couldn't be taken down by a trained team of six with abilities. He was powerful. Where was he when his dear 'Abby' and his friend 'Mike' were killed? Why didn't he save them?

They had died.

And dear Sebastian Hawke had been nowhere to be found.

Something inside Zach snapped.

With a crying roar, Zach threw himself at the man, his hand clenched into a fist. His body came to a slamming halt; the man caught his fist in his hand. Zach jerked away, spinning into a roundhouse kick; it made contact. Falcon grunted. He stumbled. Zach rushed at him with the ferocity of a vicious, rabid animal.

"Stop it," said Hawke, catching his fist again.

"No!" snapped Zach, wrenching his hand back; he couldn't pull away. The man's grip was too strong now.

Zach gritted his teeth and threw his other fist into Falcon's stomach. There was another grunt; the man bent slightly. Zach pulled back for another punch, but Falcon grabbed the fist before it could strike him again.

"Let go!" cried Zach, thrashing under the hold. The man's hands tightened around his fists. His chest heaved up and down erratically. He couldn't escape. Trapped. "Let me go now, you—you ba—"

"Calm down," said Hawke in a low voice, overriding him. It was too calm, too composed. It only served to make Zach even more furious. He thrashed all the harder, jerking back, pulling away, anything to get away from this man – even if it meant pulling his arms out of their sockets. "Zachary, stop it!" Hawke demanded. "You're becoming hysterical!"

Tears blurred his vision.

The rage and sorrow peaked, blending together in one horrible overwhelming surge.

"Where were you!?" screamed Zach. He blinked; tears fell down his cheeks. "Where the hell were you when they killed them?!"

Memories of guns, of blood, of screams – they flooded into his mind. Zach gasped for breath, trembling. He went limp. His heart pounded in his head. He closed his eyes; more tears slipped out.

Where were you?

If you're really my father, if you really were their friend, if you really loved her, then where were you that day?

Zach stood still beneath the silence. After a moment, the man released his hands; they fell at his sides. Zach looked up at Falcon. Inside those crystal eyes, there were sharp, intense emotions whirling within.

Stop that.

"You should rinse your mouth," whispered Hawke.

"What?" breathed Zach.

"Your mouth," said Hawke, repeating himself with a raised eyebrow. "You threw up. You probably have a bitter taste in your mouth."

You think?

Why are you so calm?

Zach glanced at the floor, unable to look into those eyes. His chest felt as if it would burst. Exhaustion assaulted every sense in his body. He was drained, beyond anything he had ever felt before.

Last night had been a picnic. Those fears and worries, what a laugh. They would've been better than this. Anything would've been better than this. Oh, what would it have been like to be blackmailed, coerced into doing dark deeds for an evil criminal. Sounded like heaven!

Zach listened to the sound of water pouring from the faucet. Something cool pressed into his hand. Zach looked at the glass of water.

"Rinse," said Hawke.

Zach put it to his lips, feeling the hard glass on his teeth. He wanted to chew on it. He wanted to bite down, crack his teeth on it. Could he bite down hard enough to shatter the glass? Or would his teeth weaken beneath its power and crack under the strain?

Perhaps.

What was I thinking again?

Zach rinsed out his mouth, spitting out the water into the sink. A thought crossed his mind. He wondered what Hawke's reaction would've been if he had spat it into his face. Ah, well. Too bad. Maybe another day.

Whoa, hold the frick up.

My life is not going to include this man! Why am I thinking there's going to be a next time? No. I never want to see him again. Leave the city. Leave me alone. Never show your face – masked or otherwise – ever again.

But his feelings swept over those thoughts. Deep down, something inside his heart denied them – betrayed yet again by his own body.

"How did this happen?" whispered Zach, looking up at Hawke. "Why?"

Where were you?

What, we weren't good enough for you any more?

How could you abandon us?

The man sighed, taking the glass from him. There was a gentle clink as he placed the glass onto the countertop. "It's a long story," he whispered.

Something pricked at Zach's heart. "That's what people say when they don't want to tell the truth," he retorted, folding his arms across his chest. He straightened, lifting his chin.

"True," said Hawke with a nod. Those eyes pierced him. He couldn't break the man's gaze. "The question is: do you have the patience to listen to the truth?"

Zach let out a shaky breath. Patience? This took patience? What? No. It didn't take patience. It took actually wanting to listen. It took a desire, a yearning, a longing to know the man who had sired him. Zach didn't want that – or so he kept chanting to himself inside his mind. Just what did Hawke expect from him?

'Oh, yeah, sure. I'll listen to you. Can I call you Dad? Can I move in with you and be your ever adoring son? Jeepers, I hope so, Dad.'

What. A. Joke.

This man could never take the place of Michael Bennet, the man his mother had lived with, had slept in the same bed with, had died with – Abigail had chosen Michael for a reason and that man had been a great father. He'd been there to put band aids on skinned knees. He'd been the one to tuck Zach into bed at night. He had been the one to tell him bedtime stories.

Too bad he's dead, though…

Zach gritted his teeth. "The truth?" he snarled. "What, have a long winded tale of sorrow to spin?" Bitterness poured through his tone. "What're you expecting from me? Sympathy? Father and son bonding?" Zach let out a burst of dark laughter. "News flash, Falcon: normal fathers aren't the country's most hunted and feared terrorist."

He couldn't stop shaking. Every part of his body felt fragile, like cracked glass that could shatter at any moment. He needed to sit down, lie down, sleep for a century – when would this all go away?

"You… are not wrong there," said Hawke in a soft voice. "I supposed we can't come to an understanding like this."

"Understanding? With you?" said Zach incredulously.

"You aren't the least bit curious?"

Zach ripped his gaze away from those unnerving eyes; he blew out a rough exhale of breath. Curious? Maybe. But he'd been so focused on Falcon – Falcon was the man of the obsession. Falcon was the enemy, the one to take down. Falcon was the enigma.

Moments ago, he would've given everything to learn something about Falcon – even one tiny detail, anything that could shed a glimmer of light on the man he was forced to bring down.

But the man who stood in front of him wasn't Falcon. This unmasked man was Hawke, his biological father. He appeared sincere, from the way he looked at Zach and from the way he spoke. The man was offering up the information. Wouldn't it be wise to accept?

No.

No. No. No.

Who cared. Who cared?! Zach didn't need this. He had enough to deal with without this villain in tights being his father. It didn't matter. He didn't want to know. He didn't care.

Liar.

After all, what did he have to lose?

Everything. I could lose everything.