Chapter Text
The house was completely quiet. Absent of all signs of the living save for the shuddering breaths coming from a single occupant. The sun had gone down hours ago and the light of the moon caused cold streaks of silver to bounce off various angles in the bedroom where Christopher Argent sat, shoulders hunched and blue gaze unfocused. His heavy jacket lay next to him on the end of the bed.
The bedroom itself was in shambles. The chest-of-drawers, and dresser completely in disarray. Upended drawers with splintered wood scattered the ground. Shards of glass from the mirror he’d smashed repeatedly with a bare fist covered the dresser, floor, and sat embedded, bloodied and warm, in his untreated knuckles.
The nightstands had been completely broken after he threw them one after another at the wall, their once lovely mosaic lamps now shattered on the floor.
He had raged in the room for quite a while until he had no strength left. And as though someone cut the strings of a puppet he landed heavily on the end of the bed, surprisingly untouched from his violence despite bits of wood and debris dusting the duvet.
There he sat for hours. Breathing, heavy but eerily calm and controlled, he stared unseeing at the dresser where a broken series of photos sat. Cracked glass streaked across the surface of one of his family photos like frozen lightning. Allison looked little and plump while Chris had one arm wrapped around his wife who was giving a rare smile at the camera. It was a good picture. Too bad his bloodied fingerprints had ruined the image where he’d painfully caressed broken glass over Victoria’s face.
He missed her.
Hated her for leaving.
Admired her for her strength.
Loved her.
…failed her.
He failed her so horribly as a husband, he failed as a father to Allison, failed as a hunter, an Argent hunter at that. Here in the dark of their once shared bedroom Chris’ thoughts were taking infinite tumbles to darker places.
He glanced down at his busted knuckles, the moonlight shining off the embedded shards like glitter and considered for a moment that while he knew it hurt, he couldn’t feel it. His mind was so conflated with misery and various examples of his personal failings that he couldn’t process physical pain.
And God, he did hurt.
The fight with the rogue wolves that had been terrorizing Beacon Hills the past several days had worn him down. His back was one long line of pain where he’d been thrown by a huge beta. Claw marks wrapped over his shoulder, and he ended up limping into his own house, a walking bruise. The McCall-Hale pack didn’t look like they were going to be back to fighting form any time soon either. So many people got hurt. One particularly new hunter, could have only been about twenty, died in Chris’ arms. He’d bled out too fast for help and in that moment, all Chris could see was a scared kid. A kid whose wild eyes begged Chris to tell him it was going to be okay.
And he couldn’t.
His hunter brain, trained with callous logic, trained to defer emotions until the fight was over, (and ruthlessly subdued while under the same roof as Gerard), couldn’t provide the comfort. That boy died choking on his own blood until he shuddered to a stop, eyes staring unseeing at Chris with trails of drying tears on his face.
Like Victoria. Like every other person he failed to save or ease their way into the afterlife if there was one.
His daughter was safe and so there was that. Though she had been irrevocably changed after letting Gerard into her head, she tried her best to make it up to the McCall-Hale pack, and tonight sought comfort in the battered pack. And while grateful that she was safe, Chris just couldn’t stop seeing the dead hunter. In his place he saw the face of every other hunter who died, every wolf he had killed, every person he had almost killed. God, he remembers the time during the Nogitsune where he had every intention of killing a teenage boy who literally couldn’t control his own actions.
Stiles had confessed later something that will haunt Chris for years. That he was the one telling Chris to shoot him, not the Nogitsune. Told him that he still wished, sometimes, that he had.
Chris eyes moved from the battered knuckles to where his jacket lay. After all the shit he’s been through, yeah, he get’s exactly where Stiles is coming from. Reaching over, his hand hovers for a moment where his .50AE Desert Eagle is holstered.
It would be so easy.
He’s a fucking hunter. If he could assist his own wife, who he loved, end her own life then surely, he could pick up this weapon and end his own. He deserved it. Allison would be far better off. If she changed her name, then their Argent line could die right here with him.
He tried so hard to keep her safe, to keep other people safe. That was what he was supposed to do, had been raised to do! But in the last couple of years the lines between black and white had greyed. Suddenly werewolves were actual people and not just nightmare fuel. They, like humans, had good ones and bad ones. The rogue pack was evidence of that when juxtaposed to the McCall-Hale pack.
And suddenly, as he let his hand drop over the handle of his pistol and pulled it out, he questioned whether it was even worth it. Did it even matter how many bad wolves he killed? They just kept coming. And the number of twisted hunters who abused the code were even more numerous thanks to his own father.
Thinking of Gerard brought all sorts of memories that he’d kept locked up to the front and suddenly placing the cool barrel to his head, breath heaving as though he’d run a marathon, was the only logical move. Thoughts he wanted to stop, thoughts and memories of a childhood where he was tied to a chair to see if he could escape, where he had been forced to kill terrified (they were never feral) wolves, endless practice at the gun ranges, exercises that made his palms bloody and his body sore, moments where he was sure… so sure that Gerard was about to do more to him than verbally abuse him.
His breath stuttered in his chest, saliva choking thickly in his throat, at the memory of those moments.
His father was sick and twisted and at one point tried to make Chris the same.
There was a moment when he’d been forced to watch as his own father touched another boy. Chris had been around fourteen at the time and he was pretty sure the other boy was too. Gerard’s goons were jeering and saying so many things. Smiling as they held the other boy down whose cries for help were falling into whispers as the proceedings wore on.
Gerard had tried to get Chris to join them. Cooing at him like he was a wounded animal and then finally telling him that one day he would understand, that if he just gave in, it would feel so good. Then he wrapped an arm around him as if he hadn’t just tormented another teenager, kissed him on the temple, and steered them out of the room while the other men had their turn.
After finding out about Derek Hale, and digging into other suspicious claims, it seemed that Kate had drank the poison Gerard had offered.
Chris only felt ill.
Guilt twisted in his gut all over again.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure he turned out any better even if he didn’t follow Gerard’s footsteps in that regard. He’d still killed people, still hunted them, and here he was.
A widower, beat all to hell, and no longer able to protect his daughter from the insanity. His body hurt, his mind was exhausted, and he just wanted it all to end. Wanted to stop having to think, to remember the bullshit, the pain, the fading whispers of other boys who’d met the same fate as the one Chris met. He wanted to forget the look in Gerard’s eyes as he sometimes watched his own son with an expression so open and vile, it left the hunter shaken.
He thought that look would end when he got older, out of the range of Gerard’s preferred quarry, but it didn’t. It was now the only look he received, and he was a grown man who’d had a wife and child. Even as an adult he didn’t want to be left alone with him.
A hysterical laugh bubbled from Chris’ throat, the barrel still pressed tightly to his temple, knuckles tight and bleeding on his other hand. Tears left silent trails down his face. He was so fucking tired.
God, he could make it all stop now.
Allison would stay safely with the pack. She no longer believed her grandfather’s lies. And Scott wouldn’t be deceived twice… not with his twin left hands, Peter and Stiles. And wasn’t that a fucking thought? Those two were perfect for the role and for each other.
They didn’t just defeat the rogues because of the pack’s strength. They did it on the brains and cunning of those two. They didn’t need some washed up hunter with daddy issues.
Yes, Allison would be fine.
She would have someone to look after her after tonight.
With that in mind, Chris closed his burning, red-rimmed eyes, flicked the safety off the Eagle with a smile, and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Click.
Click. Click. Click.
Chris laughed as he kept pulling the trigger, magazine empty after having unloaded it earlier that evening in the beta that’d thrown him in the wall. He forgot it was empty.
He laughed so hard he felt sick.
Click. Click. Click.
The laughter was full on hysterical, filled with pain and disbelief.
Broken glass and wood clinked together as Chris slid off the end of the bed and onto the floor until his back was pressed against the footboard, the laughter turning into loud sobs, breath choking in his lungs.
Dropping the pistol, he drew his knees up, resting his forehead on them and wrapped his arms around his head. He cried. The pain up his back more pronounced while leaning against the footboard and he pushed harder against it, a sharp agonizing sob causing his voice to raise an octave in terrible pain, because he deserved it. He was worthless. He couldn’t even kill himself properly.
“Help. Someone, please help me,” he whimpered brokenly into his knees.
He felt like a child again.
The position he was in now reminiscent of the same he shared with a fourteen-year-old past-self after having witnessed the atrocity of another boy’s degradation.
Sobbing out, he wanted someone to help. Someone who actually gave a damn about him as a person. He didn’t want to die but he didn’t want to keep going either.
He needed that lifeline. Of arms wrapped around, a safety net of warmth; needed words of peace whispered into his hair with love and determination.
Chris wished that he had an adult who could alleviate the burden for a while. Like his mom used to. As he and Victoria had tried for Allison.
Like, like… him.
“Oh, God.” Chris breathed in. Head shooting up, he scrambled to grab his jacket and pulled it onto the floor with him and rifled through the pockets.
He had someone like that. Oh, God. He, Chris Argent, had someone like that and in the madness of the last few moments he’d almost….
“Oh, God, please… please, please, please answer.” He sat up, hastily pulling his phone out of the pocket and running through his contacts. There was no name, just a phrase, one he only confided the meaning in Victoria about.
Someone who was an actual parent to him, a father he always wanted. The very reason Gerard had most likely never indulged in the sick fantasies he harbored towards his own flesh and blood. Because if he did, and Chris told this person, he’d die. No questions.
But it had been literal years since he’d been able to talk to him outside a couple of encrypted text messages, never mind being able to see him, so perhaps that was why Gerard had steadily started growing bolder. The looks, the twisted smile, the touches that lingered far too long which left the seasoned hunter trembling.
Tears poured down Chris’ face.
“Please, please…,” he kept chanting as he finally found the contact and pressed the button.
Le Vieux Dieu.
Placing it to his ear with a shaking hand, he listened to the ring. It had been so long since he had spoken to him. And it wasn’t for lack of wanting to, but one of always being busy on both their ends, and the terror that consumed him that if Gerard ever knew he still had contact, Chris himself would be dead, most likely after his own father took what he wanted… took him.
However, all the fear of his biological father left in a breath when a man’s voice answered the phone.
“Chris? Well, isn’t this a treat? I’d thought you’d forgotten all about little ole’ me.”
Over the line he could hear the loud timber of jazz music, talking and all kinds of noise. There was a party going on, but then again, there always was in the Big Easy. The voice itself sounded young despite being deeper than his own, sass and gravel with a lilt of accent, and a bit annoyed at him since he hadn’t called in so long. But it also soothed him in way that few things ever could.
But any reply Chris could’ve had got lodged in his throat and something like a whimper escaped.
“Chris? Christopher? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s the matter, why aren’t you talking?!”
The questions became frantic and rapid fire, the sounds of music and people hushing as the voice on the other line moved to a quiet location.
“I…just,’ Chris took in a shaking breath, ‘I need you.”
The voice was quiet for a moment.
“Darling, tell me where you are, and I will be there.”
Chris swallowed. “Beacon Hills, California. But I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Christopher, you said you need me. Sweet boy, the only thing that has a remote chance of keeping me from you is death and I assure you; death doesn’t want to deal with me.”
Chris couldn’t help but huff a pained laugh. Because it was true. The man on the phone, who could make death think twice, let alone have Gerard quaking, would do anything for him. He was lucky. But that thought, coupled with what he’d tried to do just now ended up pulling sob from his throat instead.
It was loud, pained, and desperate.
He wanted the man on the phone here, now. A man who was more of a father to him than Gerard ever thought about being. A man who would listen to him, talk to him, make him feel safe by simply being in the same vicinity, let alone the same room. A man, who as Chris grew up, let the hunter call him every variation of father, because Chris loved him as such, and he loved Chris as his own son. There was never a doubt in his mind about that.
And it was such a strange thing because the man on the phone wasn’t just a man. He was old, despite looking so young. A cryptid of terrible power in the category of eldritch gods and yet, for Chris… for Chris, he’d babied him, comforted him. A monster that kept all other monsters away. He was his father in all ways that counted.
“Dad,’ he said, feeling so small, ‘Dad, I… don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
Gently, softly his dad asked, ‘What can you not do anymore, sweetheart?”
And it was like the floodgates opened. Once he started talking, he couldn’t shut up. He told him about struggling with Victoria’s death, about how he failed Allison, the McCall-Hale pack, and so many others. Told him about the rogue wolves and that he’d had the shit beat out of him but was more worried about the poor hunter who’d died in his arms.
He told him about the Hales, about what Kate had done and the hellmouth that was Beacon Hills.
He finally told him how he was terrified of Gerard and confessed with heaving breaths and sobs about the sexual assaults he’d witnessed and how, even though he was grown, the idea that Gerard might do the same to him stole bits of his sanity.
And then told him about the Desert Eagle sitting beside him on the dirty bedroom floor. How he just wanted it all to stop. That he felt useless, weak, and so fucking tired.
Throughout all of it there were no words as his dad listened. Occasionally Chris would hear the low moan of a whispered conversation, the hum of a vehicle, and finally a sound that made very little sense to his exhausted mind. It sounded like the thrum of an airplane.
There’s no way. Chris’ breath hitched.
“Dad?’ he asked nervously but oh, so hopefully.
“I must confess Christopher, that when you called this was the last thing I expected. And there is a part of my heart that’s absolutely panicking with you being so close to the guns in your house; however, there is also a part of me that wants to tear you a new one for withholding all these things from me to start with. I’ll refrain for now.
“But you listen to me, Christopher. You are not worthless. Allison would be devastated to lose you and I for one am very fond of your continued existence.’ Chris chuckled at the sass. God, he loved this man. ‘And I know one conversation will not satisfy you about any of your perceived failures, weaknesses, or slights; but heaven help me, I will do what I can. People fail all the time, my little hunter. You learn from them and move on. And it is okay to be weak at times. We all are, I am at times. But in the moments you feel the weakest, that’s when you come to me, do you understand? You come to me and I will take care of you.
“I will always have your back first and foremost. I am sorry about Victoria. I knew you would be struggling but you haven’t said anything in so long since you lost her, I mistakenly assumed you were better than you apparently are. That is my fault, and I am so sorry, sweetheart. I should’ve been there. But I’m coming now.”
Chris’ heart stopped. “So, I’m not crazy? I hear a plane?”
A warm chuckle filled his ears and Chris wanted to cry at the affectionate sound.
“They’re simply waiting for me to end the call. But I am coming, sweetheart.”
“I…’ Chris couldn’t finish the thought. He choked on a fresh sob.
“Oh, darling. I hate what you’re going through,’ the accented voice softly confessed, ‘I hate that I’m not there already. But I want you to do something for me. Can you, dear?”
Chris hiccupped. Dad was coming. He was coming for him. The amount of relief he felt was overwhelming. He was a child all over again.
“Yeah,’ he answered roughly.
With a firm voice he told Chris to get up off the ground, “because I know your probably just sitting in a heap you sweet, silly boy,” go downstairs, drink water then return to his room and pack an overnight bag.
“I want you out of that house and you will not take anything more damaging than knuckle dusters, mountain ash, or that freaky potent pepper spray you have. I don’t want you near a gun until I’m there. You will check-in to the hotel I text you, clean up, order room service because there’s no way you’ve eaten and you need to Christopher, really. And you will wait for me. Get some rest if you can, but you will not leave that hotel until I come to get you.”
“Yes, sir.’ Chris defaulted. Already pulling out a duffle and filling it with basic essentials, including a small medkit, because if his dad got here and found broken glass in his hand, he’d flip. And with that thought, Chris managed a small, tired smile.
“Good. I’ll be flying from NOLA. Are you going to be okay for the few hours I must go radio silent?’ The man asked nervously.
“Yeah. I will.”
He briefly heard some voices in the background and the sound of a door shutting. The whirring of heavy engines kicking up because there was no way his dad was using a public plane. He was using the family’s personal jet. Yeah, a family of beings that were a lot like him.
“Okay dear. I’ve got to go but I’ll see you soon. Check your texts for the hotel but I also sent you my uncle’s contact info. Just in case you get antsy while I’m in the air. Love you, little boy.”
“I love you, too,’ Chris swallowed roughly as the call disconnected.
His duffle bag was full and he went downstairs, grabbed the water, left the guns and got into his car.
It didn’t take long to get to the hotel and even less time to get checked in. Everything was paid for and as soon as the door was opened, he was greeted with a platter that showed room service had already stopped by. A note left by the covered tray of sandwiches saying, ‘by special request of our patron, “Eat, drink, rest.”’
Once he had doctored his knuckles and showered, Christopher did just that.
And when he lay on top of the covers, no strength left to even pull them back, he drifted to the fact that, soon, he wasn’t going to be so alone. Even grown men needed their parents, or adoptive father in his case.
Suddenly, he was so very glad that there were no bullets in the Desert Eagle back at home.