Disclaimer: I remember back when I could make these interesting and amusing. Now I just say "Don't steal my characters". Ah well.

Author's Notes: Not much to say about this one.

Aim the Arrow

Paul sat on the edge his son's bed, stroking brown curls back from the boy's high forehead. The frown was gone, wiped away by whatever it was Robbie dreamed about, and a soft washcloth dipped in water had removed the traces of tears on his cheeks, but not from Paul's mind. Even though Robbie slept peacefully, one arm curled around the neck of Scheherazade, the bear Pete had given him years ago, he was still asleep because he'd cried himself there.

Hands on his shoulders, and Paul hunched. He knew it was silly to keep obsessing about it, but he couldn't help it. "We can't do anything until tomorrow," Michael said.

"I know." Paul leaned back, felt Michael warm and strong against his shoulders. "And he was just frustrated and confused, not … not hurt or anything. But it's still stupid."

"Oh yeah." Fabric rustled, and Michael bent to drop a kiss on the top of Paul's head. "Let him sleep, Paul. He'll feel you staring."

Paul smoothed out some of the wrinkles in Robbie's comforter, tucked the sheets around the boy's chin and generally fiddled with things until Michael took his hand and pulled him from the room. "I used to think you got some sort of super power when you became a parent." Paul made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh but didn't feel like one. "Like Superman and how he could hear a lady screaming three blocks away 'cause her purse got stolen."

"Wouldn't that be nice?" Michael wrapped one arm around Paul's waist and leaned down to nuzzle his hair. "Too bad it doesn't work that way."

"It was just the only way I could explain it when I was little, y'know?" Paul let Michael lead him across the hall but didn't bother changing; just stripped off his skirt and crawled into bed. "Mom always knew when something was wrong even when I didn't tell her and I thought it had to be some sort of Mom magic. But then I got older and saw how Tiff's face would get when something made her mad and it's just that really little kids don't hide what they feel."

Michael kicked off his jeans, then folded them in a neat square and placed them in the hamper even though he'd only worn them once. Paul was used to it enough that he didn't roll his eyes anymore but he thought about it. "I'd say they learn pretty quickly."

"That's going to be weird." Paul curled up against Michael's chest and tried to let the feel of his husband's arms around him calm him down. "When he starts doing that, I mean."

"Are you going to be okay?" Michael asked after a while, rubbing his hand over Paul's upper arm. "I would've thought I'd get more upset over this than you."

And usually, Michael would have, but Paul figured it was because he was the one who'd heard Robbie tell it first. When Robbie came out from school and didn't talk the entire car ride home, when he smashed his cookie into crumbs with his thumb and didn't eat them, Paul finally got tired of waiting for the boy to bring it up and asked what the matter was.

Robbie's class had to give speeches that day and Robbie's had been on his parents. Paul and Michael had both helped him memorize it, though he refused to let them help with the writing, and were proud of him. He was little enough that his description of their life — particularly living with two fathers — was matter-of-fact and not politicized, and for some reason that pleased Paul more than anything.

As it turned out, the speech didn't go well. Robbie delivered it all right, but afterwards the teacher had pulled him aside to correct him on his use of pronouns; he'd kept saying 'daddies' instead of 'parents', 'he' instead of 'she' and hadn't mentioned 'mother' once. She said that was all right, but she didn't want the other children to get "confused".

Her face went funny, Robbie had said to Paul, face scrunched and nose wrinkled in what Paul decided was his approximation of crossed arms while talking. When I told her that you and Daddy are married and that I don't have a mommy because she left and it doesn't count that Daddy calls you 'Mama' to make you make that face … she looked at me like she ate something bad. Then she just said 'oh' and let me go.

That was bad enough, but Paul could fix that. Parent-teacher interviews were coming up in November and they could straighten things out then, plus Robbie said Mrs. Robinson was old; Paul had come to expect certain things from generations raised when this sort of thing wasn't acceptable. But it was after that, at recess, that made his chest clench.

And then some kids were mean, Robbie had said, sucking in his lower lip. Sam said … his dad had told him about people like you and Daddy. I told him I didn't wanna know. And he said he was gonna tell his dad and he wouldn't let him come over to my house ever. Robbie's eyes flashed. I didn't want him at our house anyway if he's gonna be mean to you and Daddy.

He hadn't understood, thank goodness, and Paul didn't know how to tell him. Neither had Michael. It wasn't something they'd ever really talked about; Robbie knew that different kids had different combinations of fathers and mothers, and he didn't question it. But now Paul wondered if they should have tried to explain it somehow — but how to tell a six-year-old that when people made faces or muttered at them on the street, that it was because his fathers dared to love?

"I'll be okay," Paul said, wiping one hand across his eyes even though he wasn't crying. "It'd just be nice if we didn't have to deal with this yet. Or ever."

Michael nodded, and shuffled closer. His hand stroked Paul's side gently. "There are worse things to be teased about, though. When he's older he'll realize that, and hopefully so will they. Our family is a lot more stable than 'normal' ones nowadays, for one thing."

"I hope he does." Paul fisted his hand in Michael's t-shirt and tried to calm himself. Michael often accused him of getting upset over hypothetical situations, and this was probably exactly what he was doing. "Because I couldn't stand it if he became ashamed of us."

"Do you really think he will?" Michael kissed Paul's temple. "I know there's no way to tell, hon, but you should try not to let that get to you. It might never happen."

"I know, I know."

Once Michael drifted off and was likely to stay that way, Paul slipped from his embrace, pulled on the robe hanging on the bedpost and crept back into Robbie's room. He hadn't woken from the looks of it, but Paul stood next to the bunk and watched him sleep anyway.

He wanted to tell the child that he would protect him, that he would stop people from making him cry, that he wouldn't let anything or anyone hurt him ever again. But Paul knew he couldn't promise any of that; couldn't even say it in his head because he couldn't make himself believe it.

He couldn't even say he'd be there for him when it happened. All he could do, Paul thought, was make sure Robbie could talk to him after. It wasn't much, but it was the only way he could let Robbie live without forcing to do it all alone.

Robbie rolled over in his sleep, abandoning Scheherazade and tucking both fists under his chin. His lower lip stuck out in an unconscious pout, and Paul traced a finger over his cheek. Parents did have superpowers, Paul realized, watching him; it took a lot of strength to let children go out and get hurt and learn and live instead of holding them tight and never letting go long enough for them to breathe.

It was hard, even harder than it had been with his siblings, but Paul realized there was one promise he could make — to hold Robbie's hand while he grew his wings, but when it was time, step back and watch him fly.