[Y'know, simultenaety isn't so much of a problem when you're writing first-person...]

Chris was swearing at himself the whole way home. He'd f**ked up, and he knew it. That meant it was time to break the news to Toby. He wasn't looking forward to that.

He parked his car and walked around the back of Steve's house. Steve's car wasn't in the driveway, which probably meant he hadn't gotten back yet. He felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Steve with the paperwork, but better Steve than him. He was having enough trouble with the captain without having to deal with catching crap for badly done reports.

"Hey, sport," Chris said as he walked into Steve's kitchen. Toby was sitting at the table with Bob and Amy. Steve's kids were doing their homework, while Toby was busy coloring.

"Hi Papa." Toby didn't look up. His head was down and he was concentrating on finishing his picture, a masterpiece in browns, blues, and greens. Chris could only see bits and pieces of it around the boy.

"What are you drawing?"

"A picture, Papa. 'M almost done," he said.

Chris sat and waited while Toby finished, his little hands flying over the paper.

"All done," he said, putting the crayon down. "Can we go now?"

"Sure, Toby. Can I see your picture first? Maybe we can put it on the 'fridge."

"'K, Papa," Toby said brightly. He held the picture up for inspection.

Chris' heart sank when he saw it. Toby had drawn a desert, the background filled with brown mesas and green cacti. There was a bright yellow sun in one corner, and what looked like a dog on one of the mesa tops.

In the center was a little stick figure with a big smile on its face. He was flanked by two other, larger figures, holding their hands. The one on the left was wearing dark blue clothes and a hat with a yellow star on it. The other was in grey, a white and black spotted ball at its feet. On the left edge was a tent, with another little figure sitting in front of it.

"That's me, an' that's you, and that's Daddy. Up there's coyote, and over there by the teepee is grandpa."

"They didn't use tipis in the desert, Toby," Chris said. "Those were mostly used by the tribes in the plains." That just added to the guilt. This was a part of Toby's heritage, and he didn't know because his father had been too wrapped up in his own problems to teach him properly.

"Oh, okay. Can we have dinner now?"

"Sure, sport," Chris said. He opened the back door and they started walking across the deck.

"Is Daddy gonna be home for dinner?"

Kids, Chris thought, really knew how to twist the knife, even when they weren't doing it on purpose. Maybe especially when they weren't doing it on purpose. That was when they asked the questions that you didn't want to answer.

"Maybe," Chris allowed. It was, after all, possible, so it wasn't really a lie. Not really.

"Does he like meatloaf? I like meatloaf, Papa," Toby said.

"I don't know," Chris answered. "Do you want some tonight? I think there's some in the freezer."

Toby stopped in the middle of the yard and thought. "We should save it for Daddy. Can we have mac'n'cheese?"

Chris gave a half-hearted smile. The conversation was intensely painful, and he started cursing at himself again.

"Macaroni and cheese it is, Toby. With garlic bread," he added.

"Yay!" Toby started dancing around.

"Or maybe we could order pizza," Chris said, pretending to think about it. "That would be nice."

"No! Nonononono! Mac'n'Cheese Papa! You said! Go cook," Toby insisted. He pushed at Chris, trying to get him into the house.

"Are you sure? You don't seem very hungry."

"Papa! I'll tell Daddy you were being mean!" Toby said with a pout. It brought Chris up short.

"You're right," he said softy. "I'm sorry. I'll get dinner started."

Chris wasn't feeling all that well right then, though. What Toby had said hurt more than he cared to think about. He knew it was only going to get worse. He owed Toby the truth, though, no matter how painful it was. Or how much it might make Toby hate him.

That thought made his stomach churn, and started a throbbing behind his eyes. He was getting a headache, which just pissed him off. It seemed appropriate. He was going to break Toby's heart. Some pain of his own seemed fitting.

"Papa? Can you make extra?" Toby asked. His voice sounded a little off, but Chris was having a hard time thinking clearly. The throbbing had spread, and his whole head was fuzzy with pain.

"I don't know that Joe's going to make it in time for dinner," he said.

"That's okay, Detective," said an unfamiliar voice. It was oddly harsh, and it tickled old memories. "We can wait before I eat."