"Welcome home, Jonathan," he said to the bundle of his arms as he carried him in through the front door. Odysseus held the door open for him. Hatchet and Night Sky were behind him, flanking Reilly, relying on crutches to walk around. She looked like hell, her hair flat and clinging to the sweat on her skin. Her clothes hung off her body as if she had lost ten pounds. But she glared daggers at anyone who tried to help her, so Sammy kept his distance.
Most of the pack were waiting for them with a hero's welcome. Someone had gotten a few logs crackling warmly in the fireplace, immediately exorcising their bodies of the winter chill. The spicy hints of chili wafted in from the kitchen--Pegasus' own recipe, and several pots' worth of it, from the potency of the smell, which almost overrode the smell of fir from the Christmas tree.
Madison was squealing. "Lemme see lemme see lemme see!"
Patience pushed her way through the crowd, holding a bottle aloft. "Make way, make way. Let the poor new dad sit down, the baby must be starving by now."
She grabbed him by the arm and guided him to the couch... to the very same spot he had first sat down when he had been introduced to the pack, a whole decade ago. But this time, Patience pushed a bottle in his hand. "I warmed it up. No, no, test it first, like I showed you when you started feeding Jenny."
"I know, I know," he said. Jonathan latched on to the bottle and started suckling weakly. But he opened his eyes and even though they were milky-white and unseeing, Sammy could see the light of a strong spirit inside this weak, tiny body. He would raise Jonathan to be like him; a survivor.
Sammy was a father. He was also a friend, a brother, a pseudo-son, a hard worker--and a survivor.
"Support his head," Night Sky chimed in.
"And don't forget to burp him after," said Odysseus' uncle Cernunnos, who had never had any children.
Sammy looked up and wished Jonathan could see through his eyes. Laid out before him was the perfect sight: A family coming together to celebrate their newest member, a sea of bright colorful faces radiating joy and awe, even the furry ones. They were framed by a sparkling Christmas tree, each chrome ball reflecting the glow of the fireplace or the multi-colored flashing lights draped around the branches. This warm, ancient house that had been home to so many werewolves was his and Jonathan's home now too, with good food preparing in the kitchen, and Celtic music playing from the speakers. It was more than Sammy ever could have hoped for as a child.
The familiar scramble of clawed feet against wooden steps harkened Jack's descent from upstairs. "You brut a baby?" he asked, keeping to the edge of the crowd.
The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. Everyone kept a leery eye on Jack, an unspoken concern darting through their minds. But Sammy sensed no jealousy or ill intent from his half-breed charge.
"Let him come see," Sammy said, but gave Jack a warning growl as he approached. "Look, but don't touch. He's even more delicate than other babies."
Jack stopped just short of a couple feet and balanced on his hind legs to get a better look, nose twitching frantically as he watched Jonathan feed. "E's like me," Jack said.
Sammy tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"Yuh shaved him from Marley," Jack said. His tail started to pound against the floor. "E'll be shafe here. Thish ish a gud pack."
Sammy saw a few heads nod in agreement. "Well said, Chi- uh, Jack," Madison said.
Sammy breathed a sigh of relief, and then asked, "Hey, have you finished your homework?"
Jack shook his head. "Nuh. 'll go finish now," he said before scampering back upstairs. Sammy had signed him up for online grade school courses, so Jack could learn reading and arithmetic over the computer. His clumsy half-fingers struggled with the keyboard, but Jack was determined to please Sammy. Given enough time, Sammy hoped to find him some kind of work online so that he could make some kind of income. If Jack could contribute to the pack, however meagerly, then he could at least not be burdened with the title of omega.
Reilly clambered past Jack and eased herself down on Sammy's side. "Can I see?"
"Sure." Sammy titled Jonathan slight so that she could get a better view of his face.
"God," she said in awe. "He's so fragile." She winced, as if she had just reminded herself that she wasn't as invincible as previously believed.
She sighed and leaned back. "Hey, Sam. Thanks."
"For what?" he asked.
She gestured at the pack, some mulling about, some running around, and a few still sitting around and watching Sammy feed Jonathan. "For getting the attention off me. If you hadn't brought home the baby, everyone would be babying me right now, and you know how much I hate that sort of thing."
"It's true," Patience admitted.
Carefully, Sammy leaned closer and bumped shoulders with Reilly. "Glad we could oblige," he said. "So don't go complainin' if his crying wakes you up in the night."
***
Sammy barely registered the presence of Hatchet walking by as he lowered Jonathan into the crib that a couple packmates had already set up in his bed room. An ancient but well-kept mobile of Sesame Street characters chimed out a slow, happy tune. That was the nice thing about living in such an old pack where no one ever threw anything away. Sammy had access to everything he would need.
Knock-knock, knock-knock. "May I come in, Samson?"
Sammy stood up ramrod straight and turned. Jonathan had been the center of attention since his arrival, but the poor child had passed out from exhaustion and Sammy thought that would mean some peace and quiet for them both. But Hatchet was the last person he expected to come knocking at his door.
Sammy had wondered what would happen once Hatchet started talking to him again. He had rehearsed scenarios in his head. Never could he have anticipated a moment like this. "Just so long as I don't hear the phrase 'put him out of his misery,' you may come in, Mister Hacket." he said. That part, at least, he had control over. Dropping the use of pack names would remind Hatchet that they were no longer friends.
Hatchet bowed his head. "Fair." With his gaze lowered, he walked in, coming closer and closer to the crib until he could stare down at the swaddled figure within. Jonathan was now wrapped in a bright and cheerful yellow blanket that had last been used by Quint. Hatchet propped his elbows against the rails and just stared at the baby.
Sammy, for his part, just stood by the crib, alternating watching his new son and his old mentor.
After what seemed like an eternity, Hatchet cut through the silence--just barely, his voice a strained whisper. "You make me proud, Phoenix. And ashamed of myself."
Sammy did an honest-to-God double-take. "What?"
Hatchet stood up, but his head stayed low, his eyes cast downward. "You were right to defend the half-breed. It was wrong for me to attack it in anger and it was even worse of me to attack you for protecting a packmate. That took balls.
"And on top of that, you came up with an idea to get it working on the internet somehow and you're getting it an education. I never woulda thought of that, even if I cared about it. I still hate its guts for killing my dog. But you showed me it's got a right to live, same as the rest of us."
Sammy listened to what the old man had to say. He wanted to relax, to let his guard down and slip back into the way things used to be. But he'd had lots of time to think about it, and as more and more time without Hatchet's influence piled up, he had started to look back on their dynamic with an increasingly objective eye. Yes, Hatchet's training had been beneficial. Yes, other werewolves would kill to be his protege. On the other hand, it had been ten constant years of deferring to Hatchet. Ten constant years of letting him drag Sammy around to places he really didn't want to go. Not just bars, but also horse races. God, Sammy hated horse races, they were so boring.
Hatchet had been his mentor. But in recent years, Sammy had started to wonder if he was becoming a crutch. If they were going to reconcile, it needed to be on Sammy's terms. Not Hatchet's again.
"Jack's a 'he,' not an 'it.'" As soon as he said it, his heart started pounding. Maybe he was pushing his luck.
Hatchet stood up and looked him, right in the eye. Sammy had seen that look before, when Hatchet was sizing up an opponent. Or trying to get them to back down. At least that was the usual result. Sammy surprised himself by staring right back at Hatchet.
The old man grunted. His eyes lowered a split second before Sammy was about to divert his own. And then his head rolled to one side, displaying his neck in a very wolfish gesture of submission. "Will you accept this old dog's apology?"
Sammy couldn't believe what he was seeing. "You're... submitting to... me?"
Hatchet did not look up. "I'm a soldier, not a leader. Content to serve under nobler men. Remember that day a few years back, when we killed that Neo-Nazi trash? I said I expected you to become my better. And you have."
Sammy sucked in air. This wasn't a trick. This wasn't expected, either. Never in a million years. Hatchet's gesture was a werewolf's body language, but Sammy knew he had to reply with Hatchet's own language. He couldn't simply say yes. Men of his generation never talked about their feelings... but then, they rarely apologized, either. So maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks. Sammy met him halfway.
"Before the raid, Odysseus started tellin' me about how Solomon sent you to meet FDR," Sammy said. "How did that go?"