Chapter 25 of The Scion and the Scientist, if your reading, is ready to go! https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376424/chapters/60857788

Once the service for Beth had concluded almost everyone scurried inside the funeral home to avoid the rain that just wouldn’t quit. But for Max, Amy, and Richard, it was a lot harder to ignore the gravestones of their other deceased relatives.

“Hi Dad. Laddie. You guys lookin’ out for each other? That’s good.”

“Hey, Mom. I don’t know if you were right about everything being ‘okay’ like you said, but I can still dream about you.”

“…”

“We’ll leave only when you’re ready,” Max told her.

“We’re with you,” Richard assured.

Ethan Hill tossed and turned and mumbled in his sleep. The air in his suite bore a dreadful heaviness that made the dying man’s moaning stretch across the room.

Richard Ward, Ethan’s step-son, talked quietly to the new caretakers of the Sunset Care Home about the dire situation, while his daughter Annie Parker Ward studied a portrait on the dresser.

“Wow,” she whispered, “is that really Grandmother Anna when she was my age? Everyone always says I look just like her, but—wow. Spooky.”

Suddenly Ethan cried out, “Anna? Anna, oh good—it’s really you. I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen this way.”

Richard rushed to his side where Ethan’s panicking eyes gripped his. Ethan kicked off his sweaty sheets with vigorous excitement to talk to Anna Ward once more, but when Richard’s body blocked his path the old man slowed again. He lifted a shaky finger to Richard before begging him, “You have to believe me, please. What we did was wrong, but Harold and I really didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Anna? Anna?”

It was a waking nightmare for everyone in the room. Richard figured this must be a fever-induced hallucination. The new caretakers had warned Ethan didn’t have much time left, so Richard cleared his throat before putting the sad situation to rest once and for all:

“I believe you. I forgive you. Everything will be okay, Ethan. And what’s more, you and Harold make a handsome couple.”

Ethan’s body finally relaxed then, his last breath eased his pale eyes closed. He sighed, “Did you hear that, Harold? She’s forgiven us.”

Behind him, Richard heard Ms. Seifert proclaim, “Oh, Good Lord, thank you. Dr. Hill can rest peacefully at last. I’ll inform the staff.”

Richard crumbled when the room cleared out, so Annie gently walked him away from Ethan.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “Annie, I’m so sorry you—had to see—”

At first the teen girl didn’t know what to say, it almost sounded like Ethan had passed on some apologetic curse loop. As far as Annie was concerned death was no one’s fault, she wasn’t owed any apology, and after studying her grandmother’s smiling face she felt oddly safe to assume Anna would’ve felt the same.

“Shh, shh. Dad, it’s okay. I asked to come with you, remember? My choice. I’m really proud of you for saying what you had to so Ethan could be happy. I know that wasn’t easy.”

He clenched his fists tighter and shook his head, agreeing with his daughter.

Then Annie unknowingly mimicked some old advice: “Everything will be okay, Dad. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

He sniffed. “Of course I trust you, angel. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. And, that’s Princess Angel to you, Dad. Want me to call Mom? Max?”

Max Green teased, “So that’s what happened to my green shirt!”

“I got here as fast as I could,” Ben answered breathlessly, and as if his fathers couldn’t hear his heavy thuds running down the stairs just seconds earlier. “I brought biscuits like you said, plus some stuff I’m still workin’ on in case we need more material.”

“Blowin’ right past responsibility for my shirt, huh? Ben, relax. You made it. We’re on our last two tins already, so you really nailed the timing. Shirt looks good on you too, bud. Get in here.”

“Okay,” he sighed, relieved.

In a very low voice, Richard Ward mumbled, “Thanks, Big Man.”

Ben and Max joined Richard in his studio to help process Harold’s passing. It was not the first time the three of them played together, but the focus was distinctly different given the grim circumstance. Ben and Max were in fine form together, bouncing between ideas and jokes, anything to lift the mournful air. Richard found himself deeply questioning how he could have ever gotten through this loss without Max and Ben, or how he might someday repay the favour.

Quiet pauses fell on the men despite an afternoon onslaught of music composition and goofball tactics. During one such pause, Richard revealed why his father’s death bothered him: Harold’s will stated he was to be buried in Feverfew, and Harold updated his will shortly before his death.

Max asked gently, “I mean, if that’s what he wanted then where’s the problem?”

“Because he came back here. Dad was happy here, in Whibley, with us. Well, wasn’t he?”

Richard’s voice never got higher, only deeper and angrier somehow, Ben observed. His words echoed in memory what teenage Ben once confessed about Max. The son recognized a new weight to maturity sitting in with his fathers today. He wondered, Is that why life gets so heavy, because there’s all these layers packing down on top of each other? The more you age, the more pressure you feel? We’re being pressurized? Unsure how to respond, Ben got a little lost in his thoughts.

Similarly conflicted, Max gave his husband a sympathetic frown when he answered, “Of course your Dad was happy here. You saw it, I saw it, we all saw Grampie Harold very happy before he—passed.” Richard’s anxiety remained fixed on his face, so Max tried instead, “You’re not letting him go, Rich. Who cares where he’s buried? His memory will always be right here with us.”

Ben felt inspired by Max’s opening. “Dad’s right, Dad. Granddad’s still Granddad to me, nothing’s changed about that.”

“Shit—right. Granddad, not Grampie, sorry.”

Richard mumbled, “I guess it’s some kind of honour to be buried in Feverfew Cemetery. Maybe I could request him next to Arnal Rousseau? Well, assumin’ Ethan hasn’t already arranged everythin’.”

Max grinned, “Oh, we’ll do more than just request it. Ben, grab a shovel.”

He jumped to his feet with theatrical flourish. “Aye-aye, cap’in! Ready to set sail when you are-arrhh!”

“What are you—? No, Ben, that’s too pirate.”

“You said, ‘Grab a shovel.’ I thought that’s what you meant?”

“I meant grave digging, as in grave robbing?”

“Same thing?”

“No it’s not, it’s—wait, actually…”

“No one is diggin’ any more graves, please. Please?”

“Fine,” Max playfully sighed, “but if you change your mind, me and Ben have no problem gettin’ our hands dirty. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you, Rich.”

Ben likewise assured, “Just say the word, whatever you want. We can even do it pirate, or no-pirate style.” He raised his hands like a scale weighing the two options.

Richard sat up a little taller and gave them a half-smile, which was the very most he could muster. “Thanks; Max, Ben, thank you. I love you.”

Ben rarely missed an opportunity to say, “I love you too, Dad.” Max winked back at him.

Richard Ward would later self-produce his third and final album with Max and Ben’s help. [A Simlish version of Hendrix’s “Electric Ladyland.”] In the end, although it was the hardest album for him to compose, it was easily the most important one. With its completion, the accomplished musician decided to shift to other roles in his career that many called a soft-retirement. Richard would continue ushering guidance and expertise, and maybe do the odd mystery pop-up show or two just to keep fans on their toes. But Richard felt contented concluding his own work here. He came, he saw, he conquered. Now it was his turn to be the pestering Dad-manager helping Ben and Max move in the industry. He liked that.

“Morning.”

“I made coffee,” Amy offered, “want me to get you a cup?”

“I can get it,” he answered, just before planting a small kiss on the top of her forehead.

Harold, meanwhile, sat in chilling anxiety about what might have been overheard by his son just now.

“Hey! Are those for me?” He was pointing to the cookie tin.

“Nothing gets past you, son. Heh.”

Richard asked, “You sleep okay, Dad?”

Amy tuned into his refreshingly upbeat attitude. She wondered if it was because Ben called him Dad for the first time, or from his father visiting, what the couple did last night, or the prospect of eating more biscuit cookies soon. Maybe all of the above.

“Oh sure, slept fine,” he answered.

“Good. You were the first person to try out the guest room.”

“Ah, now you tell me. I’m your guinea pig, was I?”

“‘Course, when you move in, we can swap out the mattress if you want something nicer.”

“This again. When I move in, huh?”

Richard calmly sipped his coffee.

“I know the kids would love to be around their grandpa more often,” Amy tried. “Richard has this beautiful idea to put all the people he loves under one roof.”

“Is that right?” his father replied. “And do your loved ones get any say in that, or is this more of a kidnapping gig?”

“Dad, come off.”

“How do you suppose I work?”

“I have a studio downstairs.”

“A-huh. What about space? Privacy? Or am I going to be eating cereal across from my bare-chested son everyday?”

Amy laughed, but his father’s words brought an uncomfortable memory back into focus for Richard. But surely things would be different in his large lake house than in Harold’s modestly sized Feverfew home — right?

“Richard, son, have you stopped to consider why you want to collect the people you love so badly?”

Harold continued gently, “You have a hole in your heart, son; I didn’t mean for that to happen, of course, but here we are. And nothing you try to fill it with will work. We can’t go back and save your mother in the same way you can’t put everyone you love under your careful watch.”

He answered quietly, “I guess I didn’t consider that, no.”

“If I may,” Amy interjected, “we both come from broken families, so I don’t think it’s so crazy to—”

“I can tell you mean well, Amy, but no. I can’t be scaring you every morning. Besides, we both know it’s not me you want to have move in with you and Richard and the kids.”

“What about seeing your grandkids?”

“I’ve never been any good with kids, just ask this guy.”

“He’s right,” Richard conceded.

“He is?”

“A-hah, the coffee’s kicking in!”

Turning to his girlfriend, he asked, “What if we hold more of an ‘open door’ policy for family instead?”

“As long as you’re sure that’s what you want, Rich. And as long as that ‘open door’ doesn’t include my dumb family, I’m cool. I mean, it’s your house.”

“Our house.”

Then turning back to his father, he said, “But you will have to visit. If nothing else, I’ll need your help in my studio if I’m gonna take your advice and get into producing more.”

Harold mourned his late wife and his lover in a strikingly similar way.

He had tried to get a hold of Ethan after the fateful phone call, but Ethan was suddenly gone. Irene had changed their home voicemail to “You’ve reached Reney and Susie!” and the Whibley health clinic only mentioned Dr. Irene Hill now -- no Ethan.

“Mom?”

“Oh, hi Richard.”

“Mom, I’m worried about you.”

“What? You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Don’t make me say it, Mom.” There was a lengthy, uncomfortable pause between them. “I-I think you’re--”

“Honey--”

BEEP BEEP!

“I gotta go,” said Richard.

“Wait, before you go--”

“Richard,” she began, “my precious baby boy. You really don’t have anything to worry about, okay? I’m fine. I promise.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

Harold Ward called Ethan Hill, and whispered quickly, “I need to see you. Come over, we’ll go for a drive.”

Unfortunately for the couple, Harold’s methods weren’t the most discrete. His son Richard spied the men kiss each other’s cheek at the sidewalk…

… and his wife Anna watched them drive away together.

Guilt caught up with them a few blocks later. Ethan asked Harold to pull over by the Fish n’ Chip Place.

“It’s reckless being out in public like this,” Ethan argued. “And on a weekday? I’m supposed to be at the clinic with Irene.”

Harold bowed his head. “But I missed you.”

“Don’t do that. I hate when you make it sound like I didn’t miss you. We can’t—We shouldn’t be seen talking together.”

“I know, I know. Let me take you somewhere else.”

He took his date to The House Pub, but Ethan still complained: “Seriously? A photobooth?”

Harold grinned as he pulled the curtain across. “No one will see us, and that’s what you want, right?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Harold held their couple portrait like it was a delicate piece of art. Ethan muttered next to him, “You can’t keep that.”

“Nonsense. I’m going to frame it.”

“Harold, please! Stop fooling around.”

“It’s beautiful. We’re beautiful.”

“We’re married.”

“Oh, maybe one day, eh? And then we’ll set out for a lovely honeymoon in the countryside. Maybe we’ll visit a winery.”

“Harold, please.”