Disclaimer: I do not own Kings.

Author's Note: I have no idea what title I originally had this under.

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"Varoom."

Andrew Cross closes his eyes and reminds himself he can't simply attack the annoying kid playing with a toy airplane. After all, his father can never again get him out of trouble.

Opening his eyes, he looks down at his coffee. Right. His father is dead.

He hates delayed reactions. He wants his sadness and anger to come right now; his hatred and, possibly, forgiveness of his father's murderers.

I love you, he'd said before.

What if he didn't? Hadn't? What if dear Aunt Rose had been right when she'd called him a soulless little boy?

He isn't a little boy, not like the annoying one playing with the airplane who he isn't allowed to hurt, but what if he is soulless? What if his only mourning of his father is the mourning of his get-out-of-jail card?

Suicide might be a good option.

Sighing, Andrew takes a sip of the too-cold coffee.

He doesn't feel suicidal. He's indifferent to the idea of life and death.

Why doesn't he feel anything besides annoyance for the kid with the toy airplane?

"Hello."

Andrew looks down.

The kid with the airplane is standing next to the table, studying Andrew. He's brown with curly hair and wearing a bright lime green shirt. Andrew, as much as he currently despises the unknown child, sincerely hopes the boy's guardian made the decision to put him in that to prevent losing him. The other options, deliberate parental cruelty or indulgence of the child's own revolting taste, are too depressing to contemplate.

"You're sad. I want to help."

Actually, Andrew wants to say, I'm not sad. That's the problem. I'm numb, and I might be numb for the rest of my life. And unless you happen to have a soul to spare, you can't help. Just keep playing with your stupid little toy airplane, because, my desire to hurt you and my knowledge of my powerlessness to do so are the only things I've felt in a long time.

"You can't."

The little boy tilts his head and frowns.

A chill goes through Andrew. For a moment, just a moment, he could have sworn that Silas's spirit was in the room. The boy, dark eyes, had seemed anything but powerless.

Which, he knows is ridiculous. Andrew doesn't believe in spirits. He's not even sure if God exists.

"What's your name," Andrew asks, automatically pushing the chair across from him out with his foot.

Smiling, the little boy climbs up onto it. "My name is Seth Pardis; what's yours?"

He should tell the boy to leave. Andrew's been called creepy enough times to know that when this boy's family comes in and sees the child talking to him, he'll be in trouble. And his father won't be able to help.

"Andrew Cross," he answers, extending his hand.

Seth smiles. "Puppies always make people feel better," he says, confidently. "And I'm a puppy; my daddy always said so."

"I've never seen the appeal," Andrew says, taking another sip of the coffee. "My father's dead."

Reaching over, Seth pats Andrew's free hand, ignoring the look he receives. "My daddy is too," he says, softly, eyes full of hurt and sadness.

Before Andrew can answer, a feminine voice calls, "Seth?"

Setting the airplane down, Seth gives an apologetic smile. "I've got to go. You can have my airplane; bye."

Looking at the airplane, Andrew scoffs. He picks it up and absently examines it.

Seeing his reflection in the coffee, wishing he could feel something, wishing he knew what to do, he quietly says, "Varoom."