I swore I wouldn't write another multi-chapter fic again, but ... here I am, with this idea not leaving me alone. I can't make any promises with this one, as free time is hard to come by at the moment. But I figure I'll slowly chip away at it. It's planned for about 7ish chapters, but I'll see how I go. This one is set in Season 3, after Unbecoming An Officer. Usual disclaimers apply. And once again, a reminder that I know absolutely nothing about anything, so apologies for any medical inconsistencies, and if I stretch reality for the sake of the story. Thanks for reading :)

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Clouds rolled across the sky, sagging with the threat of rain. The wind was up, grabbing golden leaves from the trees, tossing them about. It had been a bumpy landing back at base, and the late afternoon felt unsettled – very much a reflection of Clay's current mood.

As he turned onto his street, he found himself scowling at the few light raindrops that blew against his windshield. It felt like the sky was tormenting him with the threat of a downpour - most likely holding off until he got out of his car.

There hadn't been anything remarkable about Bravo's recent op in Haiti. They had successfully taken out the arms dealer who'd been hiding there. Things had run to plan, for once. The only casualties were Clay's ears, after listening to Sonny bang on about how much he hated humidity, for twenty hours straight.

Clay's bad mood wasn't a result of his spin up to Haiti. Nor was it residual heartbreak, left over from Rebecca ditching him three weeks ago. (He'd moved on from that, for the most part - thanks to his repaired friendship with Sonny, and a couple of wild nights on the town with the Texan picking up the bar tab.)

Clay's stormy mood was courtesy of the one and only Ash Spenser; the poor excuse for a man who still dared to call himself a father.

Two days ago, Clay had run into Franklin, AKA Alpha Three, who had revealed that he'd overheard Ash at a bar the night before, bragging after one too many drinks that his son was a SEAL and that with some luck he would get some content for his new book. The older Spenser had also admitted that he was glad for the publicity he'd received in the wake of Swanny's death.

Clay's initial response had, understandably, been explosive rage. He'd stormed into the cage room and had proceeded to pound the shit out of the wall until his knuckles had bled. Thankfully, Trent had intervened. And then Sonny and Jason had talked some sense into him, arguing that the walls had done nothing wrong and he should save it for the punching bag.

But it was Clay's own damned fault for having given Ash another chance. He'd nearly believed that the man had a soul. Clay felt embarrassed by how gullible he'd been, genuinely thinking that his father had cared about Swanny, about fighting for justice – about his own son.

It was a mistake, and it wouldn't happen again.

Approaching his apartment building, Clay caught sight of a familiar figure, and his knuckles tightened on the wheel as he slowed.

Ash was leaning against the hood of his truck, arms folded over his chest. He lifted his eyes as Clay's car approached, catching and holding the younger man's gaze.

Clay debated whether to turn around and head to Sonny's. Or if he should mow the asshole down.

With a muttered curse, he continued to his parking space instead. He stomped on the brake and cut the engine.

For a moment Clay just sat, breaths coming jaggedly through his nose, anger climbing into his chest and locking his jaw. He was tired. He didn't want a fight. He just wanted his father gone from his life. Was that too much to ask? Blowing out an unsteady breath, he popped his door.

Cold wind nipped at his cheeks, and Clay snagged his pack from the trunk. Perhaps he could just ignore Ash. He attempted to make a b-line for the building.

But Ash was quick to intercept.

"I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from me," Clay grit, readjusting his pack and continuing towards the entry.

Ash kept pace, threw his arms wide. "Without any explanation?" His tone was heavy with frustration.

Clay halted, spun with a glare. "I don't owe you an explanation."

Ash narrowed his eyes, his expression flickering with confusion, before shifting to anger. "Most kids speak to their parents with more respect," he growled.

It took all of Clay's strength not to throw a punch at the man's jaw. "I'm not a child," he spat. "And what the fuck would you know about respect?"

Wind whipped around them. A leaf caught against Ash's jacket sleeve, and he angrily brushed it off.

Fat rain drops began to fall.

Clay felt himself trembling. He resisted the urge to look away from Ash's now frosty gaze, reminding himself that he wasn't five years old, and Ash's threatening look held no power over him. Not any more. He pulled his shoulders straighter, set his jaw. "Next time you feel tempted to tell strangers of my profession," he warned, "and act like I'm a source of information for your damned books, you'd better bite your tongue."

Ash seemed caught off guard for a moment, but quickly wiped the surprise away. Instead he squared his shoulders. "Or what?" He snarled.

Clay didn't flinch. Or I'll cut your tongue out, he wanted to reply. But, wisely, he bit down against the words, preventing them from passing his lips.

The older man arched a brow, scoffed mockingly.

Clay held his ground. "You need to stay the hell away from me."

Ash leaned closer, menacingly. "I don't take orders from you."

Clay once again resisted the urge to lash out.

Tense silence lingered, the air between them charged.

A firm hand upon Clay's shoulder interrupted the moment, and he snapped his gaze around to see Derek, dressed in running gear, shirt damp with sweat.

The older SEAL pinned Ash with a threatening look. "Is there something I can help you with, Ashland?" He asked, tone steady.

Ash straightened, throwing one last withering glance at Clay. "No," he muttered. "I was just leaving."

Clay's breaths hitched, but the reassuring weight of Derek's hand helped steady his churning emotions. He was grateful for his neighbor's sudden appearance. Clay wasn't sure he would have been able to hold off decking Ash, and he would bet that's what his father had wanted. It would have made a good news headline, after all.

Ash turned stiffly, stalking back down the path towards his truck. "I have a right to come and see my son," he threw bitterly over his shoulder.

Clay chose not to respond.

"C'mon, man," Derek said gently, coaxing him towards the doorway.

Clay hesitated. His bruised knuckles still tingled with the urge to punch his father. He shoved them into his pockets.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Swallowing his bubble of anger, Clay readjusted the pack on his shoulder, and followed Alpha Two.

Once they were out of the weather, Derek faced Clay. "Franklin told me what he overheard, in the bar the other night." His tone was laced with sympathy. "You know, my father wasn't the greatest, either. But once I joined DEVGRU, none of that mattered anymore."

Clay felt a pang of sadness, remembering his late mentor's words. "Let me guess," he sighed. "Team became all the family you needed."

Derek offered a small smile, a clipped nod. "Damn straight."

They moved towards the stairs. No fancy elevator here. Clay had never minded, but today his pack felt extra heavy, his whole body weary.

"Want to come in for a bit, take your mind off Ash?" Derek offered, voice echoing in the stairwell alongside their footfalls.

Clay was grateful for his brother's concern. Derek might be on a different team, but he'd looked out for Clay from the moment the younger man had moved in across the hall. "It's okay," he replied. "I'm pretty knackered."

Derek patted his shoulder as they reached the top, gave it a gentle squeeze. "Well, you know where I am."

Clay followed the older man into their corridor. "Thanks," he said, tone genuine.

Derek fished his keys from his pocket. "How was Haiti?" He asked, changing the subject.

Clay sighed, fumbling with his own keys. "Uneventful."

Derek tilted his head, quirked a lip. "Uneventful isn't a bad thing."

Clay huffed a laugh. "It is when you need a distraction from Sonny's incessant whining."

That drew a chuckle from Derek. "Sonny? Complaining?"

Clay shoved his key into the lock, unbolted his door and shouldered it open. He paused, the humor dropping from his features. "Hey," he said, drawing Derek's attention. "Thanks. For intervening back there. I appreciate it."

Derek gave a nod. "Get some rest," he suggested gently.

Clay didn't need an invitation. His limbs felt like they were about to drop off. Letting out a breath, he gave a tired salute and stepped inside his apartment.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

From outside the apartment building, rain fell harder. It ran off lawns and into gutters, gathering in rushing streams and filling stormwater drains.

Mateo Garcia sat quietly in the driver's seat of his van, staring through a rain streaked window at the vacant parking space left behind by Ash Spenser.

What luck, he mused, that Ash had led him straight to Clay.

What luck, that Ash had run his mouth off in the bar a couple of nights before, admitting that he had a son.

What luck, that Mateo had flicked on the television a month ago, catching the tail-end of an interview Ash had given about his plans for his new book.

Mateo had recognized the soulless bastard straight away. Ash's face was etched painfully into his memory, haunting his dreams. Now, finally, after all these years, he had a name, and a way to find the man. It was almost too good to be true. It was like the spirits of his wife and son were smiling down upon him, putting him in the right place at the right time. And the pieces of his plan were slotting together like a beautiful jigsaw puzzle.

Tears pricked Mateo's eyes, and he closed them briefly against the burn.

Twelve years ago, in a small village in Colombia, Ash Spenser had killed Mateo's only son. And the fallout from that earth-shattering day had created an all-encompassing black hole in Mateo's life - the same black hole that had claimed the life of his beautiful wife, who had succumbed to her grief not long after their son had been lost. The same black hole that had carved out Mateo's sense of having something left to live for in the world.

The only thing that had kept the Colombian breathing through all these years, was the hope that one day he would be able to avenge his family.

Now, it seemed, that blessed day had finally arrived.

And what luck that he could not only rid the world of Ash Spenser, but also pay the man back by making him watch helplessly, as his only son died.

An eye for an eye, thought Mateo, lip curling into a satisfied smile.

He would have to hurry, if he was going to make his plan work. Ash was due to give an interview at a local radio station the next morning, and then was due in New York for a talk show that night.

Popping open the glove compartment, he inspected his tranquilizer gun. Ash was wiry, tall but lacking muscle. The younger Spenser, on the other hand, was solidly built, and would probably require a higher dose. He hadn't planned on bagging both of them. Thankfully, he'd come over-prepared, and had brought extra.

Another smile twitched across his lips.

This was going to be fun.