Disclaimer—Characters have been around a very long time... We'll give credit to Columbia Pictures, however, as they've produced the movie on which the story is based. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—Not sure why I'm writing Green Hornet stories... But, I did thoroughly enjoy the movie. It was one hell of a fun romp. Unbeta'ed.

Statue of Limitations—Britt seeks absolution but can he ever find approval and forgiveness from his father?

He didn't go to the cemetery with any sort of regularity, but sometimes, after a night at a local club or bar, or after a particularly difficult fight or a brush with the authorities, he found himself wandering there. Every time he saw the statue of his father, Britt Reid felt a conflicting mix of emotions. Anger. Pain. Anguish. Loathing. Regret. Loss.

He expected the feelings to get better with time, but it didn't seem to matter. For every crime he prevented, for every corruption he helped bring to light, the harsh words of his father's past condemnations would ring in his head.

Didn't the great James Reid know that there were truths to old adages? Practice makes perfect. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Even Magic 8 balls tended to agree with that logic.

So, try Britt did, to outrun the disappointment his father had long felt for him.

Sometimes, he imagined a word of praise for a job well done, but they never seemed quite as sincere as the ones that felt oh-so-real to him when he figured out that District Attorney Scanlon had been the one to murder his father. He'd never really heard them from his father in his real life.

His mother had always been the encourager. He had vague recollections of her kindness, but most of it was lost to the past. If it weren't for photographs, he wouldn't even remember what she looked like.

He sighed as he sat on the grass in front of his father's imposing figure. The alcohol he'd imbibed kept him warm, even on the cold ground in the chilly Los Angeles winter night.

"Not that you care, Dad, but I am still trying. Still working. It's something useful and worthwhile." He picked awkwardly at a blade of grass by his shoe. "Battling for the greater good. Getting rid of all the bad that's out there." He shrugged. "It's just not exactly how you did it."

Looking up at the metal monstrosity, he could imagine his father's words of scathing wisdom: That's not what I meant, when I asked if your dalliances were what you wanted out of life. I never imagined raising a vigilante under my roof.

"Well, we're supposed to disappoint our fathers, right? That's the American nightmare. And, besides," he began dismissively, "I moved into the guest house ages ago now."

You have the ability to do great things, Britt. In your own name, under your own power and steam and yet you hide behind some infernal mask. You epitomize: do as I say, not as I do. You break the law. You kill people.

"People who killed you, who could've killed Kato or me."

There are other ways to solve problems, without taking justice into your own hands.

"Oh, uh-huh, sure. The pen is mightier than the gas gun. Whatever, Dad," he said spitefully as he got to his feet. "I may not have the cleanest hands in L.A., but let's not forget that yours weren't spotless either. And while you tried to wash them, it was too late. The ink stains were as good as blood."

You're lecturing me now, son?

"I guess so," he said, narrowing his eyes as he glanced away. More of those conflicting emotions filled his heart, bubbling in his soul and churning his stomach.

Maybe you are more grown now. More than I imagined.

"I've been grown, Dad," he said, returning his attention to his father's unmoving face. "Doesn't really matter what you've thought of me. But, just because I haven't turned out the way that you wanted me to, it doesn't mean that I'm not an adult, capable of making good and bad decisions and being okay with their consequences."

Britt expected James to continue, but there was nothing. Not a disapproving sigh or a dismissal. Not anything.

He guessed the vodka-fueled imaginings were done for the night. "I'm trying to do the right thing. Trying being the operative word, yes, but, y'know what? It's better than sitting by and doing nothing, or letting someone walk over me—like Scanlon did to you."

He took a step away when he paused again.

"You've never understood me, Dad. Not for one second our whole lives together. Why I think you'd change now..." He scoffed. "Doesn't matter. Because you're dead now. And it'll never be anything more than it was, whatever we have. Or had. Or... whatever."

Somewhat satisfied, Britt stumbled on toward where he'd parked his car. He didn't glance back at the monument again, not as he slid behind the wheel or started it or even as he peeled off, laying rubber in his wake.

The quiet, serene cemetery, however, seemed to echo something on the wind. Something that sounded an awful lot like: Proud of you, son.

End.