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Busting down his son's door with his Glock drawn wasn't a way to soothe a child's nightmares. But when the dreams were as vivid as Aaron's, the high-pitch scream for "Mommy!" was processed as, Foyet is here! You have a chance to save her!
Yeah.
Haley used to call that kind of reaction 'lizard brain' mentality.
She'd never meant it kindly.
And years of law enforcement prevented Aaron from doing something even more epically stupid, like tuck his gun between his bare skin and the waistbands of his boxers and PJ bottoms. The weapon was too heavy and would drop to the floor. Knowing his luck of late, it would go off and he'd be spending the rest of the night explaining to the Locals why his gun had discharged in his son's bedroom.
CPS would be knocking on the door the next morning.
All this, Aaron processed in a few seconds.
He swiftly lowered his gun, flicked the safety on, and popped out the cartridge. Bullets in one pocket of his PJs and weapon in the other; Aaron moved forward and scooped up his son.
"It's okay, buddy, I'm here," he soothed.
Jack clutched him and sobbed. "I want Mommy."
All nine of his scars burned. Aaron held him tightly. "So do I, Jack. So do I."