A/N: This fic takes place in the Riverdale setting, but uses various elements from the comics, including Sabrina Spellman and Kevin's characterization.

As far as family life went, Tom knew he was damn lucky. His three children were all bright, beautiful, and healthy. They excelled at school, clubs, and sports. They were also a huge help around the house. Kathy, his wife, needed to frequently travel for work. She loved the excitement of her job, and the generous pay provided necessary finances toward the kids' college funds. But the position mean that during most weeks, Tom operated as a single parent and depended on the kids for the running of the household. As the oldest, Kevin bore the brunt of it, regularly preparing meals and taking care of the laundry.

Honestly, sometimes Tom thought he relied on Kevin too much, but his own job was fairly demanding in its hours. He held the position of the sheriff of Riverdale, and had done so for the past three years. Their family had moved to Riverdale eight years ago from New York City, where Tom had been a police detective.

Given Kevin's various responsibilities, Tom was willing to cut him some slack when he started breaking curfew more and more often. After all, as Tom would relay to anyone who displayed even a passing interest, Kevin was a star cross country runner, an honor student, and the sophomore class president. His days started early and ended late. So if he needed to spend an extra half hour with his friends here and there between homework and leading half the committees of Riverdale High, Tom wasn't going to fault him.

Then one night Kevin didn't come until nearly one in the morning, almost three hours past his ten o'clock weekday curfew. Every call to his phone went unanswered. Tom stationed himself at the kitchen table, clutching his police radio and desperately listening for any signal that might relate to Kevin, horrible scenarios running through his head all the while. Images flashed through his mind of Kevin lying on the side of the road after being struck down by a reckless driver, being accosted and assaulted by some undesirable, being hurt and disoriented and unable to call out for help.

Tom tried to be logical, even though he had to fight the urge to call all the hospitals in the surrounding area to check if his son had been brought in. Kevin was probably perfectly safe; he easily could have just decided to sleep over a friend's house on a school night (in flagrant violation of the house rules) and forgotten to call and let Tom know (another violation). How many times had he reassured hysterical parents that their lost child was, in all likelihood, fine, and that they didn't need to be worried? And all but one time, he had been right.

Jason Blossom was the exception. He had never returned home, and now no one knew where he was.

And if some terrible fate could befall the son of the wealthy and prestigious Blossom family, Kevin was just as vulnerable. He could be hurt, dying, or already lost. Good God, what would he tell Kathy if one of their children ended up dead on his watch?

Finally, as the grandfather clock in the front hall chimed a quarter past twelve, Tom heard the back gate scrape open, and he eased out of his chair to wait by the light switch. The back door slowly creaked ajar, and Kevin slipped inside, obviously trying to avoid noise. The lights were off, so he didn't see Tom right away, but Tom let his presence be known when he flicked on the overhead lamp.

His mouth was already open to launch into an angry tirade, but then he saw the state Kevin was in—one of his eyes was bruised and swelling, blood dotted his face, and dark stains spotted his clothes.

In an instant, Tom's fury shifted to concern as he strode over to Kevin, taking his face in his hands. "Jesus, God, Kevin!" He exclaimed. "What the hell happened to you?"

Kevin wore an expression of severe dismay. "Dad, calm down." His voice was low and hoarse, rasping in his throat.

"I will not 'calm down,' " Tom growled as he steered Kevin into the chair he himself had vacated just before Kevin walked in. "Sit." He settled Kevin into the chair as gently as possible, and then moved to the fridge, extracting a bag of peas from the freezer and a water bottle from the main section.

"Dad, it's fine—" Kevin started, but Tom interrupted him before he could finish, handing him the bag of peas and placing the water bottle before him.

"Put the peas on your eyes and drink some of that water," he ordered. Seeing Kevin tense at his tone, he deliberately softened his voice. "I'm just going to get the first aid kit, and then I'll be right back."

Swiftly, he retrieved the first aid kit, along with a dampened washcloth, from the first floor restroom and returned to the kitchen. Kevin was obediently sipping the water, to which Tom nodded approvingly.

Opening the first aid kit and rifling through its contents, he extracted a small flashlight. Quickly shining the beam into Kevin's eyes, he noted the pupil dilation with relief. Good, there was no concussion. With at least one of his fears assuaged, he withdrew several disinfectant wipes and band-aids. Reaching forward with the washcloth, he set to begin washing the blood of off Kevin's face, but Kevin jerked back at the motion.

Tom froze, staring at his son. He had seen that reaction before, usually from victims of assault or domestic violence. He hated to think of what it meant to see that reaction in Kevin, but he knew he had to face the possibility.

"Son," he said quietly, trying to soothe his own racing heart as well as his child. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Biting his lip, Kevin hesitated. "The blood is going to leave stains on the washcloth."

"I don't give a damn about the washcloth," Tom responded, his worry making his words more terse than he intended. Guilt rushed through him as Kevin's gaze dropped to the floor and rested there.

Kevin nodded silently and then reluctantly leaned forward again, letting Tom tend to his injuries.

For a few moments, Tom concentrated on cleansing Kevin's face, being extra careful around his wounded eye. Kevin still flinched each time Tom so much as brushed close to the swelling, and every time his son shied away from him, Tom found himself growing angrier and angrier.

Still, even in the midst of his rising temper, Tom observed an oddity: while blood was smeared across Kevin's face, there didn't seem to be any cuts or scrapes, no broken skin. Despite his dread and outrage, he couldn't push back a stab of pride; if the blood wasn't Kevin's, that meant his boy had fought back. And Kevin, Tom recalled, fondness briefly breaking through his dark mood, had always been a superb fighter, the top of whatever self-defense classes Tom had signed him up for.

But the moment of happiness was gone when Tom returned to the reality of his situation. Kevin was still silent, avoiding all eye contact as Tom carefully placed his hands beneath his jaw and turned his head from side to side, checking for further wounds. Satisfied for the moment, he lifted Kevin's chin to force his son to meet his eyes.

"You need to tell me who did this to you," Tom said firmly. "I don't care if it was a fight or a misunderstanding or something else, but you owe me an explanation of what happened." Inwardly, he was praying that Kevin hadn't been assaulted.

Kevin half-heartedly pushed his hand away. "It's complicated."

"What sort of answer is that?" Tom could hear the edge in his own voice, and he had to fight down his frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was take his anger out on his son, especially considering he was hurt.

"The best I can do at the moment." Kevin let out a deep exhale, rubbing his arms as if overcome by cold, and Tom noticed him wince with the motion.

"You have more injuries," Tom realized, cursing himself for not checking earlier. He should have known that if Kevin was sporting bruises on his face, he was likely damaged in other areas as well. Taking a deep breath, Tom steeled himself to ask his son the necessary question, even as his stomach churned at the potential answer. "Kevin, I need you to be honest with me. Were you assaulted?" He swallowed. "Sexually, I mean?"

"No." Kevin's response was instant and certain, and Tom felt himself sag in relief, mentally thanking God his son had not undergone that trauma.

"Well, then," he said, composing himself once more. "C'mon, take off your shirt. Let me check you out."

Kevin made no motion to comply and instead just stared back at him, wariness evident in his gaze.

It killed Tom to see his son look at him with such suspicion, and his stomach dropped as it occurred to him that just because Kevin hadn't been sexually assaulted didn't mean there hadn't been an attempt.

"Kiddo, I need you to work with me here," Tom told him, trying his damnedest to reassure his son, even as he could feel worry fraying away at his patience.

Kevin merely looked away.

Biting back a sigh, Tom reached out and began unbuttoning Kevin's shirt, keeping his movements quick but gentle. "Son, once I make sure you're all right, we are going to have a long talk."

Pushing apart the halves of Kevin's shirt, Tom was sent reeling, even though he had prepared himself for the worst. Dark bruises of all shapes and sizes littered his son's skin; there were more abrasions than spots on a leopard. The vividness varied—some were obviously recent, while others were fading to yellow and green at the edges. The lesions had obviously been acquired over some period of time.

Rage washed over Tom as it registered that not only had someone been hurting his son for weeks, but that Kevin had never said a thing to him about it. Still, he forced down his fury and concentrated on examining the extent of the damage.

"I'm going to need you to do what I ask. I want to see if any of your ribs are broken. Okay?" Tom wanted to explain his actions out loud, both to reassure Kevin and to remind himself that he was currently playing the role of caretaker, not angry avenger—but that would come later.

"Okay," Kevin said lowly.

"All right. Stand up and take a couple of deep breaths for me. Keep them even and slow." As Kevin did what he said, Tom meticulously studied his son's torso, inspecting for any signs of swelling or a flail chest, and was relieved to find no hint of either. "Any pain when you're breathing? Shortness or shallowness of breath?"

Kevin shook his head.

"Rotate your upper body from side to side," Tom instructed. "Any sharp pain? Any parts that really hurt?"

"No," Kevin said. "Just a dull ache. It's felt like that all along, though."

Tom accepted this answer; he hadn't noticed any indications that Kevin was in more pain than he was letting on. "Good. Sit back down and start taking those deep breaths for me again. I'm going to be applying a little pressure, but you let me know if it gets to be too much."

Extending a hand, he pressed against Kevin's breastbone and listened for any gasps or sharp intakes of breath, making bargains with God all the while. Luckily, God seemed to be listening for the moment, and Tom couldn't find any problems.

After a thorough examination, Tom was able to conclude that none of Kevin's ribs appeared broken, but his fears weren't entirely assuaged. "Anything flares up, you let me know right away," he told Kevin. "And that's not a request, but a command. You got that?"

"Got it." Kevin's expression was tired.

"Good." Tom fixed his son with a penetrating stare, trying to disguise his worry. It wouldn't do his kid any good to see his father falling to pieces. "Now, you're going to sit right there and tell me what happened."

"Um . . ." Kevin seemed to struggle with himself. "It might be better if I show you."

Frowning, Tom scrutinized the teenager before him, wondering what he could possibly have to show. "Go ahead.

Some of the color left Kevin's face, but he nodded in affirmation. Then his hand darted into the first aid kit and extracted the folding utility razor. In an instant, he flicked open the blade and drew it down his outer forearm, creating a long gash in his skin.

"Jesus Christ, Kevin!" Tom exclaimed in shock and concern. "What the hell do you think—"

"Dad, watch." Kevin held out his arm. Blood was oozing from the wound, but then . . . it wasn't.

To Tom's utter astonishment, time seemed to move in reverse: the blood retracted back into the cut. Then, before his very eyes, the gash closed, the skin knitting itself back together till there wasn't a mark left on his arm.

Tom stared at Kevin in disbelief.

"Like Wolverine, isn't it?" Kevin tried to joke, but the attempt at levity failed; nervousness was obvious in his voice. "Dad—"

"C'mere," Tom said, pulling Kevin out of his chair into a hug, but remaining mindful of his bruises. "You're my son, you go that? I don't quite know what's happening, but I'm your father, and you're my son, and nothing will ever change that. Understand?"

"Yeah." Kevin returned the hug, gripping his father's shoulders tightly. "Thanks, Dad."

They embraced for several moments, before Kevin pulled back, looking up at him.

"You know, you don't seem all that surprised," he remarked, searching his father's face.

Tom shrugged. "I've seen some strange events during my years in the force, and after a while, I'm willing take some things in stride, even if they seem impossible." He made an effort to keep his voice as offhand and noncommittal as possible; his son didn't need to know everything (or anything) he had seen.

Kevin smiled, relief clear on his face. "Thanks. I'm so glad you don't think I'm a freak." His smile faded. "I guess you still want to hear what happened?"

"I'll never not want to hear what happened when you come home beat to hell," Tom replied firmly.

"Okay." Kevin anxiously ran a hand through his blond hair. "So, uh, I met this girl. Sabrina. From Greendale. And she said that I'd been chosen to be sort of, like, a negotiator between the human citizens of Riverdale and the supernatural contingent. Sabrina called it being a Forest Guardian. This . . . Witches Council, I guess, appoints regular people as Forest Guardians every so often, when there are too many threats and conflicts between mortals and um, non-mortals. The Forest Guardian gets a special weapon and armor, and then they have to follow orders from the Council to solve problems. And they also get magic healing, too. That's what you saw." He paused and glanced at his father.

Tom nodded, encouraging Kevin to continue. For the moment, he was simply absorbing the information.

"You know how Superman can only really be harmed by magic? I mean, besides kryptonite. Well, that's me right now. No mortal or mortal device can truly hurt me—those wounds just heal right away. Magic is a little different. I can't be killed by most forms of magic. I can be wounded, though." Kevin gestured to his chest and then to his eye. "The more serious the injury it is, the longer it takes to heal, just like regular injuries. Still, usually the bruises are gone by morning. And . . ." he paused, as if trying to locate the right words. "I have different abilities, too. Nothing all that incredible—just increased speed, strength, stamina, and combat anticipation, to help me when I'm fighting."

"Who does this council have you fighting?" Tom inquired, trying to keep his tone casual.

"Vampires," Kevin said with a practiced nonchalance. "There's this group of good vampires called the Riverdale Gang."

"Creative name," Tom commented.

A huff of laughter emitted from Kevin's mouth. "Yeah. And the less-good vampires they're having a turf war with are the Lucifus Gang."

"Turf war?" Tom scowled. "That sounds dangerous. For you and the town's civilians."

"I've got my abilities as a Forest Guardian," Kevin reassured him. "And the vampires are keeping away from the civilians at the moment, due to orders from the Other Realm. I'm just being sent in as peacekeeper."

"Hmm." Tom sat back in his chair. "So, was it the Riverdale Gang or the Lucifus Gang that beat you to a pulp?"

"The Riverdale Gang," Kevin admitted. "There was a misunderstanding. But everything's been smoothed over for now. I'm ready to continue the negotiations."

Tom was not comforted. "I'm not sure I like the idea of you battling vampires on your own, or this Witches Council deciding your life for you."

"It's not battling," Kevin protested. "Well, not at this point. And look, at least if I'm the Forest Guardian, we both know someone competent is doing the job. Look at what all that I've accomplished with student government."

The comparison did nothing to console Tom; if anything, it was evidence that Kevin was out of his depth, that he couldn't comprehend the seriousness of his situation. But as much as he wanted to continue the conversation, Tom couldn't help but glance at the clock. "You know, it's very late. Why don't go on up to bed, and we can continue this conversation in the morning?"

Kevin's eyebrows shot up at the sudden dismissal, but he rose from his chair all the same. "Right. I'll do that." He started toward the staircase, but then paused and turned back to Tom. "Dad . . . are you sure you're okay with all of this? I mean, you seemed accept me being, er, different so easily."

Tom stiffened, his mind racing as he realized the importance of his response: this moment was crucial to Kevin regarding his support, and he could feel the weight of his son's gaze upon him.

To his relief, he was able to formulate a sufficient response. "I don't like you being put in any type of danger. But I also understand that you're trying to do what's right, even if you aren't in this situation of your own violation." He gave Kevin's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I trust you, Kevin. Please remember that."

"Thanks, Dad." Kevin seemed to take heart in his response. "Do you mind if I take shower? I know it's late—"

"Not at all," Tom reassured him. "Go ahead. I won't be upstairs for a little while, anyway."

"Good night, Dad." Kevin's voice was quiet, but he was smiling.

"Good night, son." Tom smiled back, waiting until he heard Kevin's footsteps recede up the stairs before striding to his study, his cellphone in hand.

The girl from Greendale, Sabrina, could only be Sabrina Spellman. Why else would she know about the Witches Council and the supernatural? Though Tom had never met the girl personally, he knew her aunts. During his time in Riverdale, there had been a couple of police cases that had involved magic, and they had worked with him during the investigations.

Scrolling through his list of contacts, Tom located the house phone number for Hilda and Zelda Spellman and jabbed the call button with his thumb, impatiently listening to the first several rings. He was going to get his son out of this mess if he had to fight his way through the entire Other Realm by himself.