He could do more. He could stay here, with them - watch them 24/7 like some sort of psychotic, paranoid parent and wrap them in bubblewrap to stop them from getting hurt. But they were old enough to handle life and the shit that got thrown at them. He loved his sons and that was why he couldn't be there for them all the time.
Slowly, tentatively, his arm moved and he ran a calloused hand over Phobos' knuckles. Maybe he should have come down here earlier; he did have a habit for doing things when they were too late.
He'd been worried - worried because past experiences weren't good ones, worried because he didn't want to be... a bad parent? A bad person.