Chapitre 101: Wake-up Call – Chapter 98
[Claire Wallis]
"It's all so different," I say, looking at the phone in my hand.
I remember the bulkier ones, those that people with aggressive suits and sunglasses would flaunt when getting out of sports cars near Medhall.
Medhall.
That doesn't exist anymore.
"I'm here to answer every question you have," my son's girlfriend—[one] of them, and isn't that just another thing that changed too wildly—tells me as we both sit on the bed of the room where Lisa kept preparing me for my first meeting with Colin after…
I look back. At my last clear memory of my son. At him just struggling to carry all those suitcases that I insisted he fill with enough clothes for any contingency because the weather could be too cold, or too hot, and he may get invited somewhere formal, and then he would need his nice shoes rather than those ratty sneakers he had worn down until it was a wonder the soles had no holes in them, and…
And now he's a man. A grown man.
A hero.
A hero with two girlfriends.
"How does it work?" I finally ask, turning to look at the woman with a cute yet functional pixie cut.
"It's quite intuitive. Look, the touchscreen just responds to three basic inputs—" she says, immediately sliding into a tone that I know far too well from bringing up a boy who often had unorthodox interests and a desperate need to share them with anyone smart enough to follow his explanations.
I can't help but chuckle.
"No. You three. How does it work?" I say, gently clasping her hand and taking it away from the phone she insists is easy to learn rather than a diabolical puzzle designed to baffle elderly minds.
She blinks at me.
Then she stares at her trapped hand and turns back to look at the flustered woman with a pleasant tan standing against the wardrobe's door, some communication flying between them that makes me smile in a way that I hope doesn't show any mischief.
"I… uh… I mean, we're still in the trial phase?" Hannah answers with half a shrug.
Which, apparently, may be the wrong answer, given how Dragon—[Dragon], my son is sleeping with a woman named [Dragon]—narrows her eyes at her.
"You could've worded that differently," she says with the kind of icy tone that would mean a night on the couch years ago.
I don't know how they do things nowadays.
But, given how Hannah hurries to gesticulate her denial, some things may not have changed that much.
"No! I mean—I'm in! I'm definitely in! But you didn't even have a body until days ago, and we haven't—Colin doesn't know how you… Uh…"
She's looking at me, apparently trying to find a way to communicate something that she doesn't want to say in front of the mother of her lover.
She's [adorable].
"I'm not so easily scandalized. Go ahead," I offer with a warm smile that hides any and all sadism.
Hopefully.
I'm slightly out of practice.
"I would rather not…"
"Please, Hannah, whatever you have to say can't be that bad. After all, what is it that my boy has yet to learn about the new body of his first serious girlfriend?"
"I wouldn't say 'first,'" Dragon comments with a faint flush on her cheeks and the kind of smile that makes me think about teenagers in love rather than mature couples.
… I want to adopt her.
Which, I guess, would make things uncomfortable for Colin.
That [may] be a bonus.
After all, I always promised myself that, as soon as it was healthy for me to do so, I would get some manner of petty revenge for the long, strenuous lectures on how his latest attempt at building a calculator had failed. Or precisely why and how his ant farm had become an integral part of our yard. Or why this would be the very last time he would forget his microscope out in the middle of said yard, with some very flammable leaves under very powerful lenses.
So I look at the two women trying not to overtly argue while very much doing so, both of them embarrassed beyond what they would have expected to be at their age…
And I smile.
Because I think that my revenge may very well take the shape of spoiling my grandkids rotten.
***
[Danny Hebert]
"Do you like this blend?" I ask, trying to sound like a concerned yet well-meaning father as Taylor slowly sips on the cup of tea that Pam helped me select.
As much as Anette tried, I've never been precisely an expert on tea, and I welcome any help in getting my daughter not to hate me.
… Despite what recent events may imply.
"The lime peel adds a surprisingly nuanced undercurrent. Almost like bergamot," she says, studiously indifferent, her teacup in front of her lower lip, her left hand tracing idle circles on the bare wood of my kitchen table.
"… I'm going to presume that means you like it," I say, doing my best not to roll my eyes at the pretense.
"I do, but I've recently been taught that specific compliments are more effective than general vagaries."
"Taylor… that works when you compliment a person, not [the tea]."
She arches an eyebrow.
"So, if I were to say I like dinner, it would be as effective as saying that I like the particular way in which you seasoned the—"
"That's indirectly complimenting [the person]. There's nothing about lime peel or bergamot that reflects on me."
"Well, you did select it, after all. Didn't you?"
Ah.
"You need to stop hanging out with Thinkers," I groan, resisting the urge to slowly drag my hand down my face.
"Funny. I seem to remember you doing your best so I would move in with one," she says before taking another slow sip of tea with, apparently, an acceptable amount of lime peel.
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"What, the time that my father pretended to be angry at me for dropping out from the high school where I almost got tortured to death so he could throw me out of the house and keep trying to commit suicide by cape on his own? Nah. Let bygones be bygones. That's always been my motto, after all," she says.
And I don't need Lisa to tell me that I'm not getting off easy.
***
[Pam Livsey]
I'm going to [murder him].
Seriously? All that effort we went through, and he has to antagonize her over [tea?] How much of a moron is this man? It makes me want to barge into that damn kitchen and tell him—
"[I know you're there, Pam,]" a voice made of horrid chirping and warbling noises says from all around me.
Which, I hope, may excuse my [shrieking in absolute terror.]
"Sorry! Sorry, Pam! I'm too used to doing it to Lisa, and I didn't even think—"
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"
"It's just my power! See? I can make it say anything, like—"
"[My apologies, Pam; I didn't mean to startle you—"]
"Don't make the Devil apologize! Nobody wants to hear the Devil apologize!"
"I'm pretty sure at least some priests would disagree," an infuriatingly calm man says.
Which [definitely] excuses my jumping on him and grabbing the front of his shirt with both fists.
"You! This is all your fault! The Devil never apologized to me before I lived with you!"
"That sentence sounds both incriminating and like something that I should brag about."
"Don't you start with your jokes and innuendos!"
"My [what?"] a rather alarmed, middle-aged, tall, thin man says, green eyes widening as he looks at me and—
"His [what?"] his daughter says.
"… Grown-up stuff," I answer, studiously avoiding two sets of wide, green eyes.
"That just makes it sound so much worse…" my daughter's girlfriend, fiancée, life partner, or whatever they're calling themselves today comments, pinching the bridge of her nose and dramatically leaning back on the archway of the corridor going from the living room to a kitchen with [magnificent] acoustics.
"I mean, she's getting a divorce, so there's not much to be scandalized about," a man who's about to get my elbow buried in his stomach says.
"Dad…" his daughter grumbles.
"What? It's not like I haven't had to deal with your own love life—[hng!"] the man with my elbow buried in his stomach says.
"Nothing's happened. Nothing [will] happen. Your father is just riling you up because he's still out of balance from your stunt with the tea," I say, my tone about as calm and steady as it would be in other, less Satan-concurred circumstances.
Or, wait, was it Beelzebub? The Lord of the Flies? I honestly don't know. Learning about demonology never seemed like a priority until [two minutes ago].
"You did mention innuendos. And 'grown-up stuff,'" Taylor says. Mostly because the girl has a mind like a beartrap and is physically unable of letting things go, but also because Lisa's rubbed off on her.
… [Phrasing].
"People say a lot of things when they think they're about to be consumed by an ancient evil. I think it's called the suspension bridge effect," I say.
"No. It's called Tuesday," she answers with a tone about as flat as her look at a suspiciously silent Danny.
…
"Start talking. You're making it worse," I hiss at him.
"I thought me talking was the problem," he whispers back.
Because my elbow is still resting against his stomach, which means that he's close enough to me to whisper in my ear, and that's a fact that I'm just now noticing and has absolutely [nothing] to do with my cheeks tingling and something embarrassingly uncomfortable fluttering in my stomach.
"You talking is [always] a problem. It's just that, right now, you shutting up is a worse problem."
"Ah. The lesser evil. How pragmatic."
"I swear I'm gonna pour a whole spoonful of cayenne powder in your morning coffee if you keep this up."
"Spicy."
"Yes. That is the point—oh, [you—]get your mind out of the damn gutter!"
"Oh God," a horrified voice says from somewhere in front of me. "This is how it looks from the outside."
I turn away from green eyes looking down at me from uncomfortably close and throw a warm, comforting, and not at all brittle smile Taylor's way.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say.
"You two acting like an old marri—"
"I [don't know what you're talking about]," I repeat with a bit more emphasis in case she has hearing issues.
The poor girl who's too young to be suffering from deafness looks lost for words.
And then her phone rings.
"Thank God," three voices say more or less at once.
I'm just grateful that none of them are Satan's.
Or Beelzebub's, I guess.
…
This is going to bug me all day, isn't it?
"What are you—?" Danny asks as I decisively pull him toward the stairs.
"Giving your daughter some privacy to take her phone call. Have some manners."
"Says the woman listening in on—"
"Your kitchen has wonderful acoustics. It's not my fault that you didn't even think to close the door."
"Of course. Nothing's ever your fault," he says as I turn away from him and start walking up the carpeted steps.
"Good. You can learn."
"That's not what—do you understand the notion of sarcasm? Because that was an example. Of sarcasm."
I glare at the man just now reaching the landing and tug on his hand, hurrying him up to the guest room's door.
A door that I close behind me as soon as we both are inside.
"You forgot to wear your glasses," I mumble.
"What?" he says, close enough that he doesn't need to raise his voice.
"Your glasses. You're wearing the contacts."
"I thought you liked me better with the contacts."
"That's the [point]. They… They still don't know, and if you suddenly start showing these kinds of changes, they are going to figure things out in no time at all."
His fingers are on my chin, lifting me to look at green eyes that [do] look much better with no glasses to get in the way of how [intensely] he can stare at me until my knees go weak, thoughts that I shouldn't think come up, words I didn't expect are said, and…
Well.
… At least I think I'm not pregnant.
"Pam, [Lisa] is going to come visit soon enough. Do you even want to try and hide anything at all from her?"
"I… I just don't want to drop anything on her while she's going through…"
I go silent.
And the intensity in his eyes abates as a soft, reassuring smile takes its turn at making me feel ten years younger and far stupider.
"Lisa will understand. She can't help but do that," he says.
"[You, on the other hand, keep forgetting that I hear everything in my radius]," the Devil says.
"Aaaaaahhhh!"
"Oh for—" Danny says.
And then he kisses me.
Leaning over me, pushing me with his mouth, his arm wrapped around my lower back until he dips me and his tongue shoots past my lips, my eyes rolling back as he reminds me that I am a woman and that I—
"[Gah!"] Satan understandably complains.
So I start slapping Danny's chest to signal to him that maybe he should let me go while his daughter is watching us, and, really, what kind of moron does that knowing that she can do…
Uh…
Something? I'm not entirely clear on the details.
I just hope she isn't mistreating Satan.
Or Beelzebub.
… Danny, please, would you kindly stop kissing me stupid? I fear it's too literal a turn of phrase right about now—
"[If you two would stop making out for a second, maybe we could go to the hospital, where Armsmaster has just woken up!"]
Danny stops.
And I, miraculously, don't whine for him to continue.
Maybe Satan has something to do with it.
***
[Lisa Wilbourn]
It's… tempting, just staying like this. Cuddled on top of him, feeling the reassuring warmth of his body, the steady movement of his breathing, the texture of cotton pajamas on my cheek, thin enough that the chest hair he usually shaves barely prickles me through the fabric as my lungs are filled with his scent, still mingled with disinfectants and antibacterial soap.
His arms are around me.
It's tempting. Staying like this.
And when have I ever claimed that I'm good at resisting temptation?
[Lisa Wilbourn—]
You and I are going to have a serious talk about hyperbole and getting all the way off my back at some point.
"So. I take it you missed me?" he says, his voice traveling along a warm gust of breath that ruffles my loose hair.
"Not at all," I answer, wishing for my comfortable silence back.
"Does that mean that you were here every day?" he says after a tragically short moment of such silence.
So I grab two fistfuls of his loose hospital pajamas, bury my face in his chest, and refuse to answer.
There. That will teach him.
[Lisa Wilbourn's pedagogical leanings—]
True. I've obviously neglected that particular skillset, seeing as I still haven't managed to teach you why Sherlock is such a fucking terrible—
[Lisa Wilbourn's resentful—]
Oh, [now] you get defensive. That's just precious.
"Lisa…" he says.
Damn it.
I… I force myself to look up. Into his worried eyes.
"This is a happy moment," I say. "Don't stare at me like I'm doing something wrong."
"It's not… You shouldn't feel like this just because—"
"If you say 'just because of me,' I don't know what I'll do, but I'm pretty sure that Power can help me figure out something suitably horrific."
He smiles.
Just… smiles.
Not even broadly, just a hint of relief mixed with actual warmth, his lips pushing at the beard, lifting the trimmed mustache, his eyes looking down at me.
And it's almost enough to make me cry.
"I was so scared," I say, finally admitting it to him of all people. Finally allowing myself to say anything other than brave, meaningless reassurances to the man lying unconscious, halfway to death.
Finally letting go of the need to pretend that everything would be all right and that there was no reason for me to think otherwise. Putting up the façade of constant encouragement that I knew he couldn't hear, even if a part of me hoped he could, and I was just doing what one's always told to do when visiting somebody in this damn building that I don't want to ever see for the rest of my life after having memorized the twists and bends that lead from the entrance to this very room.
"It's all right," he says, his hand patting the back of my head. "It's always all right to be scared."
"You weren't," I say, nuzzling his chest yet again in something that is wildly inappropriate for a young girl to do to a man who's already taken. Something that [should] feel inappropriate.
But it's him.
Colin.
[My] Colin.
And I'm not letting anything as stupid as things being inappropriate keep me away from him.
"That's stupid, and you know it," he says, the pat turning into a tight hug that keeps going as we both hold our breaths.
Until he regretfully lets me go, and I slump on top of him as the stress I still hold onto keeps leaking out of me, taking any strength from my limbs as I almost quiver in sheer powerlessness.
In relief.
"You don't remember," I say. "But I do. And you were… you weren't scared. You were fighting from the very start, too focused to be anything other than a hero. Other than yourself."
His hands still for a single moment on my hair, and then he goes back to comforting me.
"And that's why you are a Thinker six," he murmurs.
…
What?
[Colin Wallis—]
Don't you fucking explain that to me!
"Are you [certain] this is how you want to play it?" I say, not moving at all because ambush predators rarely do.
"Play what?" he says, blinking innocently and likely lamenting that he still needs to do so.
"I just moved Hell and Earth to bring you back from the dead like I was a fucking heroine of living myth. I've destroyed one of the monsters roaming the wild corners of the world and taken the boon it offered—"
"If that means that you cashed in a reward for killing Behemoth, I want my share—"
"—and I won't stand for such indignities—"
"It is the solemn duty of a father to tease his daughter," he says.
And I go still.
"What?" I whisper, my voice tremulous without me knowing quite why.
And I meet his eyes, about as fearful as mine.
"I'm emotionally compromised, my brain is a sludge, my memories hazy, and I'm very liable to say things that will get me in enough trouble to make Mouse Protector dropping by for a visit an actual possibility," he says.
I blink at him.
A part of me, still shaken. The other, trying very hard not to focus on him not even realizing how deep the mousehole goes.
"Lisa, what I mean to say is… I've grown to care a lot for you since we met. I know this is just a mix of the suspension bridge effect and—"
"Origin of emotions irrelevant to their effect. Effect divorced from genesis. Emotions valid datapoints," I say, recalling Power's words from what seems like ages ago.
The words that started everything.
He tilts his head slightly, knowing from my tone and wording that I'm quoting something, but not what.
And I can only offer him a smile that trembles in too many things to count as my eyes dampen.
"Yes," he finally says. "Emotions are valid."
His arms tighten around me, and I could just let go and cry. I could let out all the fear and anxiety and worry out of me in shuddering sobs as he held me and consoled me.
But this isn't about me. It's about him. About the life he has been given, and…
And that he wants me in it.
So, I do end up crying, but in an entirely different way, my cheeks hurting with a wide smile as I allow myself to feel joy, and hope, and acceptance, and a kind of love that has everything to do with my many daddy issues, but in the best way possible.
"Does that mean I can call you Daddy?" I finally manage to ask.
"Only if you want me to ground you," he immediately answers.
"No need to be so shy—"
"Lisa, I'm serious. Call me that in public, and I'll make your career in the Protectorate a living Hell of Sisyphean bureaucracy."
"So. You want to get me into the family business."
"Well, Dragon and I always wanted a Tinker, but I guess I'll have to make do with a Thinker—"
"Finish that sentence. I dare you to finish that sentence."
"With a Thinker strong enough to kill an Endbringer," he says with the smirk of somebody who just outmaneuvered a Thinker with a rating revision pending.
I narrow my eyes.
His smirk widens.
And then I hug him hard enough that he should complain.
He doesn't.
And so I can, with my cheeks burning, my throat clenching, and my eyes stinging, say the one thing I have yet to say:
"Welcome back, Dad."
==================
This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 104 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone