[] "Mom?"
…
The first thing that catches your attention is the ring of lights hovering above her head, sparkling, glimmering – and flickering, through the sleep-haze of your vision.
It's the lamp, you quickly catch on,
on a familiar ceiling. The second thing that catches your attention is the –
her eyes: deep bright blue, sparking with energy, brimming with life, like stray electricity jumping from one torn cable to another. They descend on you, furrowed slightly, and in your eyes, they're so full of… full of
you. You avert your eyes, and the third thing that catches your attention is her lips – her smile, curved softly, and gently along with her eyes, and the fourth thing that catches your attention is her hair: blonde, the same hue of your reflection's, but unlike yours, they drape straight down to her shoulders like water; a pony-tail waving from behind her neck. And the fifth that catches your attention is her clothes – and the sixth thing that your attention catches is her – and the seventh thing – the eighth – and the ninth thing that catches your attention is her touch, her
fingers running through your hair, rubbing the scalp of your head; the thumb rolling, and circling, and – and the tenth – the eleventh thing – and the twelfth thing your attention catches is –
Iris.
"… Mom?"
You sound so goddamn fucking pathetic, and pitiful, and fucked, like you're some sort of kitten or some shit, but you don't care. You couldn't. You can't.
It's her, you think blankly: it's really her. Here, right in front of you. Her hand – her other hand, not the one still on your head – wraps around yours, and you exhale quietly as you sit up from your mattress.
Mom hums, her smile gaining a sad tinge. "I'm here, my flower," she answers you. "I'm here," her eyes lock with yours, and – she pulls your hand. It's barely a tug, really, but you're falling towards her, and she catches you into her arms, and you feel warm. You feel as though you're back in that time. Your head plants onto her shoulders, burying your face – that familiar unfamiliar scent fills your head: vanilla, and something floral, with the undercurrent of what you now recognize as blood. Coppery warmth. The entirety of it all, of her, envelopes you. You feel safe. "I'm sorry, flower," she whispers.
You shake your head quietly, hands reaching over her back – once, you remember this now, you were so fucking small and shit that you couldn't even do this, but now your arms easily wrap around her. "… You're back," you mumble, muffled. Your eyes sting. "You came back."
Her hand – the one that's still not on your scalp – rubs your back. You close your eyes. "It must've been hard," she says, whispering into your ears, and you twitch, head bobbing quietly. "Must've been fucked up – you suffered, didn't you? They worked you to the bones, didn't they, those assholes?" she mutters, and you burrow deeper still into her shoulder. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, with you – I should have been."
Your breath hitches. It's the final nail to the coffin. "I –" you start, then stop. You feel filthy. "I took it like a champ," you mumble, not at all stuttering. "Ain't hard. Piece of fuckin' cake. Walk in the goddamn park."
Mom lets out a chuckle, the rumbling jumping into your body, and you melt a little. "I've always known you're tough," she hums, and you grunt slightly. She giggles. "Here, let me take a look at you," she starts, and her hand slides up to your shoulder, squeezing it lightly. You twitch. Mom lets out another giggle. Grumbling, you pull your head up from her shoulder, scuttling away a little bit, until you're sitting in front of her face-to-face. Mom sighs, exhales – blue eyes turning with her smile, and you twitch as she palms your cheek; her thumb brushing the suspicious water away from under your eye. "… You've grown," she says. Her voice cracks. Your breath hitches. "You've grown strong, and beautiful, and," she smiles. "And I wasn't there with you – I missed it all," she whispers, repeats, more to her than to you. "I should have been there."
You don't say anything.
Couldn't say anything, or even breathe. You sit there, still as a statue, quivering. Her hand feels warm.
Hot, burning, yet you couldn't help but melt into it. The corner of her lips twitch, and you force yourself to be still, eyes avoiding hers; that damnable knowing look, only for you to glance back to hers. You couldn't help it. But this is your next best defense, to stay silent still as a statue, because you don't want to ruin this…
this. Because you don't think you'd last otherwise – because you're this close to crumbling into dust yourself.
Then, as if by miracle, your stomach begins to rumble.
Mom blinks. You flinch – the moment is gone. You ruined it. You fucked it. Then a giggle. "You haven't eaten anything, have you?" Mom asks, and you nod quietly –
meekly. "Then!" your eyes follow her as she springs up to her feet, grinning. "I'll cook you something – I'm sure there's something we can use in the pantry," she hums, and you watch her turn her back on you, sauntering towards the kitchen.
From here, it looks familiar,
this place looks familiar. It's your – no,
it's their apartment, theirs, and yours. The shitty ass small-as-shit room that felt enormous when you were a damn midget – it's the same single bedroom-slash-living room, kitchen, and bathroom of an apartment before you fucked it, and left it to rot.
It feels as though you're back in time.
On reflex, you lunge forward, practically diving for Mom to grab her hands – and then, you find yourself about to plant your face to the floor. Only the floor never comes; you feel a pair of hands grab you by the armpits, lifting you up. You look up. Mom smiles, electric blue eyes both concerned, and confused and curious. "Flower?"
Your face burns. "I –" you start, then cut yourself off, looking up at Mom. You glare at nothing – at yourself, before growling as you shuffle awkwardly to your feet. "I – " you pause again. Belatedly, you realize, you're at the same height as her – in your memories, you barely reached up to her waist. And now you're not standing 'fore her face-to-face, eye-to-eye, on the same level.
You still feel small.
Her hands, you realize, have moved from your shoulders now to your own hands, massaging them slowly. You breathe in, then out, before nodding, locking eyes, determined: "I'll help," you mutter, squeezing her hand. "… I 'member that you're shit at cooking, Mom."
Mom pouts. "Hey, I've fed you my food before," she says. "And I never heard you complainin'."
You return it with a flat look.
"… Much," she mutters, avoiding eye-contact. "Well, fine," she sighs, before chuckling as she turns around – her hand still squeezes yours, and she drags you towards the kitchen. She glances back, and you catch the spark in her blue eyes as she smirks. "You can
help, if you think you're better than me at this."
You narrow your eyes back. "Better than the slob you served me," you shoot back.
Mom snorts, before chuckling. Her hand slips off yours, leaving your grip empty as you both stand in the kitchen, side-by-side. "We'll see, flower, we'll see."
You try not to stare at her too much – you've been staring at her this whole time, and – well. "We'll see, alright," you grumble under your breath. You quickly move through the cupboards and shelves, pulling out ingredients, and spices. The kitchen's small, you realize immediately, as you keep bumping and brushing against mom – it's barely enough for one person, and it ain't gonna be good for two. But both of you ain't some chump-fucks – workin' in tight spaces is your specialty. "I've been learning how to cook lately – a… buddy gave me a lesson," you say, quietly, as you place a bag of pork loins onto the counter. "And I've been eatin' good since I become a Fixer."
"Hoh?" Mom starts, and you blink as the tone. You turn to her as both of you start cutting and chopping the ingredients to bits and pieces. You glance at her, keepin' a single eye on your hand: how did Sun teach you? Tuck fingers in, and paw over the cut-ee, and use your finger joints to guide your knife. You catch Mom starin' at it, and see her fixin' her hands up. You snort. Mom coughs, shaking her head, before smiling. In relief. "Well, that's good to hear – that you're taking care of yourself. That," she glances at you. "That you've got people takin' care of you."
Sun. Kai. Mao. The rest of the Scarecrows. Even Karrion. "Yeah," you mutter under your breath. "They're alright people. Mao – she's my senior, and she's fucking annoying as shit, but she been takin' care of me. Even bought me some shit," you grumble, clicking your tongue. "Can you believe that, mom?" the knockbar, and the guntlet. "Seven fucking mils, just like that," you wave your hand. "Gone. All just to get me some really nice weapons, and it ain't like I don't appreciate it," you add quickly. "But fuck, we barely knew each other. Who even does that?"
Mom hums. "Sounds like a nice senior – you got lucky."
You know that. "And she's gonna ger her fucking due," you promise darkly, grumbling. "And then there's Kai," a pause. "And Sun."
Mom perks up. "Ooh, there's more?"
You give her a look, before looking back to the board, rolling your eyes. "Yes, mom, there's more," she leans close to you. You let out a huff, lips twitch despite yourself. "Kai's my partner," you watch Mom blink. "We work together on Urban Myths," her mouth opens into an 'O' shape. She looks disappointed. You shoot her a pointed look. "… She's weird," you mutter, huffing. "At least, I thought she was, at first. Well, no," you mutter under your breath, pausing your chopping. Kai's face flashes into your mind: her face is as flat as a chopping board, emotionally speaking, yet her eyes somehow tell an entirely different story. "She's still pretty fucking weird, but she ain't the bad kinda weird, y'know?" you remember that time you went with her on a rooftop, and cringe, almost flinch. God, you were an idiot. "… Quiet as shit. Don't talk a lot. But we hang out sometimes, and we talk shop, and we… we work well together, got each other's back," you mumble, before glancing to your side. Mom meets it with an attentive look. "I thought she looked down on me at first, but she doesn't. Kai doesn't do that – she treats me like an equal," reflexively, you reach up to brush the red-ribbon on your head. It's still there, to your relief.
She smiles. "She sounds like a friend."
You blink. "A… friend?" you muse, aloud. A friend, huh? You stop for a moment. Kai's face appears before you; 'round her neck, the same ribbon on your hair. You grimace, shaking your head. "No. We're just partners. Ain't close enough."
"You won't get any closer if you don't want to," Mom points out, and you flinch. "… So do you want to?"
"What?" you snort. "Be her friend?"
Mom raises an eyebrow.
You tear your eyes away from her. "Fuck off, Mom," you grumble. "It's fine as is: cover each other's back on a Request, and maybe chill every-now-and-then on the clock – ain't no damn need to fix what ain't broken. Also, I know her better. You haven't seen her."
"There's nothing to be afraid of, flower," Mom says, quiet-like. You shoot her a glare. You don't pout. Mom sighs, giggling. "Oh fine, fine, I'll drop it," she smiles, and your eyes close as she places a clean hand over your head. "And how about this Sun?"
You crack your eyes open with a twitch, shrugging off her hand from you, and continue slicing up the pork-loins. You're making a lot. Next to you, Mom hums and starts heating up the pan. You watch cautiously as she squirts in oil, and throws in the slices you've cut. It starts sizzling, and the scent of delicious meat quickly fills the room.
"She's my first client."
"Ooh, that's always fun," Mom giggles.
You give her another pointed look. Mom stops giggling, but her smile only makes it worse. "… She's way too fucking nice," you grumble, turning to the food, recalling the recipe that Sun herself taught you. It ain't complicated. Even you could remember it. Vegetables? Check. Meat? Check. Garlic and the other bits? Chopped and checked. You give those to Mom, and she toss them into the pan. Next is the seasoning. "It's… baffling how she's still alive, with that attitude, but…" you said what you said, didn't you? You sigh, lips twitching. "I ain't complainin' – wouldn't treat me to food if she's not like that, you know? But…" you trail off.
"You're worried for her," Mom continues.
You flinch, before grumbling, closing your eyes. "It's why I'm here."
Mom hums. "It seems to me that you're surrounded by people who care for you," she says, and you turn your head to her. She stares into the pan, smiling. Relieved. Satisfied. "Maybe it's the same with Sun?"
"Maybe," you mutter. "But they're all weird. People shouldn't be this nice."
Mom tilts her head. "Is it really that strange, flower?" she asks, muses. You give her a look, and she giggles – a pause, as her expression turns wistful. "I don't think it is. However much the City has successfully made cold, and cruel heartless tin men out of all of us, it's also to my belief that Man will always hold the capacity to care for
others. It's a fundamental truth, etched to the core of ourselves."
You stare at her. "… Right," you say, and couldn't say much else. Silence comes, accompanied by the sizzling of vegetables and meat as Mom stirs it. You let it come, swallowing you into the moment, transfixed by the sight of Mom, standing next to you. You've really grown, haven't you? You remember now, standing just barely up her waist, looking up at mom. And now you're on the level, and it's as though you're in a completely different world.
Hah. Completely different world.
"Mom?"
Mom glances at you, electric blue eyes buzzing. With an errant hand, she picks up a bottle of salt. "Yes, flower?"
"I'm –" you cut yourself off, eyes widening in terror as she proceeds to dump the entire salt onto the pan.
…
You stare at the abomination result of yours and mom's cooking. You've tasted it. Tried to fix it. Tasted it again. Tried to fix it – and rinse and repeat and rinse and repeat until the cycle's broken, and – "This is shit."
Sitting by a small low-table, side-by-side with Mom, you stare at the bowl of 'food' – where did you go wrong? It was fine, you remember. You could identify what ingredients were which, but now it's all… unrecognizable. A fucking shit mess. Like all black and shit, and slimy and mushy and the smells are fucking fucked like holy shit.
Mom flinches, looking morose at her own spoonful. "It's… not that bad," then, as if to prove her point, she plops it into her mouth. You can hear the crunches coming from her as she chews, as if she's grinding down rocks. She gulps it down, and smiles at you. "See?"
She made it so effortless.
"It's still shit."
"Oh, c'mon, flower," Mom grouses, pouting. "Waste not want not, right? 'Sides, it's healthier this way. Salt's good for your body."
You open your mouth, and then closes it. You really can't argue with that. Medicines are supposed to taste awful, aren't they? But… "If I want medicine, I'll get medicine. Not food."
"Well, I made it," Mom grumbles. "So eat."
You roll your eyes. "I know, mom," you sniff, before putting a spoonful of the unrecognizable mess into your mouth. It's an explosion of flavor – of overwhelming bitterness, and saltiness and sweetness. You chew it, and it's immediately mush in your mouth, except for the crunchy sand-like grits, and the strangely chewy… things in it. With some effort, you manage to swallow it.
Mom smiles. "See, it's not
that bad."
"Bleh."
She giggles. And despite yourself, you couldn't help but also smile, and laugh. Somehow, you manage to wolf the entire thing down, and –
And you close your eyes with a sigh. A knot forms itself inside your throat as you lean back against the wall. You open them up, gazin' up at the ceiling, at the light – it comes to you without any knockin'; a sense of clarity. A question with an answer and crushing disappointment. "None of this is real, is it?"
"… No," Mom answers you. "It's not."
Clarity. A sense of awareness, of realization as waves of memories come to you – what happened, and what you think happened. You let out a shuddering breath. You're in here, while they're out there. You should be out there. You should. You have to. You gotta.
You don't want to.
"Thought so," there's a muted thud as Mom leans back against the wall too, and you let your head fall over to her shoulder, letting her curtain of a hair cover you. Hide you. She smells of flowers. Not the fake sort that Sun's apartment got. Realer. You feel her shift a little, and her hand loops around your shoulders, cushioning you from the wall, pulling you fully into her embrace. Warm. Safe. "This is too good to be true," your breath hitches again. "I want this to be real."
"… You've grown into such a wonderful woman," she whispers, and it sounds hoarse. "I am so proud. And I should've been there with you. I'm sorry."
"Mmhmm," you shake your head. "It's fine," a pause, and you tilt your head up to meet hers. "Hey, mom, can I ask you something?"
She smiles. It looks sad. "Shoot."
The question burns at the tip of your tongue:
[] "Why did you leave me?"
[] "I don't want to leave."
[] "Do I… have to leave?"
[] "… I miss you. I love you."
[] "… Are you still alive, out there?"
[] "… Where are we?"
[] Write-in
