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Fic: Dating the Cleverest Boy in the World. Chapter 35.
The past few weeks have been stupidly busy. And this chapter (although easy enough to write) grew out of all proportion, so eventually I decided to split it. So - there's this chapter, one more after this one, and then an epilogue. This one has... quite a leap in time.
Fic index here if anyone wants to catch up, or just follow the tags. Also on AO3 and The Teaspoon.
Summary: Allison had always thought that university would be an adventure. But she'd not imagined that she'd end up dating Harold Saxon's son.
Setting: Spring 2044
Characters: Allison, others
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2600 approx
Feedback: Makes my world go round... No really. You have no idea.
Chapter 35
Spring 2044, early morning
"Mummy - do mushrooms smell like fairies' bottoms?"
Allison looked up from her pad and into her four year old daughter's bright quizzical eyes, and - for what had to be the millionth time - wondered where on earth she had sprung from. Well, of course she knew (being pregnant and giving birth being pretty unequivocal), but Emily might as well have been beamed down from Mars. (Except Mars had been all empty...) Emily - as far as Allison could work out - didn't have a scientific bone in her body. Emily disliked numbers, and anything to do with facts or logic. Instead Emily loved rainbows and fairies and unicorns and magic and had a mind that effortlessly inserted any or all of these factors into everyday life. She plain refused to believe that stars were made of burning gas, as The Lion King said that they were old kings, and that made much more sense.
Wondering how to answer this latest question (she had thought she'd been so prepared for motherhood, never guessing that her child would be the source of never-ending impossible-to-answer queries), she plumped for the easiest way out.
"Ask Daddy," she said, her spirit sinking as Emily shook her head, curls dancing. (The curls were another mystery - and one that was a perpetual nightmare. Allison had once thought curls something pretty. Now they meant a screaming child every time she brought out a hair brush.)
"Daddy said to ask you!"
To Allison's immense relief, she was then - quite literally - saved by the bell, as the doorbell rang.
"Go see who's at the door!" she said, and Emily - forgetting her question - skipped out to the front door, happily sing-song-ing: "Who's at the doo-or? Who's at the doo-or?"
Trying to refocus on her morning emails, Allison was immediately interrupted again by Emily yelling: "It's a parcel for youuuuuuuuu Mummy!" at the top of her voice.
Making her way to the door, she realised that it was a new delivery guy, who was studying her with a small frown.
"The parcel needs to be signed for by Doctor Starbeck," he said cautiously.
"That would be me," she said frostily, signing his electronic device, before carrying the parcel through to the front room, nearly tripping over Andrew’s shoes, silently vowing to throw them at his head. What was it about (human) males that made them incapable of putting their things away? Shoes especially. And all the while she had Emily dancing around her, eaten up with curiosity.
"Is it for me? Is it fairy dust? I told you I wanted fairy dust for my birthday, remember? Can I help you open it?"
"It is ages until your birthday, and no it isn't fairy dust. Feel how heavy it is, fairy dust is light."
"Noooo, fairy dust is very heavy, because it is full of the hopes and dreams of little children."
Emily's voice went all low with sheer importance, and Allison closed her eyes, before refocussing on the child in front of her, and the fact that she wasn’t actually properly dressed.
"Emily, why are you not wearing your school tie? Or your socks? Or your cardigan?"
"Couldn't find ‘em!"
(Deep breath. Count to ten. Don’t yell, it never helps.)
"You are leaving in ten minutes. Go. Find. Ask Daddy for help if you need it."
Emily opened her mouth, took in the look on her mother's face, and then with an exaggerated scowl turned and walked upstairs. (She knew that Daddy had far more patience than Mummy...)
Yet as she settled down to open her delivery, Allison caught sight of the giant birthday card-cum-picture Emily had made for her birthday a couple of months ago, and shook her head fondly. Thirty seven ants, of varying colours and sizes, populated the paper, with ‘Happy Birthday Mummy’ written in the middle, half the letters back to front. Emily had carefully explained that she had made Daddy count the ants (twice!) to make sure there was the right number (“Because you are soooo fussy about numbers Mummy!”) and that she had drawn ants because she knew Allison liked them: “Cause of how organised they are.”
It all tied back to ‘The Ant Speech’ which people still talked about nearly six years later, although ‘speech’ was misleading - it had been more of a rant, an improvised dressing down of several NASA departments, at a point when everything and everyone seemed to be dragging their feet and making the first manned mission to Mars miss the deadline in Allison’s head. (She’d seen Adelaide step onto Mars in 2041, she knew it had to happen on a specific time frame, and people kept making excuses she had no use for.)
“If ants were were working on this project, we would have been on Mars decades ago! And we are supposed to be smarter than them! We have imagination and innovation, we can think outside the given parameters, we can accomplish goddamn miracles if we try. However - if you can’t do that, if the brightest people in the world can’t manage that, then at least give me ant-like efficiency and organisation. Am I making myself clear?”
After that people began ascribing her meteoric rise at NASA to her being ‘brilliant and terrifying’. She could live with that. Especially since everyone went above and beyond from that point on. Adelaide had the vision and the forward drive; was the carrier of the bright flame that lit the path and guided everyone forward. But Allison was the one who gave everyone a swift kick up the backside when they got complacent. The two of them were now - by those in the know - collectively known as ‘Starbeck and Brooke’. (Allison first because anyone who wanted to get to Adelaide had to go through her first...)
Of course - since she could have hundreds of people snapping to attention quite simply by glowering - it from then followed that she was defeated by a single small child, who had effortlessly upended her life in ways she’d never expected. Yet every time she caught sight of the picture (any of Emily's pictures really, but this one especially), her heart melted all over again. Her angry rant, translated into a multicoloured rainbow of smiling insects, some with hats or shoes or bags or umbrellas - she might not understand her daughter one iota, but she appreciated her crazy little mind more than she could express.
Ten minutes later the tie and socks (as well as a missing shoe and her school bag) had been found, Allison had unwrapped her delivery and tackled 9 emails (out of 75 - how had that happened since last night? How did it happen every night?) and Andrew smiled smugly as he pulled on his jacket.
“See how a middle-aged man continually triumphs where his genius hot young wife fails?”
Her eyes narrowed. There was still the question of throwing his shoes at him, although he might be redeeming himself...
“Middle-aged?”
“As I keep reminding you, there are but a few months until the big five-oh. I’m expecting comfy slippers and cardigans and a new shed. And a pipe.”
He’d been playing this game for a good while now - some sort of backwards male logic she supposed, trying to reassure himself... He’d not flinched at turning forty, but obviously fifty was bothering him. Time to take charge.
“Dream on darling. I’ve made an executive decision, and you’re not going the corduroy and hairy ears route, you’re going to be a silver fox!”
Reaching up, she fondly ruffled his rapidly greying hair.
“You’re well on the way, so all you need is a new wardrobe, a proper haircut, and - Emily! Shoes! Now! - possibly a few sessions down the gym.”
“A silver fox?” he echoed, thrown, but pleased, and she pulled him closer.
“I can be your genius trophy wife.”
“That actually sounds like a plan. Although I’m keeping my tweed jacket. The kids at school wouldn’t recognise me otherwise.”
As he wrapped his arms around her, she let her eyes narrow.
“Hmmm. I might be willing to negotiate.”
Before they got any further, they were interrupted by Emily.
“No! No snogging! Stoooop!” she shouted, avidly trying to separate them, and the ‘snog’ was indeed averted by giggling. (She’d throw his shoes at him tonight. Not wearing them would also make it somewhat easier.)
Glancing at his watch, Andrew startled:
“Christ! Is that the time? Emily - we gotta run!”
“Have a good day,” Allison called after them. “And don’t forget to buy milk!”
(He’d forget. He always forgot. Allison had vague memories of a time when her life had run smoothly, and practical issues - shopping, cooking, cleaning - had been taken care of without her having to do a thing, but it was such a long time ago now that it might as well have been a dream. A golden dream of another - impossible - life.)
Allison had already turned away - door half closed and mind busy focussing on the conference-by-Skype she had scheduled later on in the day - when she heard the abrupt screech of tyres and a sickening sound she would remember for the rest of her life.
Rushing to the gate, her eyes refused to take in what she was seeing.
A car, skidded to a halt across the road, the driver - a youngster, pale and shaking - repeating over and over: "I didn't see her. I swear I didn't see her..."
And Andrew by the side of their Emily, his hands covered in blood, looking at her with the kind of fear and despair she'd only ever seen on news reports on the TV.
"Al! Call an ambulance!"
After that things became a blur.
She must have called 999, because an ambulance arrived, and there were paramedics talking to her, trying to comfort her and get specific details, followed by a journey to A&E and an interminable wait where time seemed to have no meaning at all. At one point she was aware of Ella arriving, asking whom she needed to contact, what she could do, but Allison just held onto Andrew's hand and shook her head.
"She's in shock," Andrew explained, but Allison frowned.
"If I was in shock I'd have a blanket, wouldn't I?"
Eventually a doctor turned up, saying that they'd done all they could, and now it was a case of waiting and seeing. Specifically waiting for Emily to come out of her coma.
Thus began what Allison later thought of as 'the wake'.
She barely left Emily's side, but Andrew, after half a day, shook his head.
“Al, I can’t... I can’t just sit here.”
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
“What do you mean?”
“Just... sitting. Waiting. I need to...” he faltered, and after a moment she nodded. He was a people person, far more so than her. She could happily focus on a project, shutting out the world completely, but he needed interaction.
“It’s OK. Just don’t go far.”
She, too, found the sight of their pale and silent daughter almost more than she could bear. But she couldn't leave. It was like someone had pressed pause, and she was unable to actually process anything. She was grateful that Andrew was able to reach out though - it was probably a far healthier response than withdrawing...
Over the next few days he got to know the whole ward. She could hear him play little tunes, making the other children sing (if they could) or join in any way possible, using his talents for engaging people wherever he went - always checking back every hour, but unable to cope with her silent vigil. The nurses complimented her on her husband (“Such a natural with the young ones! He’s a teacher you say? Ah, the world could do with more like him. He helps take everyone’s mind off the pain and the difficulties.”) - yet were unwilling to answer when she asked about Emily; and she read far too much in their silence.
Sometimes doctors came to assess their girl, and once - on the third day - they took her away for some sort of scan. They said they would explain later, once they had the results. And all the while Emily was a pale, silent shadow in a bed, hooked up with tubes and wires to several machines that hummed constantly, her face and body covered in dark bruises that only seemed to go darker. Her curls lay flat and lifeless against the starched white pillow of the far-too-large hospital bed and Allison felt so helpless she could have screamed.
***
After four days, a consultant came to see them. According to her badge her name was Sameera Khan and she held out her hand to Allison, saying: "Are you mum?" when something finally snapped. Or maybe she had been in shock and this was when she came back to herself. Either way, it was Dr Khan who bore the brunt of it.
"I'm Doctor Starbeck. I have a PhD in astrophysics and I swear, if you talk down to me now, I will personally strap you to the nose of the next NASA rocket, understood?"
The consultant nodded slowly. "I understand. However, you might want to take a seat."
***
When the Dr Khan left, Andrew turned to her, lost.
"Al..."
Phrases like 'cerebral haemorrhage' and 'intraparenchymal bleeds' and 'mortality rates of up to 50%' seemed to go in circles in Allison’s head, along with the prognosis in case she survived - and woke up. So much damage, their sparkling little girl might be nothing more than a vegetable...
"No," she said, the uncertainty of days abruptly crystallising into a perfectly clear course of action. "No, not our Emily. I once dated the cleverest boy in the world, and I will not let this happen to her."
Andrew was now looking at her with that same semi-worried look he'd worn initially, back when she'd been in shock.
"Al, what are you talking about? We have to face-"
"No. No we don't."
She walked over to her bag, pulled out her phone, found the number. ('If you ever need me, just call...')
As Andrew watched with increasing bewilderment and concern, she waited as the phone rang and rang, before eventually going to voice mail (impersonal standard message read by an impersonal female voice - didn’t matter, it was obviously just a screening wall).
"Alex-" she began, faltering. It had been... fifteen years since she'd seen him? Where had the time gone? "Seeker- whatever you call yourself, please, I need you. It's my Emily, she-"
Tears suddenly welled up behind her eyes, as if admitting to what had happened, out loud, somehow made it more real.
"Just please come, fix her. I don't care what you do, rewrite time, turn the world upside down, just... Come."
She put down the phone, turning to her husband.
"I’m sorry Andrew, I lied to you. Alex is an alien. And he can do... almost anything. Anything at all. Which is one of the reasons I broke up with him, but- He will get that message. And he will trace the call, find Emily's medical records, work out a way to heal her and then come straight here. And he will make her better."
Andrew was now looking at her like she was going stark-raving mad (which wasn’t surprising really, everything considered), but she just held his eyes, waiting.
After about ten seconds there was a knock at the door.
Sending Andrew a ‘What did I say?’ look, she went to open it. And froze when she saw who was on the other side.
She’d expected the ginger one - cool detachment, superior knowledge and deliberate distance; his no-nonsense attitude easy to deal with under the current circumstances.
Instead she was faced with her Alex.
Chapter 36.
Fic index here if anyone wants to catch up, or just follow the tags. Also on AO3 and The Teaspoon.
Summary: Allison had always thought that university would be an adventure. But she'd not imagined that she'd end up dating Harold Saxon's son.
Setting: Spring 2044
Characters: Allison, others
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2600 approx
Feedback: Makes my world go round... No really. You have no idea.
Chapter 35
Spring 2044, early morning
"Mummy - do mushrooms smell like fairies' bottoms?"
Allison looked up from her pad and into her four year old daughter's bright quizzical eyes, and - for what had to be the millionth time - wondered where on earth she had sprung from. Well, of course she knew (being pregnant and giving birth being pretty unequivocal), but Emily might as well have been beamed down from Mars. (Except Mars had been all empty...) Emily - as far as Allison could work out - didn't have a scientific bone in her body. Emily disliked numbers, and anything to do with facts or logic. Instead Emily loved rainbows and fairies and unicorns and magic and had a mind that effortlessly inserted any or all of these factors into everyday life. She plain refused to believe that stars were made of burning gas, as The Lion King said that they were old kings, and that made much more sense.
Wondering how to answer this latest question (she had thought she'd been so prepared for motherhood, never guessing that her child would be the source of never-ending impossible-to-answer queries), she plumped for the easiest way out.
"Ask Daddy," she said, her spirit sinking as Emily shook her head, curls dancing. (The curls were another mystery - and one that was a perpetual nightmare. Allison had once thought curls something pretty. Now they meant a screaming child every time she brought out a hair brush.)
"Daddy said to ask you!"
To Allison's immense relief, she was then - quite literally - saved by the bell, as the doorbell rang.
"Go see who's at the door!" she said, and Emily - forgetting her question - skipped out to the front door, happily sing-song-ing: "Who's at the doo-or? Who's at the doo-or?"
Trying to refocus on her morning emails, Allison was immediately interrupted again by Emily yelling: "It's a parcel for youuuuuuuuu Mummy!" at the top of her voice.
Making her way to the door, she realised that it was a new delivery guy, who was studying her with a small frown.
"The parcel needs to be signed for by Doctor Starbeck," he said cautiously.
"That would be me," she said frostily, signing his electronic device, before carrying the parcel through to the front room, nearly tripping over Andrew’s shoes, silently vowing to throw them at his head. What was it about (human) males that made them incapable of putting their things away? Shoes especially. And all the while she had Emily dancing around her, eaten up with curiosity.
"Is it for me? Is it fairy dust? I told you I wanted fairy dust for my birthday, remember? Can I help you open it?"
"It is ages until your birthday, and no it isn't fairy dust. Feel how heavy it is, fairy dust is light."
"Noooo, fairy dust is very heavy, because it is full of the hopes and dreams of little children."
Emily's voice went all low with sheer importance, and Allison closed her eyes, before refocussing on the child in front of her, and the fact that she wasn’t actually properly dressed.
"Emily, why are you not wearing your school tie? Or your socks? Or your cardigan?"
"Couldn't find ‘em!"
(Deep breath. Count to ten. Don’t yell, it never helps.)
"You are leaving in ten minutes. Go. Find. Ask Daddy for help if you need it."
Emily opened her mouth, took in the look on her mother's face, and then with an exaggerated scowl turned and walked upstairs. (She knew that Daddy had far more patience than Mummy...)
Yet as she settled down to open her delivery, Allison caught sight of the giant birthday card-cum-picture Emily had made for her birthday a couple of months ago, and shook her head fondly. Thirty seven ants, of varying colours and sizes, populated the paper, with ‘Happy Birthday Mummy’ written in the middle, half the letters back to front. Emily had carefully explained that she had made Daddy count the ants (twice!) to make sure there was the right number (“Because you are soooo fussy about numbers Mummy!”) and that she had drawn ants because she knew Allison liked them: “Cause of how organised they are.”
It all tied back to ‘The Ant Speech’ which people still talked about nearly six years later, although ‘speech’ was misleading - it had been more of a rant, an improvised dressing down of several NASA departments, at a point when everything and everyone seemed to be dragging their feet and making the first manned mission to Mars miss the deadline in Allison’s head. (She’d seen Adelaide step onto Mars in 2041, she knew it had to happen on a specific time frame, and people kept making excuses she had no use for.)
“If ants were were working on this project, we would have been on Mars decades ago! And we are supposed to be smarter than them! We have imagination and innovation, we can think outside the given parameters, we can accomplish goddamn miracles if we try. However - if you can’t do that, if the brightest people in the world can’t manage that, then at least give me ant-like efficiency and organisation. Am I making myself clear?”
After that people began ascribing her meteoric rise at NASA to her being ‘brilliant and terrifying’. She could live with that. Especially since everyone went above and beyond from that point on. Adelaide had the vision and the forward drive; was the carrier of the bright flame that lit the path and guided everyone forward. But Allison was the one who gave everyone a swift kick up the backside when they got complacent. The two of them were now - by those in the know - collectively known as ‘Starbeck and Brooke’. (Allison first because anyone who wanted to get to Adelaide had to go through her first...)
Of course - since she could have hundreds of people snapping to attention quite simply by glowering - it from then followed that she was defeated by a single small child, who had effortlessly upended her life in ways she’d never expected. Yet every time she caught sight of the picture (any of Emily's pictures really, but this one especially), her heart melted all over again. Her angry rant, translated into a multicoloured rainbow of smiling insects, some with hats or shoes or bags or umbrellas - she might not understand her daughter one iota, but she appreciated her crazy little mind more than she could express.
Ten minutes later the tie and socks (as well as a missing shoe and her school bag) had been found, Allison had unwrapped her delivery and tackled 9 emails (out of 75 - how had that happened since last night? How did it happen every night?) and Andrew smiled smugly as he pulled on his jacket.
“See how a middle-aged man continually triumphs where his genius hot young wife fails?”
Her eyes narrowed. There was still the question of throwing his shoes at him, although he might be redeeming himself...
“Middle-aged?”
“As I keep reminding you, there are but a few months until the big five-oh. I’m expecting comfy slippers and cardigans and a new shed. And a pipe.”
He’d been playing this game for a good while now - some sort of backwards male logic she supposed, trying to reassure himself... He’d not flinched at turning forty, but obviously fifty was bothering him. Time to take charge.
“Dream on darling. I’ve made an executive decision, and you’re not going the corduroy and hairy ears route, you’re going to be a silver fox!”
Reaching up, she fondly ruffled his rapidly greying hair.
“You’re well on the way, so all you need is a new wardrobe, a proper haircut, and - Emily! Shoes! Now! - possibly a few sessions down the gym.”
“A silver fox?” he echoed, thrown, but pleased, and she pulled him closer.
“I can be your genius trophy wife.”
“That actually sounds like a plan. Although I’m keeping my tweed jacket. The kids at school wouldn’t recognise me otherwise.”
As he wrapped his arms around her, she let her eyes narrow.
“Hmmm. I might be willing to negotiate.”
Before they got any further, they were interrupted by Emily.
“No! No snogging! Stoooop!” she shouted, avidly trying to separate them, and the ‘snog’ was indeed averted by giggling. (She’d throw his shoes at him tonight. Not wearing them would also make it somewhat easier.)
Glancing at his watch, Andrew startled:
“Christ! Is that the time? Emily - we gotta run!”
“Have a good day,” Allison called after them. “And don’t forget to buy milk!”
(He’d forget. He always forgot. Allison had vague memories of a time when her life had run smoothly, and practical issues - shopping, cooking, cleaning - had been taken care of without her having to do a thing, but it was such a long time ago now that it might as well have been a dream. A golden dream of another - impossible - life.)
Allison had already turned away - door half closed and mind busy focussing on the conference-by-Skype she had scheduled later on in the day - when she heard the abrupt screech of tyres and a sickening sound she would remember for the rest of her life.
Rushing to the gate, her eyes refused to take in what she was seeing.
A car, skidded to a halt across the road, the driver - a youngster, pale and shaking - repeating over and over: "I didn't see her. I swear I didn't see her..."
And Andrew by the side of their Emily, his hands covered in blood, looking at her with the kind of fear and despair she'd only ever seen on news reports on the TV.
"Al! Call an ambulance!"
After that things became a blur.
She must have called 999, because an ambulance arrived, and there were paramedics talking to her, trying to comfort her and get specific details, followed by a journey to A&E and an interminable wait where time seemed to have no meaning at all. At one point she was aware of Ella arriving, asking whom she needed to contact, what she could do, but Allison just held onto Andrew's hand and shook her head.
"She's in shock," Andrew explained, but Allison frowned.
"If I was in shock I'd have a blanket, wouldn't I?"
Eventually a doctor turned up, saying that they'd done all they could, and now it was a case of waiting and seeing. Specifically waiting for Emily to come out of her coma.
Thus began what Allison later thought of as 'the wake'.
She barely left Emily's side, but Andrew, after half a day, shook his head.
“Al, I can’t... I can’t just sit here.”
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
“What do you mean?”
“Just... sitting. Waiting. I need to...” he faltered, and after a moment she nodded. He was a people person, far more so than her. She could happily focus on a project, shutting out the world completely, but he needed interaction.
“It’s OK. Just don’t go far.”
She, too, found the sight of their pale and silent daughter almost more than she could bear. But she couldn't leave. It was like someone had pressed pause, and she was unable to actually process anything. She was grateful that Andrew was able to reach out though - it was probably a far healthier response than withdrawing...
Over the next few days he got to know the whole ward. She could hear him play little tunes, making the other children sing (if they could) or join in any way possible, using his talents for engaging people wherever he went - always checking back every hour, but unable to cope with her silent vigil. The nurses complimented her on her husband (“Such a natural with the young ones! He’s a teacher you say? Ah, the world could do with more like him. He helps take everyone’s mind off the pain and the difficulties.”) - yet were unwilling to answer when she asked about Emily; and she read far too much in their silence.
Sometimes doctors came to assess their girl, and once - on the third day - they took her away for some sort of scan. They said they would explain later, once they had the results. And all the while Emily was a pale, silent shadow in a bed, hooked up with tubes and wires to several machines that hummed constantly, her face and body covered in dark bruises that only seemed to go darker. Her curls lay flat and lifeless against the starched white pillow of the far-too-large hospital bed and Allison felt so helpless she could have screamed.
After four days, a consultant came to see them. According to her badge her name was Sameera Khan and she held out her hand to Allison, saying: "Are you mum?" when something finally snapped. Or maybe she had been in shock and this was when she came back to herself. Either way, it was Dr Khan who bore the brunt of it.
"I'm Doctor Starbeck. I have a PhD in astrophysics and I swear, if you talk down to me now, I will personally strap you to the nose of the next NASA rocket, understood?"
The consultant nodded slowly. "I understand. However, you might want to take a seat."
When the Dr Khan left, Andrew turned to her, lost.
"Al..."
Phrases like 'cerebral haemorrhage' and 'intraparenchymal bleeds' and 'mortality rates of up to 50%' seemed to go in circles in Allison’s head, along with the prognosis in case she survived - and woke up. So much damage, their sparkling little girl might be nothing more than a vegetable...
"No," she said, the uncertainty of days abruptly crystallising into a perfectly clear course of action. "No, not our Emily. I once dated the cleverest boy in the world, and I will not let this happen to her."
Andrew was now looking at her with that same semi-worried look he'd worn initially, back when she'd been in shock.
"Al, what are you talking about? We have to face-"
"No. No we don't."
She walked over to her bag, pulled out her phone, found the number. ('If you ever need me, just call...')
As Andrew watched with increasing bewilderment and concern, she waited as the phone rang and rang, before eventually going to voice mail (impersonal standard message read by an impersonal female voice - didn’t matter, it was obviously just a screening wall).
"Alex-" she began, faltering. It had been... fifteen years since she'd seen him? Where had the time gone? "Seeker- whatever you call yourself, please, I need you. It's my Emily, she-"
Tears suddenly welled up behind her eyes, as if admitting to what had happened, out loud, somehow made it more real.
"Just please come, fix her. I don't care what you do, rewrite time, turn the world upside down, just... Come."
She put down the phone, turning to her husband.
"I’m sorry Andrew, I lied to you. Alex is an alien. And he can do... almost anything. Anything at all. Which is one of the reasons I broke up with him, but- He will get that message. And he will trace the call, find Emily's medical records, work out a way to heal her and then come straight here. And he will make her better."
Andrew was now looking at her like she was going stark-raving mad (which wasn’t surprising really, everything considered), but she just held his eyes, waiting.
After about ten seconds there was a knock at the door.
Sending Andrew a ‘What did I say?’ look, she went to open it. And froze when she saw who was on the other side.
She’d expected the ginger one - cool detachment, superior knowledge and deliberate distance; his no-nonsense attitude easy to deal with under the current circumstances.
Instead she was faced with her Alex.
Chapter 36.
no subject
Awww. Emily is a cutie.
Grrr, You tell that delivery guy Allison.
*smashes keyboard*
*weeps incoherently*
Yes. Seeker you had better show up or I'll....
Eep.
You're ruining me woman. This story is turning me into a flailing mess.
I love it.
no subject
:D
Awww. Emily is a cutie.
She is 100% based on real children. Her opening line is a word-for-word transcription of a real little girl's question to her (equally bewildered) mother.
Grrr, You tell that delivery guy Allison.
Teeny bit of feminism sneaking in. *g*
*smashes keyboard*
*weeps incoherently*
This makes me terribly happy!
Yes. Seeker you had better show up or I'll....
Eep.
:D :D :D It seemed the perfect place to stop. Heh.
You're ruining me woman. This story is turning me into a flailing mess.
I like to share! (It's been making me into a mess for years now! Can't believe I'm almost at the end.)
I love it.
♥ ♥ ♥
ETA: If I have one question, it'd be what you think of Andrew. Having had it all planned out since forever, I'm wondering how it comes across to you? I've essentially dragged Allison away from Alex and next thing she's in a very settled relationship with years worth of backstory. Does it work?