Wake-up Call – Chapter 68 – Taylor Hebert Can Learn

My control over my swarm has grown steadily since I gained my powers. In some ways? I think part of it is not due to experience, but…

To Lisa.

To Lisa and her hilariously concerning arguments with the voice in her head.

Because, while my own ability with arthropods isn't quite as vocal as the surrogate sibling she has adopted (other than Dinah), I've had… thoughts. Ideas.

And, sometimes? When I lean on it, trying something new, something that I hadn't come up with before? Sometimes, I can almost feel it leaning back, accepting my requests, letting them come across truer than when I forced them by imposing my will.

It's something that I can easily fool myself into believing when I use the voice of my swarm, the diction being far more natural than it first was, and my brief bout of muteness greatly ameliorated due to it. It's impossible to quantify, to be sure, but… In some ways? I think I've got my own Power resting between my thoughts and growing from them.

It's just that, for some reason, I see it more as a little sister than a brother.

No, I don't know why. I just do.

It's still a bit of an annoying sibling because, at times, I can feel a new feat, a new ability, about to crystallize without it finally clicking, my progress stopped for some reason.

It is particularly grating right now, while I sit on the couch of my father's house, and my swarm refuses to understand what my girlfriend and her mother are talking about.

"Give them some privacy," Dad says with a hint of an eye roll.

"I don't think you understand what a trigger event is," I tell him before I can stop myself.

There's a sudden, thick silence in my former living room as Dad stares at me from the threadbare armchair, and I try not to shift on the too-soft cushions of the equally dilapidated couch.

"I don't. Explain it to me?" he finally says.

I… I have to blink at it. At the soft tone of the request, the hint of solemnity, the unstated apology.

Apology for what? Too many things to list if I were to be generous.

Otherwise, I [would] list them.

"Do you really want to know?" I finally settle on telling him.

He leans back, elbows leaving his knees as he sinks into the terracotta backrest that once matched this almost gray couch, and his hands go to the armrests. I guess, with just two people, we ended up using one piece of furniture more than the other.

"I… Never wanted not to know, Taylor—" I interrupt him with an involuntary scoff, and he audibly shuts his mouth before he forces himself to continue. "All right, I admit that's a bit of a lie, because I did want to believe things were fine, that [you] were fine, but what I never wanted was to miss… things. Anything. Much less something that hurt you."

I stare at him.

He doesn't look away.

And so, this time, I'll believe him.

"Trigger events…" I start, remembering what is now one of my most embarrassing memories from my time with the Undersiders—and I include cherry Chapstick on that list, "they define you. Trauma always does, yes, but… You can avoid regular trauma. You can flee from stressors, purge intrusive thoughts, force yourself to focus on anything other than the pain and the memory of it. We both know how that works," I tell him.

"Horribly," he says with a brittle smile.

That I briefly return.

"Yes. Yes, it's not… the healthy way to go about things, I've finally learned, but it's still [a] way. Still a first line of defense so that your whole life doesn't get swallowed by that one miserable moment that wants to taint everything else. That wants to turn you into an extension of a prolonged tragedy. Avoidance isn't healthy, but, sometimes, it's the better option."

Dad looks at me, then at the cooling mug of chamomile tea set in front of him on our coffee table.

One that was clumsily made: clay decorated with seashells, a handle far too thin to be anything but a miracle that it still hasn't been broken despite the divots caused by thin, childish fingers trying to properly shape what started as a cylinder until it was bent into its current shape.

Some of the shells are broken, revealing the brown clay underneath, but most of it is still covered in some shade of crème with a few concave, sharply elongated, brilliant pieces of mother-of-pearl shimmering among the ribbed dullness that contrasts with the glazed interior thankfully applied by a competent arts and crafts teacher.

I was once so proud of having made this piece of clumsy pottery. And then I resented every single day that I saw the thing I made side by side with Emma, her own mug an almost perfect mirror of mine.

Then time passed, and… it was just a mug.

To me.

Yet Dad still drinks from it from time to time.

"I think…" he finally says, without picking up his drink. "I think that avoidance is another way of being… defined by it. Controlled."

He doesn't meet my eyes, and I don't know if he's talking about himself, me, or both of us.

I sigh.

"Yes. Yes, of course that's how it works. But trigger events? Those are [worse]. Because avoidance is a slow poison, and so it can act as a medicine so long as you control the dose, but… but you aren't allowed that respite. Not when every single time you use your power is a stark reminder of that first time you did. Of that single moment when you gave up all hope that things could, [would] get better. And you relive it again and [again], every single day of the rest of your life, and it's like exposure therapy, except it's not, because you don't control it. You can't take a safe distance from it and stop when you need to. It's there. It's [always] there. And you know you'll carry it with you till the day you die, and, somedays? That thought is a [relief]. That you will die, and everything will end, and you'll no longer have to—"

Air currents shift, disturbing the small vinegar flies I had posted around the room, and I sharply focus on the abrupt movement before I realize that's my father jumping to his feet. That I hadn't seen him because I was focused on my hands being tightly clutched on my lap and on the senses of everything around us but not between us.

I… I briefly expect him to sit next to me. To lay a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

To hug me.

He stands almost in front of me, but not directly, and looks down at my bowed head.

"Have you… Did you ever…" His voice trails off, not daring to ask the question.

The one question people like us should know without it being stated.

"Not… consciously. I was reckless, when I set out to be a hero. Took too many risks, even if I always had an excuse, a [reason] for them. But… But now? Now I realize what I was doing. What Lisa stopped me from doing."

I still don't look at him.

Well, not with human eyes.

But I let my power draw a vivid picture of the tall man leaning awkwardly on a single leg, his hands opening and closing tightly by his sides, hinting at a strength I thought he had lost years ago.

Tall people are deceptive. Even when they aren't bulky, their muscles are long, and so they're always stronger than they look.

I should know.

"Lisa. Your fiancée," he says with a teasing lilt.

And I, stupidly enough, feel my cheeks heat up.

"It's—" I start to say, to defend myself.

"I am happy for you," he says.

And then, as I try to keep my mouth from dropping open, he all but falls on the cushion to my right, his weight making the couch groan and my own seat tilt toward him.

"Really?" I ask with a tone that may have tried to be mocking, or sarcastic, or… or I don't even know.

Much like I don't know what it ends up being.

He must get something out of it I don't, because he chuckles at the question.

"I am about to say some things that would have made your mother very mad at me, but… For some reason? That it's a girl and not a boy makes it easier to swallow."

"[What?"]

"See? That's precisely what I mean."

"Are you insinuating—"

"No. No, I know… I know what you have is… Damn it, I can't even—"

"Dad, I swear that if you say it's a phase, I will turn every single piece of furniture in this house into a termite's nest."

"Oh, do we have termites? Should I be worried?"

"Yes! [Yes], you should be worried about your parahuman daughter being—" I turn toward him with hot anger. And he's smiling at me.

Warm.

Soft.

Wistful.

"You are so much like her at times…" he murmurs, not needing to say any name to have my chest clench.

I close my eyes and drop back against the couch's backrest, sinking into it.

And then he lets the silence last for just long enough that I feel a bit of peace trickle in.

"I know you and Lisa love one another. And I know it's the kind of love I wouldn't expect from people your age. I… I tried to explain it to Pam, you know? That parahumans live quick lives, and we shouldn't get in the way of whatever happiness you two had found in each other."

"You… did?" I say.

And now there's the hand on my shoulder. The no longer overwhelmingly big, impossibly strong hand that could make the world turn right. That could redress any wrongs.

Emma always thought I wanted to be a hero because of Mom. Because she was such a strong woman, such an eerily beautiful, wise character out of a storybook.

It was because of Dad.

Because he fought and kept on fighting, never surrendering, never giving up, never [bowing].

Then Mom died, and he did all those things and never stopped.

But he… he was still Dad. He was still the man who stood up for those who had nobody else to stand for them. The one who tilted windmills, as Mom used to say, full of fondness and exasperation.

So, his hand is no longer that of a titan. Of a gentle giant picking me up and throwing me into the skies above. But…

It's still bigger than mine.

And a part of me wishes it'll always be.

"Taylor… I know what a trigger event is. I know what it's like to live with a wound that never heals, that you can't help but pick at, that you will never allow to scar. I've lived with one for years, and I will never forgive myself that I didn't help you with yours when you first got it."

It's… the first time he has said it.

So I look at him. Not with the eyes of the swarm that never missed a single detail of his posture since that first moment of unawareness, but with my eyes, the ones I got from him.

He's smiling.

He never stopped smiling.

"Dad… I… I want to say that I forgive you. That it's water under the bridge. That I've grown past it. But I haven't—"

And he hugs me.

Fiercely, tightly, and barely avoiding my still-healing bullet wound.

His face is buried in my shoulder, his arms showing just how deceptively strong this tall man still is, and I can't stop myself from returning the gesture, even if one-armed.

"Don't." he hisses with something hot and furious. "Don't forgive me for something I'll never forgive myself for. Just… Just be [better], Taylor. Better than your stupid old man. Better than anyone ever thought you would be. Better than even what your mother and I dreamed for you. Be… Be the hero Lisa sees in you."

Too many answers rush to my lips, and I swallow back every single one because I don't even know what to feel as I try to divert my attention through my swarm so I can keep an eye on the surrounding houses, the angles of attack for any kind of ambush, and the mother and daughter talking in my kitchen where I thought no mothers would ever again be.

"That's not fair…" I end up saying, my tone broken despite my brief attempt to channel it through a chirping cicada in our backyard that is looking at Lisa's bike.

"What?" he says, still in that desperate tone and cadence.

"It's not fair that I… that I have to be all those things, and you can let yourself… get hurt."

He clutches at the back of my blouse, the white fabric bunching between his fingers.

"I am sorry," he says.

"You just told me you didn't want me to forgive you," I tell him.

And he chuckles despite what I think I know he's got stuck in his throat, despite the repressed need to sob.

"You still are so… [categorical]," he says as he leans back, hands now on my shoulders as he looks straight at me in a way that makes me wish I was still wearing my glasses so I could shield a portion of it.

"I don't know what you mean," I tell him with some of my old stubbornness flaring up.

"When you were a kid… Your mother gave you a book on mythical animals, and you found out that unicorns were supposed to be murderous toward anyone but [maidens]. That got you curious, and your mother had to explain things I'd rather she hadn't until you were older. Shortly afterward, there were no traces of unicorns in your bedroom, and Emma broke down crying after you ruined My Little Pony for her."

I blink at him.

Then I [remember].

And the heat comes back to my cheeks with reinforcements.

"You can't hold that against me," I force myself to demand.

"Sweetheart… I am proud of you for it," he says, his right hand leaving my shoulder to pat my hair down, just carefully enough that he doesn't trigger my reflex to slap his hand away and put it back in place.

"Right. So—"

"I just hope the grandchildren will be easier."

"[Dad!"]

"What? Tinkers surely—"

"[Gross!"]

"Yeah, that's what you said about unicorns."

"[Dad!"]

"I feel a brief yet intense déjà vu—"

"Stop teasing me!"

"Never. Not until the day I walk you down the aisle with an overly long and embarrassing speech folded into my pocket."

He's… looking at me.

Smiling. Like before.

Except it's a bit warmer, a bit stronger, a bit less wistful.

A bit more like the Dad who was strong enough to stand against the world's evils.

So I…

So I reach up, my hand on his poorly shaven cheek for the first time in forever, and I try to return it.

"It's a promise, old man."

"Always, Little Owl."

I still wish my power understood what Lisa and her mother are talking about in my kitchen. Still wish I could keep an eye on them and intervene if she needs me. Still wish I was better at using it.

But I've got an adorable jumping spider stowed away in my jacket's pocket that is waving its arms as I allow myself to lean against my father's chest to be surrounded by warmth and deceptive strength.

I've got a swarm that is watching our home, keeping us safe from any unseen enemies that would dare approach us.

And I've got two people in my life that know how broken I am and still love me.

For now, it will have to do.

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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 89 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: 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!