Wake-up Call – Chapter 49

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I messed up and saved two chapters rather than publish them. It's been fixed, and now chapter 39 and 40 are right where they belong. I apologize for the inconvenience.

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Colin has left for the morning shift, likely to seclude himself in his lab until the world starts making a modicum of sense. That is: the Tinker coffee reaches health-hazard levels.

Which means I'm currently alone in his apartment, handed the perfect opportunity to snoop and come up with some kind of blackmail material (friendly or otherwise), yet I'm not doing any of that.

Why is that, you say? Is it because I'm a good, respectful quasi-daughter? Is it because I've finally learned the meaning of boundaries?

"Liz?" Taylor says, looking at me over her shoulder. And using her swarm to voice the question in a way that, strangely enough, I keep finding not nightmare-inducing.

"Yes, sweetie?" I answer, smiling back and not blushing at all, pinky-swear.

[Lisa Wilbourn—]

It was a joke! Grow up!

[Current dimensions of corona pollentia—]

… That may be the most intimidating excuse for a Peter Pan syndrome I've ever heard of.

"Liz…" Taylor's swarm insists as a jumping spider drops from the ceiling in front of my nose, dangling from a single thread of silk and waving its forearms to get my attention.

As if the naked back of Taylor in front of me wasn't enough to do that.

Ah, yes. The reason I'm currently not thrashing Colin's apartment in search of anything remotely interesting and or incriminating? That's because I'm helping Taylor bathe herself.

Priorities.

[Lisa Wilbourn's priorities—]

Are perfectly sensible, thank you very much.

Also, that spider's starting to look kinda pissed…

"Sorry, I got caught up thinking about your wet, glistening skin beneath my fingers as I—"

"I can wash myself," the swarm cuts me off, not at all panicking as Taylor turns to look forward in Colin's thankfully not olive-green bathtub.

I mean, the tiles are sea-green, and both the tub and sink are cerulean blue, so it's still kinda jarring, but not soul-suckingly so.

… I'll hire a painter to assault this place long before I leave.

"Tay… I know that you can take care of yourself, but… do you want to?"

There's a momentary pause that I take to gleefully watch as Taylor's blush slowly creeps around her neck until it wraps the whole of her nape.

Then she shakes her head, softly enough that her hair remains draped over her spine, the loose curls settling into a line that points down to her petite derriere, her legs right in front of mine, her calves standing out with tension that raises the wonderfully toned muscle.

[Taylor Hebert's reticence—]

Power, please, let me handle this.

…

Silence. Because something changed two days ago, and Power's really set on not straining me too much, on being more of a partner than a constant pressure on my mind that I need to leash before it overwhelms me.

… Thank you.

[Lisa Wilbourn's anthropomorphizing of parahuman interface abilities—]

Love you too.

But, speaking of love…

Many people go through life without asking questions. I'm not talking about anything grandiose, about pointing at the night sky and wondering whether or not we are alone. No, everybody ponders the big questions from time to time.

The small questions? Not so much.

Say you're stuck in a conversation with a friend you haven't seen in a long time. You'll most likely try to interject at some point and tell them about what's been going on with your life, even if, logically, you should be more interested in gathering the information you haven't been a party to. Why is that? What do you hope to gain by sharing that about yourself? And, once you know what it is that you want to achieve, what's the best way to reach that goal?

This thought process is alien. Unnatural.

And one I am now intimately familiar with after having lived with Power in my brain for what seems like a lifetime.

So, another Lisa, one that hadn't gone through… a bad day, would have looked at her naked girlfriend about to 'need some help with showering' and then that Lisa would've felt the desperate need to rub her thighs together at the prospect.

Me? This Lisa?

Questions.

Such as: why are Taylor's calves tense? Why's she using her swarm rather than having taken another pill for her throat? Why the annoyance and embarrassment?

Most of these things would usually just be perceived as a vague feeling of unease, something that most people would intuitively react cautiously to, maybe trying to be tactful or delicate.

But, once that feeling is turned into words, into questions… Then there are answers.

So I step forward, my breasts brushing against her naked back, my chin resting on the crook of her neck, my lips almost brushing her ear, my arms wrapping around her belly so that my hands can rest right below her navel.

"Do you trust me, Tay?" I ask her.

She turns to the left, her eyes showing wide, incredulous surprise at the utterance of something she deems stupid beyond words. Because of course she does. Of course she trusts the girl she's risked her life for, the girl she gave her first time to. Of course she trusts me.

"Then…" I continue before she can get her swarm to interrupt my mental script. "Do you trust me enough to be weak with?"

Because I've broken down in front of her. Not once, not twice, but far more than I care to remember, even if every time she's picked up the broken pieces of Lisa and stuck them back together better than they were has been meaningful, and powerful, and beautiful.

But…

"Do you remember that day you left Winslow for good? How I took you on a drive, and we talked about plans for the future and needing direction?"

She nods before she leans back against me, shifting her body so her injured arm, the one wrapped in plastic, rests lightly against me as her right side presses harder against my body.

"You… you said, back then, that you regretted it. That you regretted not breaking down in front of me and letting me help as you'd helped me so many times before, because you realized how meaningful that was and that you'd wanted me to have that experience, the very same that you treasured that much.

"And I believe you. No, that's wrong: I know. I know how much you value those memories, those chances to be my rock, to cradle me until I can stand back up. I know, Tay, that you do treasure those memories and that helping me has, in some ways, helped you.

"But I'm not you, and you're not me, so… That was a bit flawed, wasn't it? Because I've allowed myself to break. I've let myself be weak with you, let you see how utterly messed up I am, how much I need you."

My arms tighten briefly around her, and then I slowly sit down on the rough porcelain of the bathtub, almost forcing her to follow me until she's sitting between my legs, and my nape drapes over the lip of the tub as I stare at the ceiling.

White paint. A sane choice.

Thank God.

"So this is you being vulnerable. Hurt. And this is me being afraid, terrified of making a mistake, of not being able to help you like you've helped me so many times. And this is also you being scared to show me a part of you that you think I won't be able to love as unconditionally as I love the rest of you, all the other parts I've already seen."

I lean forward and kiss her hair, my arms yet again tight around her sides.

"This is you being stupid," I finally finish.

The swarm buzzes in indignation, and she turns toward me, eyes blazing.

And she sees my wet eyes, my fragile smile, and stops.

"I love you, Tay," I tell her before contorting my neck to briefly kiss her lips.

"Liz…" the swarm vacillates, the last letter of my pet name prolonged through buzzing wings, clicking mandibles, and all manner of stridulation.

"I love you. All of you. Do you think I won't like the ugly parts, the weak parts, the cruel parts? That was the first thing I learned about you, Tay. Because you were an unknown cape, a danger I needed to get a handle on. And, even before I learned more about the better parts of you, I was already falling."

"How can you say that? How can you—"

"Questions," I answer, interrupting the diatribe.

"What?"

"Yes, just like that," I answer with a cheeky smile that earns me a right elbow just below my tit.

"Smartass," the swarm, somehow, [grumbles].

"And you love it," I tell her, my grin widening.

To somebody else, I would have to add something. I would have to lead her to connect the dots.

She's Taylor Hebert. Smart in some ways, a genius in others.

So her eyebrows shoot up before they narrow in accusation.

"You just used Power to have me make your point for you."

"No. Power's resting. I used knowing you like the most important person in my life to make you realize that, yes, it's perfectly possible to love someone's flaws. Because it would be truer if it came from you than if I just told you."

She closes her eyes and stays still for a moment before opening them again.

"It hurts," the swarm says.

"I know," I tell her before kissing her forehead.

"I was scared," it continues.

"I know," I tell her, my fingers caressing her cheek.

"No, no, Liz, I mean… I was terrified," the buzzing adds with what I think is a hint of defiant anger.

"So was I," I tell her with a hesitating smile.

"Not like that."

"Tay—"

"Liz," she says, voice hoarse and broken, "I almost lost you."

Her eyes are wet, not quite crying, but obviously pained.

So I close mine before I start a feedback loop.

"That was what I kept thinking of, Tay. That was what almost broke me," I tell her, remembering a pool of spreading red over creamy wood and paling lips drained of life. "Losing you."

"Then…" she stops, coughing in pain at her still irritated throat before she switches back to her swarm. "Then can we… can we both break down? Together?" she asks.

I look into her wide eyes, into the green glimmering behind far too much pooling liquid.

Then I hug her as tightly as I can as she slumps against me, and my fiancée and I cry.

Together.

Because she already has experience putting me back together, so it's fitting that the first time I do it to her, she'll be there to guide me through the process.

***

The tub is now filled with warm water, because, at some point, we realized that scrapping our delicate skin against non-slipping porcelain was counterproductive to that whole 'stop crying' thing.

Taylor's soft hair is fluffed up with a two-in-one shampoo with a minty smell that is steadily feeding my urge to go on a shopping spree.

And Taylor is moaning at my fingers on her scalp with a low, subdued tone that's steadily feeding my need to see how much I can do before her self-control breaks down and she [really] moans.

But her left arm is resting on the edge of the tub, droplets of glittering water over transparent plastic refracting the lights set around the bathroom mirror, and, as much as I would love to get some cathartic sex out of this whole mess, I'm too afraid of hurting her to really get in the mood.

[Lisa Wilbourn's libido correlating with emotional connection—]

No shit, Sherlock.

[Sherlock's apparent viability for a Thinker power designation—]

… I am [not] rebaptizing you. Much less as the most famous detective in literature.

[Baseline human detective inherently inferior to parahuman abilities—]

Look, Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be not only great at deducing, but an accomplished actor, scientist, and martial artist. While I can see us being somewhat passable at some of those things, there's no way—

[Combat Thinker potential of Lisa Wilbourn—

…]

"Liz?" Taylor's swarm asks as her arachnid emissary waves in front of what I'm guessing are my glassed-over eyes while yet again dangling upside-down from the ceiling.

"Power says I can be as good a fighter as Sherlock Holmes," I answer with what I'm starting to recognize is my 'not actually in shock, but quickly getting there' voice.

"… Does Power realize you're too lazy for that?"

Taylor's swarm is, yet again, another anti-Thinker trick. She perfectly controls the modulation of whatever it is she says through it, and the decentralization of the sound makes it impossible to pick up any unconscious tells she may have left in there.

So it takes me leaning forward over her soapy shoulder to see Taylor's wide grin and merry eyes before she lets herself heave her shoulders in silent laughter.

And then I kiss her lips, her tongue meets mine, and I let myself forget about a world full of snipers who would tear us apart.

***

I don't forget for long, though.

"You sure about this?" the swarm around me asks as Taylor stands behind me, her hand on my shoulder.

"I… I don't want to involve Colin in this. I want us to do it. Together."

She nods.

And takes one of the pills.

They take some time to dissolve, to take effect and help her throat soothe, reducing the inflammation. It's time I need to take to steady my nerves, to do my breathing exercises, and center myself.

So I imagine the golden light coming into my lungs with every inhalation, spreading the feeling of a summer's sun inside me as I hold the air in me before releasing the gray clouds of uncertainty and fear.

Then I stop the visualization, and just count, the numbers the only thing in my mind as I let my body be perfectly aware of the sensations of my diaphragm rising and falling, of the cool air entering my nostrils and the warm breath coming out of them, of my belly going in and out, of my heart beating in my chest and what I may be tricking myself into thinking is my very pulse traveling along my arms and fingers…

"Ready," Taylor whispers in my ear, softly enough that she doesn't break my trance, but guides me through it and toward the surface of my consciousness.

And, with a last, controlled, numbered breath, I open my eyes and turn on the camera in what used to be Dinah's cell and is now Victor's.

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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 88 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!