There is this weird dreams I had recently after meeting with little Amni of 3 weeks old.
Yeah,
I'm a little bit squirmy around newborns.
Which makes it easier to just makes it "poof" when they reach teenage years.
So here,
A little gift for my Widget.
I dunno why but every time I picture Widget in his teen years, the image I had was always Isaac.
There’s a monster, because there’s
always a monster, isn’t there, and Velvet doesn’t even watch it hit the ground,
down and out, before she’s moving for Widget.
By the time she reaches him he already babbling apologies, and Velvet brushes them off and instead grabs his face in her hands. She twists it left and
right, searching for bruises or cuts or burns or whatever he could have
gotten, and his jaw moves under her hands.
“Ibu. Ibu, quit it, I’m totally fine-”
He tries to bat her away, but Velvet just pulls him closer, circling both arms around him and burying her head in
his curly hair, squeezing her eyes shut and letting herself have this, this one
stolen second before shit hits the fan. She feels him and how he doesn’t even
hesitate, just hugs her back even harder.
“I’m fine,” he says into her shoulder, muffled, and it’s then that Velvet realizes she’s been talking all this
time.
She draws back. “You’re not fine, you-” she presses a kiss to his hairline, talking all the while, “made a sentient killer robot-”
“By accident-”
“An accidental killer robot is still
a killer robot,” Velvet says, louder than necessary, her heart practically
beating the samba, Jeez, she had nearly had a heart attack when
the call had come in. Yes, sorry, gentlemen, I have to exit this meeting due to
my son fighting a giant killer robot with a secret version of the suit
that I was not aware he had.
He squirms, his face still framed by
her hands. “Yeah, but-”
“But nothing,” Velvet says over him, nearly shouting now. She tilts his face so he is forced to look at her.
“But nothing, Cariad Dhiyaul Islam, but absolutely nothing, nada, zilch. I told you not to mess
with that technology, I told you it was dangerous, you are strictly forbidden
to mess with magic-laced technology, you know that. And I told you, along with the law, that you
are not allowed to do mechanical suits until you are at least twenty three! At least twenty three, you are sixteen-”
“I’m old enough-”
“You are by no means old enough, what the hell were you thinking, you
could have gotten seriously hurt, you could have gotten killed-”
“But I didn’t, I’m fine! Ibu,” he says, shaken and desperate and alive, “I’m totally one hundred percent okay, I’m
not even bruised or anything, I was awesome, you worry too much-”
“I worry just enough, I watched my son almost get swatted out of
the sky by a robot the size of a skyscraper, I’d say that warrants me to worry
a little bit more than the average mother,” Velvet says, and her voice keeps
rising, her fingers keep stroking lines into his cheeks like if she stops he’ll
suddenly be lying on the ground with his limbs at odd angles after all. Her eyes rake over him again, sees everything in its place, and she suddenly forgets
to be mad. She swears into his hair, pulls him close and just breathes, breathes the wonderful soot and the underbite of
his shampoo that he always makes them get, even though it makes his hair oily if he uses too much. But he doesn’t mind, because the smell makes
up for it, he says, he has said so many times before, and Velvet always catches
a whiff of it when she kisses his cheek before he leaves for school, and she
nearly lost that in one downcut of a metal hand coming down.
It had been so close, less than an
inch away from him as he narrowly escaped out from under it, suit glinting
glossy red and gold in the afternoon sun. Velvet’s breath had gotten stuck in her throat watching his curls through the tops of the buildings, whooping and
curving in fast circles.
She barely even blinks, soaking in the
sight of her son, with his bright blue eyes.
“You,” she says. Stops, has to swallow. “Are grounded.”
He actually has the audacity to groan. “Fuuuuuuck. Fine. For how long?”
“Until you grow old and die.”
“Ibu.”
“Until you grow old and die,” she repeats,
sternly, in her best I’m-Your-Mother-Hence-I-Know-Better tone.
“Odes will be
written about you. People will come for miles around to see the grounded son,
grounded for the rest of his natural born life, we could start a tourist
attraction-”
“Ibu,” he says, and this time he’s
almost laughing, giggly with it. Colour is high in his cheeks, he’s still
panting slightly. He’s flushed and gorgeous and streaked with grit, and Velvet has never been more relieved in her life.
“So grounded.” She peppers his hair with kisses until he’s
full-out laughing, shaking with it.
“So, so grounded. Grounded times infinity.
God, I am so mad at you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says into her neck.
“Didn’t mean to make you worry.”
“Yeah, nice job.”
