author's note: a little episode after Cade's hospital stay.

[...]

Cade is starting to stir. I watch as he lifts his hand up and rubs his eyes. He blinks over at me “What are you doing here ?” 

Some years ago, that question would have hurt me. Today I know it’s not meant the way it comes across, it’s meant exactly the way he says it. 
I couldn’t deal with the directness as a kid, I always suspected something mean behind it. Fact is, Cade doesn’t have one single mean bone inside of him. Yeah, he can say hurtful things when he wants to, but they’re nothing like that. So, now I know the question doesn’t mean he’s annoyed with my presence, he simply asks why I’m here already and not in school where he knows I should be. It’s Thursday, I have afternoon class. 

“No class today, teacher’s sick,” I shrug. 

He nods and slowly sits up. Okay…he’s definitely not feeling well. He moves like an old man. I watch as he sluggishly makes his way into the kitchen. I hesitate, but then follow. 

He stuffs something into the oven and frowns at me “There’s still some lasagna from yesterday. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” 

“It’s okay, I finished homework.” 

“Hm,” another nod, he lets himself drop onto a chair. 

“Are you all right ?” I have to ask. 

“Sure.” He’s a good liar when he needs to be, but that was pathetic. He’s not all right. 

I raise an eyebrow and he rolls his eyes “Just tired okay ? Just tired. Jesus, what’s it with you people all the-“ he starts coughing. “Ah, fuck,” he whispers hoarsely then. 

“Sounds like a cold,” I state.

“Thank you Florence,” he gets up in search of a tissue, finds one, blows his nose.

I laugh. He’s a real shit when he’s sick, but on the other hand he also mellows some. That is, when he’s really sick. I’m glad he isn’t there yet.

He checks on the lasagna “Get the plates and stuff, will you.” 

I set the table while he manoeuvres the rather poor meal out of the oven. Cade can’t cook. He’s a catastrophe. Ryan isn’t a chef either, but it’s halfway decent and not life-threatening. It's funny that, over all these years, they haven't really learned it. I’d never complain though. They’re both trying very hard, I know that. And the regular take-out dinners are great! Love Chinese.

I notice Cade gives me most of what’s left. He never eats much, but….

“You plan on turning me into a fat, ugly teen ?” I ask.

“Your metabolism wouldn’t let you get fat even if you ate 24/7,” he snorts, then adds “Which you actually do, so….you should know.”
“Thanks. No seriously, why-“

“Not hungry, okay?” he interrupts.

“Ryan won’t be home before nine.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I should call him, you know-“ I stop when he glares at me. I settle back to eating and watch him pick on his food. 

Suddenly he drops the fork and hurriedly reaches for another tissue. Sneezing. Coughing. He glances up at me. 

“You’re not my mother. And neither is Ryan. I’m tired. It’s just a cold,” he sniffs. 

“You have to take even a cold seriously-“

“Fuck, Freddie! It’s not AIDS, all right ?!” he exclaims “I’m not about to catch pneumonia and drop dead!” 

“I know,” I cringe. 

“It’s just a cold,” he states.

“Okay.”

We continue eating for some time. He’s right, of course. Hell, I’m 18, he’s 37 and I’m acting all precocious. It’s just that….When I came here, he was only a couple of years older than I am now. I’ve seen the “late-teen” version of Caden Bailey. And I was never able to regard him as anything but an equal. Not that he is immature or anything, but we’ve never- he has never treated me like a child. Which was why we had some much trouble getting along at first. And then….I was there when he broke down only a short time ago. The first time he just…fainted. Over-exertion. Or so I was told. The second time only weeks later…He collapsed in the hallway. Unconscious. Barely breathing. Lips blue. He was in hospital for over a month and it was…bad, really. I was incredibly scared.

“I’m just worried,” I decide to tell him. I don’t want to piss him off, I’m just….scared.

“I know,” he finishes his meal and blows his nose again. He sighs, rubs his eyes.

“I know,” he repeats, sounding defeated, “I know you were there.” He runs a hand through his hair, holding the long bangs out of his face. 

I know he only does that when he’s really stressed and tired. Otherwise he takes care to keep it in his face at all cost. He shouldn’t have to do that, at least not with his family. It somehow hurts he does it though, but I guess it has become second nature to him. I won’t ask, it’s an extremely touchy subject.

He lets his hand drop and leans forward, close enough so that I recognize the dark blue colour of his eyes. I wonder sometimes whether this is a calculated movement, he’s got it down to perfection. People are always momentarily flustered when they realize his eyes aren’t dark brown or anything, but a deep midnight blue. I’m sure he knows it, I’m sure he knows how to use this moment to his advantage. But he can’t throw me off guard any more. Well, almost.

He stares at me for some time and I stare back. “I won’t die,” he says suddenly, as if making a decision. “Not today. Not for a long time.” He breaks eye contact and gets up “I’m going to lie down for a bit.” 

With that, he leaves the room. That’s as close to reassurance I can get from him, I know that. 
 

[ return ]
 

Prior: I'm not ... distracted, I'm doing research. Harper: On Mormons ? Prior: On ... Angels. I'm a ... an Angelologist. Harper: I never met an angelologist before. Prior: It's an obscure discipline.