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"I'm fine," she kept insisting-- as if the puddle of spilled juice mingled with broken pitcher pieces didn't tell a different story. It wasn't Sarah's first 'oops' either; two other puddles were still being mopped up by Jim and Morph, who assisted in the form of a miniature, big-eyed broom.
John surveyed the mess that thankfully hadn't left the vicinity of the kitchen and grimly tightened his lips. He ushered his wife out of the swinging doors and towards the stairs. Activity in the dining room was hopping, but it could be managed by two. "Alright, off with ye, love, I've 'ad enough o' this."
"I'm fine," Sarah repeated, not doing a swell job of covering a congested cough.
Oh yes, John wanted to retort. The way she wobbled with each step was very convincing.
His wife's blue eyes were dull, rimmed red, and her hair was unkempt from violently sneezing. She claimed to be someone who didn't get sick often, and if she did, it was just an allergy or minuscule, insignificant cold. That was why Sarah joined her husband and son in the daily routine of running the inn, thinking she could simply work off whatever 'seasonal allergy' she had in her system. John hadn't been pleased in the slightest when she tagged along, dismissing his recommendations to stay in bed where sleeping off a 'seasonal allergy' was more effective.
But what was her answer?
"I'm fine, just a little--" Sarah's foot snagged on a rug in the hallway. Her husband caught her right on time as if he'd been counting down. "Cold," she finished.
"Burnin' fever's more like," John countered, disturbed from the temperature his thermal reading was picking up. The instant the back of his organic hand lightly touched her forehead, his brows knitted. "Stars, dear, yer burnin' like a bloody furnace. Are ye feelin' woozy?"
Sarah stuck out her jaw, but the cough that racked her poor lungs brought her back to her senses. "Yeah. A-A little."
John couldn't help but give one, tiny tease. "Y'shouldn't lie ta me, Sarah. Y'know ya hardly can."
"I'm sorry, honey, I..." Her stance slackened, and his hold on her elbows tightened. She was hanging on a thread of consciousness, and that was not the symptom of a trivial cold.
The double doors swung open. Morph zipped up and around Jim as the boy set down his mop at seeing his father. "Is she sleeping?"
"Sleepin', as she should, Jimbo." The Ursid moved around the kitchen as if nothing had happened, balancing trays of food and beverage on his shoulders and arms. On his way out to deliver the backed-up orders, he said, "I'll be needin' an extra pair'a arms goin' about tha mornin', alright, lad? We'll close up early."
Jim nodded, willing to help out as much as he could. After all, he was thirteen now, practically a man. A man who would be more than happy to look after his sick mother.
"Is Ma okay?" he inquired, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Caught a nasty flu, th'sall. With th' travelers we be gettin' from stars-knows-where, anythin' can rub off on the healthiest'a folks. I'll be th' one tendin' ta her. Didn' seem contagious, but she could do without visitors." John breathed steadily through his nose, ignoring the anxious prickle of the predicament as he sought his son's agreement. "Y'got me, Jimbo?"
He gave his understanding, albeit reluctantly. While Jim had hoped his father would have given him a better job concerning his mother's recovery, a more responsible one, he figured help always started with accepting and letting a situation be handled by wiser individuals.
Which should have included him, now that he thought about it. He may not know a lot about how to treat severe sicknesses, but surely he could be more useful and lighten his father's load?
Jim peeked out of the kitchen, Morph on top of his hair. There his father was, weaving around tables, serving and apologizing to patrons who asked either what the hold up was or if everything was alright, always giving a sorry shake of their heads at the impossible business of running an inn with limited staff.
A thought came to Jim. The blobby critter on his head saw his face light up and mimicked a cartoonish lightbulb going off.
"Morph, let's help him out. What do you say?"
His pet chirped eagerly.
John always deemed himself to be an excellent multi-tasker. A limb for versatile usage was utilized to its advantage almost constantly, and to have that kind of skill took practice. Lots of practice doing an array of jobs (surviving fatherhood a bonus function).
Apparently, his trusty hunk-a-hardware could only do so much while he checked on Sarah, closed up the inn, and hunted for Jim, (who'd escaped his responsibilities without a leave of absence). Half of the reason was that John was already drained from dealing with customers-- something that shouldn't have hit him at all if Jim had been present.
Infuriated, he slapped a rag on the kitchen counter. How in the dark abyss of hell did that boy diss his duties so fast? He had been counting on him to pitch in where he could, hadn't asked for a lot. This kind of impudence fried the cyborg's nerves, and smoke could have been pouring out his ears as he looked to and fro for the slacker.
He'd raised him better, expected the actions of such upbringing, but sometimes, things like uncomplicated requests went into Jim's ear and out the other. To hell with Sarah's notions of him being 'in that teenager phase'. Wherever his son was, he going to get a lecture-- and whatever he chose to do instead of keeping busy would earn him a punishment of swift degree.
John was halfway up the stairs when a pink blob whizzed around him. He let Morph perch on a finger. "Y'wouldn't happen ta know where Jim is, would ya boy?" he questioned, tired but glad to see he hadn't been completely left alone.
His pet gibbered something, forming into a brilliantly illuminating arrow.
Down the corridors of rental rooms, past quaint paintings and sconces, John reached the third floor of their private quarters. Jim's room was the door on the right with access to the roof, and theirs right across.
Based on Morph's faithful guidance, the kid bound for a beating was behind the latter's entry-- as was one other person. John could have switched on his X-ray lens to see who else was behind the door, but after tuning in on a pair of whispering voices, a surge of security made him fling the thing open wide.
Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was in the middle of a conversation (or an argument) as the door suddenly crashed into the wall, announcing his father's presence. He went stone still.
On the other hand, Delbert outright freaked, holding up a suitcase as a shield. "Ah-ah-ah, don'tblastmewithyourlazervision,sir!" he yelped.
Hackles raised, John stormed up to the pair, squinting at the trembling canid. "It's Mr. Silver ta ye," he spat. "As fer you-" He zoned in on Jim with a livid glower, fighting every urge to just punt that boy into his bedroom. "How in th' hell did ya interpret 'leave yer mum be' as 'have a party in her room'?"
"Pa, I just-" Jim attempted to explain, but at the pace at which his father was berating, he'd have better luck wrestling an eight-armed arachnoid.
"Just what? D'ya not care fer yer mother? Tell me what's so important that ya had ta invite a friend over? Are ya that irresponsible, boy?"
Jim's hurt features fell into a steely, resilient frown. He stayed quiet, the wisest choice he'd made so far.
"Excuse me, um--" Dr. Doppler neared with a raised finger. Getting between a man and his son was risky business- especially when the prior could twist him into a pretzel -but Jim shouldn't have received such charges. "I'd like to make a small intervention--ah, interjection-"
The Ursid suddenly loomed over him, rightfully territorial. "Stick a cork in it an' get out," he growled out with a bite.
Knees knocking, Delbert complied with an "Oookay!", hurrying off and giving a sorry look to Jim.
"Wait! Doc, can't you do anything for her?"
His friend sank against the doorframe as if it'd give him the strength that had evacuated through his bowels as soon as the angry dad barged in. "Jim, for the last time, I'm an astrophysicist. Study of celestial bodies. Not the biological ones. It's in my clipping, you've seen the frames of diplomas all over my house--"
"Out!" John roared, sending the poor doctor fleeing.
One culprit of his wife's broken peace was gone and dealt with. The other was well aware that with the guest gone, fewer formalities would be granted to him.
For now, his father kept his temper at bay as he crossed his arms and waited for a futile explanation of his son's antics. Jim shuffled his feet, gazing over at his mother, who had somehow stayed sleeping throughout that entire exchange. Skin shining with sweat, every breath she took was accented with a ragged cough.
"Pa, I just wanted to help," he whispered. "Like you told me. I thought--"
"Y'thought wrong, boy. When I tell ya I need ye somewhere, ya go nowhere else. I gave ye a simple job, an' ya need ta follow it through ta not make'a mess o' tings. Do I make meself clear, James?"
An imperceptible nod, but no answer. He'd given his explanation. Now, John realized his son was waiting for him to listen.
In all honesty, compared to his wife, he wasn't as patient as a parent. It was a blessing disguised as a curse, John supposed, since it opened his eyes on how to teach and work with Jim rightly. The boy would shut down at his scolding, and that was no way to solve an issue. No one got anywhere being stubborn as rocks... and he could be the first to blame seeing how disconcerted his son was.
It would be a lie to say he was mad at how far the kid would go to support his family. That was a great quality he'd never hinder. John made a mental note to not bulldoze over any matter between him and Jim since the boy more often than not meant well. This was a learning experience for the two of them.
Sighing, the cyborg set his hand on the boy's shoulder. He knelt to his level, playfully bumping their foreheads together. "Y'coulda put a smidgen of faith in yer ol' Pa to know what he's doin'. While yer fancy-pants astronomer geek may not have a medical degree, I happen ta know how to treat from colds ta festerin' wounds."
Jim shook his head, traces of dejectedness lingering in his features. "It's not that. I wanted to make things easier, with the Inn and everything.."
John's heart warmed something fierce, with love and personal shame. He smiled at Jim as if his son was much younger, afraid of silly monsters and thunderstorms. "Nothin' is more important than you and yer mum. I'd give up anythin' in a moment to look after tha both'a ye."
Overhearing the situation had pacified, Morph flew out from his hidey-hole, clustering close to Jim's neck and squeaking inquisitively.
"What about Morph?" Jim asked, holding the pink shifter between them.
"Aye, can't forget about th' lil' fellow," John replied, rubbing a finger on their pet's head. "He'd make a great maid, ya think so, lad?"
Morph transformed into a feather duster, tickling Jim and making him giggle. "Yeah, he would."
Their playfulness wore off at the unsettling coughs coming from the bed. It was a fine thing amends were made, but attention was needed elsewhere. From the both of them.
John instructed Jim to fetch a cold rag while he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. The boy took up the task in no less than a second, gently letting the coolness of the cloth combat his mother's heat.
As John returned and prepared a spoonful of syrupy medicine, Sarah faintly blinked up at them, a smile appearing like a hint of sunshine behind stormclouds. "Thank you for listening to him," she whispered.
Jim smiled and nodded-- just as his father did the same. They exchanged a surprised look that then dissolved into lightheartedness.