Hey, it's a new chapter! Trip does his best to prevent the old timeline from interfering.
Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.
- o – o -
Chapter Seven: Danse Macabre
Trip eyed his mother's cell phone as he ate breakfast, making damn sure it was charging. Last time around, he hadn't been able to call her to ask about Travis. Not letting him in had, unfortunately, been the first stepping stone to the marriage from hell. (Alright, that was just his opinion, but still. Travis was not getting close to his mother this time.)
He was lucky there was no school today. As in the original timeline, someone had called in a bomb threat on sixteen different schools. If not for the fact that hundreds of innocents would have been in danger, Trip would have guessed Anarchy had a hand in it. (He'd asked the man about it once, and gotten laughed at. Anarchy's style was different, and didn't involve kids dying.) As it was, he was at home all day while his mother was in court.
The ten-year-old sighed and rubbed his temples. Knowing that the bomb threat was going to be called in at four AM, he'd stayed up until midnight on Google. He'd found Jack Kirchner and sent out one cautious feeler. Liz had found out (as usual) and offered to have Jack kidnapped and sent to Trip's mother in a packing crate. Trip had ignored the offer.
Besides, there were more pressing things going on, like the Monte Carlo train. Liz was being unnecessarily cagey about that, which made the former vigilante suspicious. She was probably planning something; honestly, he couldn't blame her. If half the stories he'd heard about that were true, she was probably going to tag along so her father didn't get drunk and end up on everyone's shit list again.
Although… Trip sighed and beat his forehead on the table as he heard his mother leave the apartment. Eight hours of boredom, and Gerry wasn't moving in for another month. And there was no way in hell that he was going to Mrs. Morris' apartment for more than fifteen minutes—soap operas were not his idea of a good time. (Well, East Enders was all right, but you had to be able to find a cable provider who'd bring in the British shows for a reasonable price.)
The ten-year-old put his empty cereal bowl in the sink to be washed later and slouched out of the kitchen. If he couldn't watch moronic Londoners doing stupid things as part of a soap opera, he could always watch cartoons. Maybe Hong Kong Fooey was on…
- o – o -
Travis Hall was outside the apartment. Despite his protests that Trip's mother had sent him, Trip was stalling for time. They'd been in a stand-off for five minutes, with Trip being on the winning end of the argument. Travis had, thankfully, called Dana to confirm. Trip was holding the lawyer's cell phone hostage while he waited for the call to go through.
"And besides," he added through the half-open door, "the Cape could totally kick Batman's butt! And the Cape isn't a stupid comic book," he added petulantly. Who would have guessed his former hated stepfather was a Batman fan? In the original timeline, he'd been an uptight, unlikeable bastard who had no idea how to deal with anyone who wasn't Dana, a courtroom, or one of his biological kids.
"Oh for…" Travis trailed off, muttering under his breath. Trip rolled his eyes and wondered why his father was such a blockhead. If he could just convince the vigilante to reveal his stupid self to the world at large—preferably on live television—life would simplify immediately. Wasn't that what press conferences were for?
"Now why does this feel familiar?" Trip muttered as he listened to the dial tone for the millionth time. Was his mother calling mainland China or something? Sheesh. He looked out at Travis through the crack in the door, and couldn't resist. "Hey Trevor, are you a serial killer or something? Because mom hasn't picked up— Oh hey, mom!"
Trip would have sworn he heard Travis mumble something that sounded suspiciously like actual swearing at the change of pace. "Yeah? Seriously? Wait… Does that mean I have to let him in? You know what dad al… Oh fine," he huffed, and said goodbye to his mother. She was caught in traffic due to the bomb threat, and had been pulled aside for a search of her car. Judging by her tone as she hung up, she was rather skeptical of the randomness of the stop.
He hung up and passed the phone back to Travis, before shutting the door. The ten-year-old unlocked the chain, and wondered if being paranoid or implying that his mother's boss was a pedophile would get him grounded again. (His mother had, after several days, decided that implying that Marty had been having sex with Fleming wasn't such a big deal. She'd un-grounded him, but he'd still had to apologize to Susan.) Oddly, that retraction of the six-month sentence had coincided with her new job and his announcement that he'd made a friend his age. Coincidence? Trip didn't think so.
The ten-year-old unbolted the door and opened it again so Travis could come in. He heard the main phone ring and sighed. Was his mother calling him back already? Sheesh. He was going to be told to apologize to Travis, wasn't he? What a pity, and… He frowned as he looked at the number. It wasn't one he recognized.
"Who is this?" he asked, listening to the other end of the line intently.
—Remind me to strangle your carnie friends.—
Trip raised an eyebrow. So it was Liz's cell number—or her father's, more likely—and she was in a bad mood about something. But why was she calling him about it? "What happened?"
—I'll tell you when this fiasco is over. And… Shite, I think I just saw an opportunity. I'll talk to you later. Bye! Hullo Captain Reese…— Trip stared at the handset for a few seconds, before shrugging. Liz was weird like that. He could only hope that she wasn't… Captain Reese. Ah hell. Trip wondered what hiring Sestito to defend a nine-year-old would cost, because that sure as hell wasn't going to be a pretty confrontation…
Trip slouched over to the couch and picked up his discarded comic book as Travis shut the apartment door behind him. His mother would be home in half an hour, give or take, with a melted ice cream cake. She hadn't been so happy about getting stopped for the random search last time, but she'd done a good job of hiding it.
Half an hour later (right on time, Trip thought) his mother unlocked the door and let herself in. Travis, acting as a perfect gentleman, held the door for her (although it wasn't really necessary). Trip glowered at the man as he shut the door, and returned his mother's hug.
He looked at the ice cream cake and saw it was almost completely melted. "I'll go get cups," he said. His mother hugged him again and whispered an apology for being late. Trip smiled at her and headed for the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with three cups and an ice-cream scoop. "I guess you're not a serial killer," he said as he passed Travis a cup of melted ice cream cake.
Travis wisely said nothing, and the rest of the evening continued in silence. Trip made the appropriate noises of excitement when he opened the gift his mother had given him—a remote controlled car. She'd also given him an admonishment to bring his friend over sometime to play; the admonishment had Trip laughing for a good ten minutes after he was able to excuse himself to his room.
Trip opened his e-mail to check for any status updates from Liz. There was only one, and he felt his heart plunge somewhere to the vicinity of his stomach. She'd sent him a two word message from her phone:
Help me.
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Worried about Liz? Drop a line and let me know!
Side note: This is a two-parter.
