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rogueshadeaux · 2 years ago

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Chapter Ten — Settling

Was it Mom? Was it what happened in the alley? My eyes trailed off, looking away — I couldn’t stand seeing Dad like that — and instead landed on the height chart of him and his brother. Reggie. Dad never told us much about him beyond his name, a few stories about how he always bailed Dad out of trouble — but I didn’t know how he died. Did this run deeper than just Mom? Was Dad haunted by his brother? Could be his parents too — if they died from the Ray Field Plague, then that means they weren’t Conduits. He didn’t…he couldn’t be blaming himself for that either, right?

3.2 words | 10 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: familial loss

We all eventually collapsed on our various spaces in the living room, Dad taking the couch and sleeping at our heads after we had a huddled movie night around Dad’s phone. Morning came with the sudden noisy hum of the fridge and the HVAC’s heating pushing through, that weird stench of it not being used recently filling the house. “Oh, electricity’s on, good,” Dad mumbled huskily, relaxing. “We can do the basement today.”

Well, we were gonna, until Dad forced study time on us.

I don’t know how he could expect us to be able to study for exams with everything that had happened. And to think this was literally all I wanted to do — study, stress about exams, only have the mundane to worry about. It felt superficial now to frantically try to find study material for AP Lit since my textbook was a state away.

Dad made us split his phone, Brent stealing it to open up tabs on Chemistry while I sort of fumbled around. At least I had a study packet — otherwise this would have been useless. Dad took to disappearing through a door in the hall while we slummed away at our studying, trying hard to actually pretend to care.“This is stupid,” I heard Brent mutter.

“You’re one to talk,” I whispered back, “Architecture just got way easier for you. You can just make your little buildings whenever you want. How the fuck am I supposed to use water in art?”

“Watercolors.” He tried to deadpan, failing as an amused smirk slid on his face. “It’s in the name.”

I raised a hand and flicked my fingers towards him, water condensing on their tips and flinging onto his face. He sputtered, flinching with the splash and then warning me how I was so lucky he couldn’t do the same.

Betty eventually saved us from the torture, the trunk of her little Beetle full of refrigerated essentials; milk, eggs. A tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream she insisted counted. Dad emerged, a box in hand, greeting Betty with a joking, “Finally — thought you were trying to get out of helping us unpack,”

“I would never!” Betty balked. “I’m not one to pass up being nosy, Delsin, you know that.”

“And yet you’d always yell at me for it,” Dad rolled his eyes.

“Well it was my job to make sure you grew up better than me, after all,”

Dad made Brent help with moving the mattresses into the master bedroom, a task made far easier and yet absolutely hectic as he went to pull the mattress up and instead launched it towards the ceiling, knocking the spinning fan and making it wobble around.

The sound made poor Betty jump in place, her ankles popping with the sudden movement as Dad launched forward to catch the mattress before it tumbled into the fireplace. “Jesus Christ, Brent,” Dad breathed out on a laugh, struggling to balance the mattress in the air before pushing it to the side, away from the fire.

Brent was 3 shades redder than normal, muttering apologies that Dad waved off. But he wasn’t willing to drop the subject yet. “I mean, I got stronger when I got my powers, but not like this,”

“Do you think it’s his powers, perhaps?” Betty chimed in, hand still clasped to her chest.

“I mean, if his skin can turn metal, why not muscles?” I added.

Dad nodded slowly, messing with the 5 o’clock shadow that was overgrowing on him quick like a yard after a storm before suddenly slapping his hand on Brent’s bicep. “Flex.” He demanded.

“Dad—“ Brent stressed, somehow getting redder.

“C’mon son,” Dad insisted. “I’m not asking you to strip or anything,”

Way he was acting though, Dad may as well have.

Brent was the sporty one, football in the fall and baseball in the spring with weightlifting in between, and has always been on the stronger side. The bigger side. But now, with the room being warm enough to not need a carhart and with his sleeves rolled up, I realized he did look different. Not bigger, but like…defined, I guess. The muscles in his arm were showing more now instead of coexisting with his skin, straining the hem on the arm of his Akomish Rez shirt.

Brent relented, tensing his arm under Dad’s grip. His hand moved violently, his skin refusing to dimple under Dad’s grip when he gave a gentle squeeze. “Holy shit, Brent, I think Jean is right,”

Brent became our sideshow, being poked and prodded as we realized his muscles were, literally, solid steel. I copied Dad when Brent was doing his full mimicry, flicking his bicep and flinching away at the pain of hitting steel. “That’s not fair! Why didn’t I get that?” I complained. Why does he get to be the cool superhero with the pecks and the bull-like strength?

These Conduit powers better have at least erased my lactose intolerance.

Betty took my place, asking Brent and Dad a million questions like your power is steel? and are you doing that voluntarily? I moved back a few steps, leaned back against the same wall I was on when they pulled into the driveway, watching Dad and Betty fuss over him, encouraging him to go full steel to see if it would affect anything.

Dad and Brent were in the middle of seeing if he could concentrate making only a single part of his body a normal epidermis when he yelped, jumping suddenly as the little circular red magnet I threw stuck itself to his forehead with a loud CLACK.

“Huh,” I said, smirking a bit as Brent glared at me. “So you’re probably not stainless steel,”

“You couldn’t think of any other way to test that?”

“Shut up before I stick a report card on you.”

“She has a point,” Dad said, peeling the magnet off of Brent’s forehead. “Aren’t there a bunch of different kinds of steel? We should test and see if you have any limitations. In fact,” he looked over at me. “I want to do that for both of you, later today. See how far you can take your powers. After that, we’ll have to…well, we’ll have to train you to fight—“

“Oh, Delsin, you don’t think that’s necessary—“ Betty began.

“They need to. Whoever sent those Akurans to attack us in Portland isn’t going to give up.” Dad looked at Betty, something pleading in his eyes. “They’ve got to learn to protect themselves in case I…if I can’t…”

I never understood what people meant when they said silence could be deafening. Yeah, sure, there've been instances that the silence seemed to speak louder than words; that bad comedy bit during the talent show that one time, the assembly when we were told our 3rd grade teacher had passed. But deafening? I hadn’t really gotten that until now. Dad’s voice died off, his face almost distressed as he shot back to whatever memory was holding him captive.

Brent turned full human again, the action pulling Betty’s attention from Dad’s gaze and prompting her to say, “Well, let’s at least get the house more livable before you do any of that. You two move the beds to the room, Regina and I will start bringing up boxes from the basement.”

That was enough to change the atmosphere of the room, Dad nodding and then making a joke of warning Brent not to send the bed through the roof the next time he lifts it. Betty motioned for me to follow her, us leaving the boys to begin trying to fit the mattresses down the narrow hallway as she led me to the same door Dad emerged from earlier.

Most of the house was wood, a sort of vintage vibe stocked with paneling and patterned shag carpet that I imagine was older than Dad. Which is why the sudden dive into a modern looking staircase, followed by a steeled blue and gray hallway took me by surprise. It was like stepping back into the 21st century. There were three doors, Betty choosing the first on the right, which was already cracked open.

There weren’t as many boxes as I thought there’d be — sure, there were a good dozen, but they only took up half of the room. The other half was empty save for a yellow and white striped surfboard propped up against the soft artichoke colored walls, a pile of gray and white bedding absolutely covered in dust on the ground beside it. “Huh, I didn’t know Dad could surf!” I exclaimed, going to grip the board. Whenever we got to go to the beach, he’d never avoid the waves — but he never volunteered himself to try surfing, even when Brent did.

Betty, looking between two boxes and their labels, simply replied, “He doesn’t.”

Dad…doesn’t? Then whose…

I took a better look at the room: green, split halfway down the wall with a partitioned border that gave away to an eggshell shade. Dad hated green, to a comedic degree. The only time I’d ever gotten him in anything remotely green was my 6th grade Father Daughter Dance, and honestly, that was just for the fun of hearing his sarcastic quips about how he looked like Shrek the Ogre. All over a shirt! The entire suit wasn’t even green! His room wouldn’t willingly be green, not in a million years.

It was around this time that I noticed another box, a lone, small one helping hold the surfboard up. Gently leaning the board forward, I looked at the box, Reggie’s photography stuff written in a shaky form of Dad’s handwriting on top.

This was Reggie’s room.

A thousand questions ran through my head. Dad’s past was always sort of illusive; he’d shut down whenever we’d ask him about his past, would sort of trail off in the middle of a story when he did reveal anything, falling into nothing but pursed lips and sad eyes. At least, now I understood there was a layer of safety to why we never knew anything about anyone. But I just wanted to know, with the proof all right here; who was Reggie?

Betty definitely wasn’t the person to ask, though. She probably knew him, but Dad deserved the chance to make good on that honesty promise.

Instead of satiating a single question, I asked Betty, “What kind of stuff are we unpacking? What should I leave?”

She heaved a box against her hip, spinning to face me. “Any of them, really. They’re mostly old house supplies, so hopefully they will help you all settle in easier.”

“And Reggie’s things?”

Betty’s eyes trailed over to the surfboard, and the box I exposed by moving it. “Leave it for your father to decide.”

Betty began out the room, leaving me to scramble for a box and rush behind, almost tripping on the first step. Dad and Brent were just emerging from the nursery as I entered the hall, Dad immediately offering to take the box I held and sending me back down with Brent.

I led him back down, Brent cracking a joke at how modern the basement looked. “Wonder why they didn’t do the whole house? Upstairs looks like a scene from That 70’s Show.”

“Can’t imagine it’s cheap. Plus, I dunno,” I opened Reggie’s door, “Kind of gives it a sweet rustic vibe.”

“Yeah,” he snorted, rolling his eyes, “Okay,”

It wasn’t surprising when Brent rushed over to the surfboard; out of us three, he was the only one that ever had the nerve to get on one. “Woah, look at this,” he hummed, gripping the board and turning it in his hands. “Hey, Jean, think you can make waves in the Sound?”

I paused for only a moment while grabbing a box: waves? That would be awesome. But we needed to lie low, and I wasn’t sure messing around and accidentally causing a tsunami or something was discreet. So instead, I teased, “Sure you’re not just gonna sink like lead?”

Brent sort of tossed his head aside, contemplating the possibility as he looked back at the board — and down at the box. I could see him go through the same realization I did, looking around, back at the box, then to the board, which he gently replaced.

But Brent wasn’t one to be serious for so long, settling the info somewhere deep in his mind as he asked, “So is it too late to call dibs on this room? I like the colors,”

We cleaned out Reggie’s old bedroom, the only thing left being the small corner of his possessions, which grew to gain two more boxes. Unopened. We seemed to be in silent agreement that it wasn’t our right to open those. “I should get Dad,” Brent said. “Ask him what to do with all this.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, wiping my brow. Definitely didn’t gain any fun strength powers. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go start on the other room.”

So we left, Brent walking down the hall while I walked across to what I assumed was the door to the other bedroom. I entered a surprising fight with the hinges, them screaming in protest as I made them move for the first time in nearly 18 years; but finally, after a good shoulder check, I stuck my head in—

And lost all fight once I looked around.

Without a doubt, this was Dad’s room. It was graffitied to hell, only little splotches of white peaking through the blues and reds and blacks as negative space. Even the ceiling wasn’t spared, his name tagged against the texture of the popcorn, faded from who knows how long. The work around the room reflected Delsin Rowe — er, Dad’s — style found in Seattle, a bunch of tongue-in-cheek bits: a man using a red-and-blue tinged stock line as a whip on poor retail workers, a traditional Akomish with red warpaint that looked more like blood than paint, especially with the pile of bodies in the background with a politician standing atop them like that pic of Iwo Jima. The red stripes of the American flag acting as a jail cell for a black man.

It was all Rowe, but it looked…wrong? Like a case of uncanny valley. And it took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was because these pieces were rough around the edges, a testament of a budding artist.

These were the firsts of his work. Him finding his style, his expression.

“Jesus, these look bad,” Dad laughed behind me, making me jump so hard I knocked my head against the doorframe. I slipped up, cursing, receiving a, “Jean, words,” from Dad as he turned me to face him, checking my temple.

“You scared me,” I laughed, trying to shake away the pain in my head. What was it about door frames that seemed to increase the pain?

“Well, if you weren’t standing in the middle of the hallway,” he jokingly chastised, releasing his gaze on me and laying a hand on the door, pushing it open further with an annoyed grunt. We’d definitely have to invest in some WD-40.

I walked in at Dad’s insistence, looking at the wall the door was a part of for the bit of art I missed. There was more hiding behind the piles of cardboard, I imagine — but what I saw was enough to leave my mouth agape.

At least, until Dad cleared his throat behind me and I spun on him, crossing my arms. “So, this whole time — every time I’d talk about Delsin Rowe’s art—“

“Oh, yeah, that was uh,” Dad laughed breathlessly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Quite the ego boost, lemme tell you.”

“I hate you.” But there was no malice; the words were followed by chuckling, me rolling my eyes as Dad shoved his hands in his pockets. “And you used to yell at me about drawing on the walls,”

“Hey, to be fair, my parents weren’t exactly excited about me doing this, either.” Dad walked past, running a finger along a stream of blue paint to see if it would give away. “This room used to smell terrible, too. I probably have some kind of disease from sleeping in here with those paint fumes.”

God, spray paint smell in a basement room? I’m surprised he didn’t asphyxiate.

But Dad, the Rowland I once was convinced he was…that man never did art. Always said he was bad at it. “Dad? When was the last time you did something like this?”

Dad hummed, brows furrowing for only a moment as he processed what I meant. This. Art. “Oh. Well, the last big project I had was…well, the nursery.”

18 years. Has he not done anything else in 18 years?

Dad must have seen my shock, because he rushed to say, “I mean, I’ve done some sketches. I actually have a journal hiding in my file cabinet at COLE. But I haven’t been able to…to do anything that could be seen by someone. What if they saw my art style and traced it back to Delsin Rowe, y’know?” He shrugged, obviously bothered and trying his hardest to appear not to be. “Had to be safe.”

That list just kept growing. There was so much of Dad he had to leave behind to keep Brent and I safe. I didn’t even know he was Akomish until we rolled up on the reservation! He told us we were Italian!

He practically scrubbed himself from existence, put on this façade of a man to…keep us safe. How lonely was that? Unable to even say ‘hey, I like to draw!’ without worrying it’ll kill your entire family. It sounded so isolating. The fact that he didn’t just explode at the seams from holding so much of himself captive was a mystery to me.

But we were in the midst of honesty, right? And I think I was being too selfish, wanting all his truths for myself; maybe we needed to reserve some for him. Which is why, after another glance around, I asked, “You mind, well…” God, why was I suddenly bashful? This was Dad. “Well, I’ve always thought tagging was cool. Maybe we could…”

He cocked his head to the side, confused for only a moment at what I was asking before, slowly, a wide grin spread on his face. “Sure, if you want. ‘Course, we have to figure out a way to do it legally. Can’t tell you how many times I was arrested while tagging.” He shook his head, chuckling gently. “You sure you want to try graffiti, though? Don’t think watercolors would be a better choice?”

“Brent already made that joke,”

“Damnit.”

#infamous erosion #infamous second son #infamous delsin #delsin rowe #reggie rowe #fetch walker #abigail walker #infamous #infamous 2 #Betty needs a last name damnit #fanfic #fanfiction #Sucker Punch Productions #Water Conduit Regina was inspired by the Water Conduit Reggie fannon that is literally everywhere i go for inFAMOUS stuff I swear to gOD--

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