#they were supposed to be mega close but all the stuff with rook... i can't and neither can alma apparently

[coldshrugs]

this side of paradise, part one: r.i.p. me

characters: alma greene, rebecca word count: 1.1k rating: general part 2 | part 3 | part 4

“So…” Alma says with the sort of breezy detachment that, coming from her, can only be feigned. She pulls two mugs off the metal rack in her tiny kitchen: the first is covered in a pristine white glaze, sporting a slim handle meant for a sophisticated hand, and reserved exclusively for visits from her mother; the second is a well-loved novelty mug with a chip in the rim and cracked black glaze, roughly drawn flowers surround a tombstone graphic that reads ‘R.I.P. ME’ —Alma’s favorite. “I’ve been thinking.”

She pours and passes Rebecca a cup of coffee, making a point to ignore the wary glance thrown her way as her mom spoons a bit of sugar into the mug.

“Mhm,” Rebecca hums, worry pinching at that line between her brows. Alma wonders if it’s always been there, gone ignored from idealization, and brought to light by so many recent disillusions.

Alma sips her own coffee, stalling the inevitable. This is a topic she’s wanted to raise for a while but the timing’s never right. It’s not right today either but at least they’re alone. I’m not asking for permission, she tells herself, just a little guidance.

“I think it’s time we talk about the possibility of me turning.”

“Turning.” It’s not a question, but the incredulous way it drops from her mouth is anything but confident.

“Into a vampire.”

Rebecca takes a long drink of her coffee. The silence between them prickles uncomfortably, but teenage summers spent working at the uptown boutique taught Alma that silence sells. She leans forward and waits for Rebecca’s move.

Rebecca’s knuckles whiten around the delicate handle of her mug and, for a moment, Alma fears she’ll snap it off.

“Alma, sweetie, that’s… It’s not a good idea. You can’t possibly—”

“No, no. I can.” She rises from her too-casual slouch, fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “And I think I should. I’m going to tell you why, and then you can tell me how.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes, a calculating look that Alma’s only seen her use at work. She doesn’t enjoy feeling like work.

“Did he put this in your head? Or—or is it because you think this will help you learn more about your dad?”

Alma scoffs and meets Rebecca’s icy gaze with a blazing glare of her own. Eyes she loves in the face of a woman she barely recognizes anymore. “I haven’t talked to Mason about it yet, or any of the others for that matter.”

Alma lets that hang for a moment and doesn’t mention Rook. She doesn’t want Rebecca to know she’s right about one thing, wants instead for her to squirm in the bitterness of her incorrect assumption.

“I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

Rebecca sits up straight in the barstool with crossed arms, that professional armor up against her own daughter, and Alma knows exactly how they got here. They were close, unimaginably close despite all the time she was away. Multiple calls every week, in-jokes, surprise lunch dates, every single holiday and school function. Rebecca was there as much as she could be and Alma stretched her understanding a little more every year. They made it work.

Alma used to pine for the weekends Rebecca could be home without interruption. Stopping by Haley’s (back when it was her father’s place) for waffles and hot chocolate before a trip to the city for new comic books and maybe a movie at the nice theater. Sitting with her back to the sofa as her mom, with the deep scent of vanilla radiating from her, trimmed or braided Alma’s hair, syndicated Star Trek episodes playing on the living room tv and she’d never felt so safe.

But she never feels safe anymore, and that’s the point. That’s the problem.

“Listen,” she starts, pulling the mass of her curls back from her face. It’s too hot in here. She didn’t mean to get angry. “I just… I can’t live like this anymore, being prey for every creature I meet because my blood’s basically supernatural Redbull—”

“Alma, please—”

“I’m serious! I’m tired, mom.” And she sighs with the weight of it, a fear she hates admitting but one that eats at her. “I love this work, I do. I’m incredibly grateful you let me in, even if it was by necessity. But I’m a target, even with Bravo’s protection. If there’s even a chance this could solve that? I want to take that chance.”

Rebecca pries open the tight line of her lips. “Vampirism won’t kill you. Their physiology may be different from humans, but their veins still circulate blood just like ours do—we don’t know that it’d negate your mutation, or if the venom would even be accepted by your system.”

Hm. Alma hadn’t thought about what would happen if it didn’t take. With the amount of shit she’s been through because of this mutation, it’s a risk she’s willing to make regardless. “I think I’d still like to try. Even if the mutation sticks around, I’d be able to protect myself in ways I can’t now.”

Rebecca tilts her head, hand on her chin, and Alma can almost see the breakneck speed at which she filters through the best and worst outcomes, a quality she’s always admired. She can’t help looking up to her, even now. Finally, Rebecca stands from her stool.

“Where are you going?” Alma heads around the counter to cut her off.

Rebecca sweeps her into a tight hug and Alma’s back on the living room floor, the scent of vanilla behind her, all around her, and Rebecca there encouraging her to think and question and embrace weirdness. Back when those rituals were enough, before she really met her hero.

“I’ll consult with the techs that did your blood work, see what advice they have. If you’re considering this, we should be as informed as possible, hm?”

The smile Rebecca offers as she turns toward the door is not a happy one, but Alma considers this a success.

“And Alma,” she says, opening the door just a crack, “do talk to Bravo about this. What to expect, what they think, what forever is like. You can’t come back from this decision.”

She marches out of the apartment with a heavy finality. Alma sinks back on the counter and scoops up her coffee. She figures this was the hard part. Talking to her team—her friends—should be a breeze after Rebecca’s hard-won, if begrudging, acceptance.

At least that’s what she’ll tell herself for now.