Adrenaline Sisters: Raise the White Flag

Chapter 8: It's Not What It Seems in the Land of Dreams

|| First Person || Bomb Sunshine ||

"I just don't get it," I huff as I grab more of my belongings to stuff in the backpack Pete holds for me. I grip the jacket in my hand as I turn to the Defender that sits on my bed. He fiddles with one of Joan's toys to keep the toddler entertained. My daughter giggles and tries to grab at the toy in Pete's hand.

"He seriously thinks he can just walk in like nothing ever went wrong!" I rant. "Like it hasn't been two years! Isn't that ridiculous?"
"I don't quite understand what goes on in his head, darling," Pete shrugs. "But forget he even exists, okay?"

How can I? I ask myself. My eyes drift to the result of the love Patrick and I used to have. She's occupied with the toy Pete finally let her take in her possession. I take my bag from the Defender and finish my last bit of packing before I double check for Joan's bag.

My mind still runs through the words exchanged from yesterday, when Patrick returned out of the blue. I recall the tension between him and Pete. Inquiries start to stir in my brain as I steal a few glances of Pete Wentz as he watches Joan.

"What did he mean yesterday?" I blurt out. The platinum blonde looks over at me, unsure what I mean. You can read the confusion in the way his brow furrows.
"Who?" he asks. A wave of that feeling crashes over me again. Déjà vú. I push through it and continue with my curiosity.

"Patrick," I state. "What did he mean yesterday? When he snapped at you."

Pete frowns a little as he stands and makes his way to me. His warm, calloused hands grip onto my shoulders and his hazel-green eyes stare deep into my brown ones.

"Bomb, it's nothing," he whispers gently. "Patrick— something's not right with his head. After two years of being God knows where, there's no doubt that there's some loose bolts and screws in that head of his."
"You sure?" I mumble. Pete nods and plants a kiss on my forehead.

"Think nothing of it," he says, his voice promising peace. I don't believe the promises considering the type of world we live in now. No one is safe. Nothing is safe.

"I'm gonna pack up. You good?" he asks as he hesitates to step away from me. I nod, my mind now occupied with Patrick Stump and if Pete Wentz is right about the horrible Defender. Pete smiles and cups my cheek in his hand for a second before leaving the room.

I grab my backpack along with Joan's bag and manage to balance both on my shoulders to pick Joan up. The toddler is singing a familiar tune to herself, some of the words only being babble. I soon recognize it's the song I've sang to her before she was born. Lullaby. A song Patrick had told me about that him and Pete had worked on for the kids Pete once had before the world went to hell.

"Mommy, sing the song," Joan beams. I smile for the little girl and press a kiss on her cheek.
"Not now, Bubble Monster," I say. Thoughts of Patrick plague my mind and I find my feet directing me to his room. I set Joan on her feet and place our bags by Patrick's door.

"Stay here, Jo," I command gently. "Mommy's gonna talk to someone."
"Bad guy, Mommy?" she asks. She points at the door that contains Patrick Stump. Joan's free hand reaches up to her mouth, her thumb being claimed by her mouth. A habit she's picked up when she's nervous or scared.

"No, sweetheart," I say gently. I run a hand through her blonde hair to give her reassurance. "I'll be right back, okay? I promise."

Joan gives a small nod and I knock gently on the door. I hear faint shuffling from behind the wooden barrier as I wait for some form of answer from the Defender.

"Come in!" he calls from the other side. I glance back at Joan and blow her a small kiss before entering the room and closing the door behind me.

"I'm sorry I'm taking so long to get ready, Ger—" Patrick looks up and his eyes instantly widen a little once he notices I'm not the killjoy he expected. "Uh... hey, Bomb."
"Hey," I mumble awkwardly. "I, uh, I'm s-sorry."
"For what?" he asks. Patrick adjusts himself to direct his attention to me. He fails to hide the wince caused by his injured leg as he turns. A part of me feels sympathy for him. The other part of me feels... something I can't quite describe.