Chrysalis

Chapter 13

Notes: These waits keep getting longer and longer. I certainly didn't mean it, and I apologize for this – I must sound like a broken record by now, but I truly have a lot going on in real life and it just keeps getting worse. I thank you for the support though, it's truly appreciated. I hope that somebody is still interested in this!

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Chapter Thirteen

That day was as close to perfection as Alfred could have hoped. Winter seemed to have decided to leave the inhabitants of the city some days of respite before descending on them with its cold claws, and the sun still cast warmth on every surface its rays touched. That probably meant the lunch was going to be prepared outside – if only his father finally decided to get ready.

"Dad!" Alfred called for the umpteenth time, craning his neck to look inside from his position at the doorway. "Dad, get a move! What are you waiting for, next Thanksgiving? We should have been at Francis's ten minutes ago!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" his father's clipped voice answered along with his hurried footsteps. "Give me a minute, will you? I had some stuff to e-mail to Roger..."

Alfred rolled his eyes, but he refrained from pointing out that the editor never worked on holidays – if in more than fifteen years his father hadn't gotten the memo, he probably wasn't going to start now, and Alfred just wanted to go.

"Oh well, nice of you to finally come," he mumbled instead as he preceded his father to the car, "Francis was probably about to send a search party or something..."

Not to mention Maggie. Maybe Alfred was exaggerating, but she was definitely prone to worrying, and so was Francis... between the two of them, even such a short delay could turn into the worst suppositions. Francis would handle it, but Maggie... the thought of causing her any distress made a vague sense of uneasiness blossom at the pit of his stomach.

Alfred had already hopped into the car when his father's phone rang, making him freeze.

"Who's now..." he muttered as his right hand fished into the pocket of his trench coat and came back with the phone.

"Dad, don't—" Alfred's protest died in his throat as his father's features tightened, his eyes growing colder.

"Dad?" Alfred asked in a softer voice as his stomach plummeted. He knew that look.

"It's Alistair," his father answered wearily, confirming Alfred's suspicions. "He wants me to call him once I'm free..."

Arthur suddenly looked ten years older, drained and defeated. Alfred found himself wondering if he had noticed how his shoulders were hunched over, as if to protect himself.

Hot rage coursed through Alfred's veins, his entire body stiffening. In truth, he liked Alistair. He despised him for the memories that the mere mention of his name stirred in his father, however.

"Well, you aren't free now!" he snapped, puffing his cheeks. "We have to go, Uncle Ali can wait! It isn't even a holiday in Scotland, he'll have work to do anyway. He can wait until tomorrow!"

Arthur shook himself and threw the phone in Alfred's lap.

"Of course he can wait, I'm not at that wanker's service," he almost growled as he got into the car. "Hold the phone for me, will you? I'll be driving now, you answer if that worrywart of Francis calls."

After that, Arthur shut the door with a bang and ignited the car with so much fury that it almost snapped Alfred out of his seat.

"Woah!" he protested automatically, bracing himself.