Steady Ground | ✔

5 | Across the Oil Slick

His father called again around eight P.M. 

The Game of Thrones theme pulled him from his doze on the couch of the basement-level family room, and he reached across the coffee table for his phone, muscles stiff and eyes squinted against the glare of the ceiling light.

He had forgotten about the phone call from earlier.

"Hello?" he said, his voice laced with grogginess. Hopefully his father didn't mind about him not calling back – honestly, he almost hoped his father assumed it was payback on Atlas' part, since he ignored all of Atlas' texts from the previous three days.

"Hey, Atlas, how are you?"

Something about hearing his father's voice right then was comforting. Atlas let himself sink into the plush cushions, propping his feet up on the end pillow, and he let himself get carried away with their small talk.

Thankfully, his father hadn't seemed to mind. Honestly, his father was too nice to have minded in the first place.

They had to have talked for at least two hours. The next time Atlas glanced at the clock, it was nearly ten P.M. and his stomach was complaining about the skipped meal.

Grandma Georgie was doing better today, his father told him. Her surgery was successfully done the week prior, and she was healing well from it despite her underlying health issues having interfered some.

Although he wasn't close to her, it felt like a weight was taken off of him. Something was going right back home: a rare situation.

When he finally got off of the phone with his father, he felt loads better. His body was lighter and when he sat up, pushing the throw blanket off of himself, he was able to stand up and make his way toward the kitchen upstairs.

He should probably eat something to give him the strength to handle whatever happened tomorrow.

The rental house was a gorgeous one. The porcelain, Cascais tiled floors looked antique and their ornate nature contrasted well with the rich wooden furniture. It certainly wasn't a style he would want in his dream house, but it was still nice to look at.

Ashe was still awake, sitting at a barstool in front of the hole-in-the-wall of the kitchen. She sat writing in her journal and the sound of pen scratching on paper filtered through the high vaulted ceilings, only heard once one got close.

It seemed the others had already gone to bed. Actually, he was rather surprised to see her there. She seemed like one who would rather lock herself away in a bedroom. Maybe being forced to share a room with one of the other scientists took that security away, though. Thankfully, Atlas had the basement couch to himself, and didn't have to worry about a roommate.

"Hey, Ashe," he greeted. She glanced up at him as he made his way around the island and dug through the fridge.

"There's some leftovers," she said. She pointed with her pen toward a glass baking dish draped with a hand towel beside the bread box. "Levi made it."

"Oh, thanks."

She hummed, placing the pen down on the counter and waiting in silence for him to leave. Atlas helped himself to a plate of the pasta – briefly wondering why no one put it in the fridge when it had cheese on it and why they left the garlic bread on top to get soggy with condensation – and leaned against the large farm sink.

He got the notion that she wanted him to be on his way, but a question plagued him.

"Did you hear anything?" he asked.