A Series of Disappointments
"You're going to have to tell him, eventually."
"Gabriel, we are not having this conversation again," Angela irritably sighed as she slipped into her side of the bed.
"It's only right that he knows what you are. And what he could become," The Plumber said gently, carefully.
"Is it really necessary? I mean, really?"
Her alien heritage wasn't a touchy subject. Not exactly. She was highly protective of her secret, that was certain, but it wasn't so much the fact that she wasn't human that made her defensive. It was the fact that most beings disliked parasites of any sort, be they terrestrial or extra-terrestrial.
Gabriel seemed to have been the exception to the rule. She originally never intended to tell him what she was. It was a herculean task she thought was best left unfulfilled. He managed to convince her, through understanding and patience and an openness she thought his kind was incapable of, that no matter what she was he would love her and accept her.
And so she managed to rationalize that she owed it to him to admit the truth. He had risked so much for her, it was only right she returned the favor.
Their son was a different story.
In Angela's opinion he was, frankly, a disappointment. Yes, he was bright and full of energy like his father. Yes, he had her flaxen hair and a pair of beautiful, beautiful blue eyes. He was athletic and confident and was the darling of every teacher he ever had.
And yet, she still thought of him as a disappointment.
Because for the past eleven years, he showed no sign, no indication whatsoever that he was anything but completely human.
"He's our son," was all Gabriel said.
"I know that," she responded icily, "He's our son. Our human son. Our human son who does not need to know his mother is an alien who feeds on life energy."
"Why are you so afraid of telling him? Do you think he'll hate you for it?"
"Humans have hated for far pettier things."
"Angela-"
"Gabriel, please," she curled into a ball, her voice sounded exasperated, "He's better off not knowing what I am and what I do. I wish you'd believe that it's for his sake that I'm keeping it a secret and not mine."
Angela felt her husband's arms encircle her.
"I do believe you have his best intentions at heart. And I wish you'd believe me that it's for both your sakes that you tell him."
She turned towards him, her cheek rested against his chest and she whispered "I wish I could. I truly wish I could."
-----------------------
Michael Morningstar was not happy.
He had no reason to be happy. His father had died barely six months ago and it left his mother a wreck. Though she tried to hide it, he had noticed how unhealthy she looked. Her cheeks were hollow, the skin on her hands were sallow and pulled taut over bone. Her hair lacked its usual sheen and it was as if the very life in her had been snuffed out.
He tried his best to distract her with stories about his days at school.
She seemed so distant whenever he spoke to her, as if she never heard a word he said. At the end of his stories, she would blink at him, smile (he only realized then how her smile never reached her eyes) and answer "That's nice, Michael."
Once he tried to hold her hand.
She looked terrified and yanked herself free from his grip.
He never did that again.
But even then, Michael felt hopeful. His mother would snap out of it, eventually. His father had always told him how she was stronger than she looked. And Michael believed his father.
And just as he said, snap out of it she did.
Except.
Except.
Except his father never mentioned that she would snap out of it when she remarried.
He had been one of the groom's men (he was too old to be the ring bearer and too young to be the best man) at his mother's second wedding. Though he felt angry, betrayed and hurt that his mother could forget the memory of his father so quickly and so casually, he forced himself to smile.
And when the opportunity to raise an objection to the union rose, Michael held his tongue.
For her sake.
-----------------------
"You're what?" Angela blinked, looking up from the magazine she was reading.
"I'm moving into the guest house."
Michael braced himself for a barrage of questions. He anticipated his mother would demand to know why he was moving out. He had his answers ready. He'd been practicing for weeks now, he'd better be ready.
Instead, she studied him with a casual disinterest and answered, "Alright Michael. I'll have the servants prepare the guest house."
"R-really?" he stammered in surprise.
"Yes, really. I'm proud of you for asserting your independence," she beamed from where she sat. "And if it doesn't pan out, you will always be welcomed back. I'll have the servants keep your room the way you leave it, alright?"
"A-alright," Michael nodded and found a lump had formed in his throat.
Quickly, he turned on his heels to head to his room. He never saw the genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes, that briefly flashed across his mother's face. Nor the sadness, the kind that sapped her of energy, that momentarily dulled her eyes.
-----------------------
ooc: A series of drabbles/scene-snippets wherein Michael Morningstar was completely human. Or at least, has not shown any alien-traits up to that point in his life. Maybe I'm making it melodramatic, I tend to do that unfortunately, but I truly think Michael and Angela's relationship would be different especially when compared to the other verses of them out there XD
"Gabriel, we are not having this conversation again," Angela irritably sighed as she slipped into her side of the bed.
"It's only right that he knows what you are. And what he could become," The Plumber said gently, carefully.
"Is it really necessary? I mean, really?"
Her alien heritage wasn't a touchy subject. Not exactly. She was highly protective of her secret, that was certain, but it wasn't so much the fact that she wasn't human that made her defensive. It was the fact that most beings disliked parasites of any sort, be they terrestrial or extra-terrestrial.
Gabriel seemed to have been the exception to the rule. She originally never intended to tell him what she was. It was a herculean task she thought was best left unfulfilled. He managed to convince her, through understanding and patience and an openness she thought his kind was incapable of, that no matter what she was he would love her and accept her.
And so she managed to rationalize that she owed it to him to admit the truth. He had risked so much for her, it was only right she returned the favor.
Their son was a different story.
In Angela's opinion he was, frankly, a disappointment. Yes, he was bright and full of energy like his father. Yes, he had her flaxen hair and a pair of beautiful, beautiful blue eyes. He was athletic and confident and was the darling of every teacher he ever had.
And yet, she still thought of him as a disappointment.
Because for the past eleven years, he showed no sign, no indication whatsoever that he was anything but completely human.
"He's our son," was all Gabriel said.
"I know that," she responded icily, "He's our son. Our human son. Our human son who does not need to know his mother is an alien who feeds on life energy."
"Why are you so afraid of telling him? Do you think he'll hate you for it?"
"Humans have hated for far pettier things."
"Angela-"
"Gabriel, please," she curled into a ball, her voice sounded exasperated, "He's better off not knowing what I am and what I do. I wish you'd believe that it's for his sake that I'm keeping it a secret and not mine."
Angela felt her husband's arms encircle her.
"I do believe you have his best intentions at heart. And I wish you'd believe me that it's for both your sakes that you tell him."
She turned towards him, her cheek rested against his chest and she whispered "I wish I could. I truly wish I could."
-----------------------
Michael Morningstar was not happy.
He had no reason to be happy. His father had died barely six months ago and it left his mother a wreck. Though she tried to hide it, he had noticed how unhealthy she looked. Her cheeks were hollow, the skin on her hands were sallow and pulled taut over bone. Her hair lacked its usual sheen and it was as if the very life in her had been snuffed out.
He tried his best to distract her with stories about his days at school.
She seemed so distant whenever he spoke to her, as if she never heard a word he said. At the end of his stories, she would blink at him, smile (he only realized then how her smile never reached her eyes) and answer "That's nice, Michael."
Once he tried to hold her hand.
She looked terrified and yanked herself free from his grip.
He never did that again.
But even then, Michael felt hopeful. His mother would snap out of it, eventually. His father had always told him how she was stronger than she looked. And Michael believed his father.
And just as he said, snap out of it she did.
Except.
Except.
Except his father never mentioned that she would snap out of it when she remarried.
He had been one of the groom's men (he was too old to be the ring bearer and too young to be the best man) at his mother's second wedding. Though he felt angry, betrayed and hurt that his mother could forget the memory of his father so quickly and so casually, he forced himself to smile.
And when the opportunity to raise an objection to the union rose, Michael held his tongue.
For her sake.
-----------------------
"You're what?" Angela blinked, looking up from the magazine she was reading.
"I'm moving into the guest house."
Michael braced himself for a barrage of questions. He anticipated his mother would demand to know why he was moving out. He had his answers ready. He'd been practicing for weeks now, he'd better be ready.
Instead, she studied him with a casual disinterest and answered, "Alright Michael. I'll have the servants prepare the guest house."
"R-really?" he stammered in surprise.
"Yes, really. I'm proud of you for asserting your independence," she beamed from where she sat. "And if it doesn't pan out, you will always be welcomed back. I'll have the servants keep your room the way you leave it, alright?"
"A-alright," Michael nodded and found a lump had formed in his throat.
Quickly, he turned on his heels to head to his room. He never saw the genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes, that briefly flashed across his mother's face. Nor the sadness, the kind that sapped her of energy, that momentarily dulled her eyes.
-----------------------
ooc: A series of drabbles/scene-snippets wherein Michael Morningstar was completely human. Or at least, has not shown any alien-traits up to that point in his life. Maybe I'm making it melodramatic, I tend to do that unfortunately, but I truly think Michael and Angela's relationship would be different especially when compared to the other verses of them out there XD