Beach Day

45: A Christmas Eve Eve Non-Miracle

When it's all over— when Kepler is toweled off, when Matt is back to reading on weaknesses of various undead and necromancers, she returns to the crossbow and the gun she's trying to make out of it. No matter how hard she tries, even with Kepler helping, she just can't get it.

But, then— it's late, and she hasn't eaten. She can take another crack at it in the morning.

She flops back on the bed, intent on just kind of laying there. It's been a long day. She may have been able to snap back to normal after what happened, but that doesn't mean that she's all that keen on the exhaustion that set in after-the-fact, and that doesn't mean her body is a fan of her pushing through that. Kepler nuzzles into her, having gotten over the betrayal of bathtime. She lets him, and lets him make a little nest of the space between her arm and the blanket.

The phone on the table starts ringing. She doesn't want to get it, but it isn't like she has much of a choice, when Matt looks up through his eyebrows like he's expecting her to. Groaning, Tiff gets off the bed and crosses the room to the table.

She lifts the phone, though she knows she probably shouldn't. She expects it to be Drew. It isn't. The contact name is simple: "Herman (Tiff's Dad)." It's the same number that called on Christmas Eve last year; it's the same number Tiff has been trying to call for months.

Frowning, Tiff considers ignoring it. It isn't a holiday, though, not yet— and he wouldn't be calling if it weren't important. With a sigh squeaking in the back of her throat, she bites the bullet and answers.

She listens intently, only absorbing half the information thrown at her, as much of it as there actually is. It's mostly subtext. She gets enough of it, before he hangs up and she wishes she were left with dial tone.

"Shit." She slaps the phone onto the table, grieving somewhere in her chest. "Goddammit."

Half-asleep over his notes and trap plans, Matt mumbles, "What is it?"

"Uh— family shit. Don't worry about it." Tiff runs a hand through her hair. "Can I take your truck?"

"I'm family, Tiff. You don't have to keep me out of it." Matt smacks his lips and adjusts his head on his arms, eyes half-closed in the minimal light.

"I'm going to, though. Just for now. Just until it's resolved. You'll— You'll see, I guess. In a minute. It's about Andy. Just— Keep looking over the assault plans and weaknesses for tomorrow, see if you can find any sort of... I don't know, lore-related weakness for us to exploit. Can I borrow your truck?"

"Uh— Yeah." Visibly confused and concerned, he tosses her the keys. They hit the carpet two feet to her left. "Just don't crash?"

"You sound like your dad." It comes out less of a joke than she intends it to.

"He knows how to drive. You don't."

She can't bring herself to have a hint of joviality to her voice. Like lime. Like cherry. Like knowing what the hell she's doing. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

Matt shakes his head without lifting it. "Where are you going, at least?"

"I've got to take care of something I should have done forever ago." Tiff reaches down and picks up the keys. Graceless, she scampers out the door. She doesn't even grab a room key on the way out. She barely even remembers to put on shoes. She steps on her own hand on the way down the stairs.

His voice was familiar on the phone. Even if she hadn't seen him on Sunday or earlier today, a year isn't long enough to forget the voice of your father. Tiff worries her hands on the wheel of the truck, and it's all she knows: his voice was familiar.