troublewillfindme

When all else fails, get help.

Weir is glowering at her.

It’d be a little more menacing if he weren’t simultaneously trying to explain the concept of ‘necrotizing miasma’ to his daughter; apparently, his husband had forgotten to ensure she wasn’t eavesdropping when he’d made the call.

She has no remorse.

(Well, maybe some. She hadn’t meant to get Sally involved.)

In her defense, she had tried reason. She dipped a nearby stem into the stuff, holding it up as it withered away and rotted, falling to pieces before their eyes. She’d pointed out the risks of meddling in, or perhaps more accurately, traipsing through an unknown substance that obviously presented a biohazard risk.

“I’ll be fine. But keep Jane on the couch just to be safe.” He’d offered in response.

Next to her, Lazarus, her new set of hands around the shop, fidgeted. This had been in and of itself worrisome as she’d come to recognize the gesture as tell tale warning of an ill-advised plan.

“Don’t even think about it,” she’d said, hoping to quash whatever adventure they were considering.

“But---“

“No.” She’d turned her attention back to Weir, still standing in the midst of the stuff. “Will you get out of that? You’re giving Lazarus ideas.”

“Not until I figure out what it is.”

“Weir.”

“I’m fine, Lizzie. Look,” he’d said, picking up his foot. “Flesh still intact.” He’d set it down, then frowned. “My socks are wet, though.”

“William Weir, if there is blood all over my floor when this clears…”

“It’s not blood. I’ve been in it long enough that shock would have set in.”

“If there is blood all over my floor, you’re never hearing the end of it.”

To her abject horror, he’d stooped down and run a hand through the substance. It was in that moment she’d realized she would need help.

Your husband is walking around in a flesh-eating biohazard and I can’t make him stop, she’d texted. He seems okay, but help?

Typical Will; I’ll call him came the response.

Now, here they are.

Weir sits on top of her worktable, aforementioned glower attempting to burrow its way into her soul. Lazarus has begun to fidget once again. Jane snores happily away across their laps. The miasma laps against the furniture in gentle waves, showing no signs of receding.

“It’s kind of like a fog, but it’s thicker,” Weir says, still trying to explain the concept of miasma. “It looks like fog, but it feels like soup.”

There’s a beat, a pause for commentary.

“Yeah, it is yucky. I won’t touch it anymore.”

She buries her face into Jane’s fur, trying to hide the grin cracking across her face.

“No, Sally, I’m not bringing any home. No. No. I’ll send you a picture. Even if I brought it home, we couldn’t keep it. No, not even for show and tell.”

Lazarus perks up. “Hey, do you think I could---“

“No,” she cuts them off. “I will buy you a pizza not to touch it, try to gather it, or parkour around it.”

“Parkour around or parkour over?”

“Lazarus.”

“Boss.”

“No.”

They sigh, and placate themselves petting Jane.

“Yeah, kiddo,” Weir says, rubbing at his temple. “I love you. I miss you too. I’ll talk to you and Dad tonight, okay? Be good for Grandpa.” He hangs up the call, and sighs. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

Lizzie furrows her brow.

Weir drums his fingers against the table. “We’re the fifth of five incidents. The first only just started to recede after a solid five hours.”

“And we’re on …”

“Hour two.”

Their eyes meet and drift to Lazarus.

“It’s gonna be a long afternoon.”