Cutscene: A Mother Thinks

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The dining room held its usual evening shadows, Rowan Veder’s grandmother's crystal chandelier casting warm pools of light across the antique mahogany as steam rose from the serving plates in front of them. The table—too large now for just the two of them—stretched between them, its watermarked surface collecting their shared history in rings and scratches.

Susan's fingers traced her glass—cider, just cider, no alcohol on the weekdays, she promised herself, like she promised the therapist, like she promised Greg's tear-stained face three years ago.

Some promises meant more than others.

Some promises kept you upright during thirty-hour shifts and parent-teacher conferences and nights when the silence felt like drowning. She took a slow sip as she watched Greg easily plate the spaghetti with practiced movements.

"Darling, do be careful-" Susan stopped, hearing her mother-in-law's inflections in her voice as her son looked up. "Just... watch out, sweetie." The correction was necessary but worrying—a single night back in Rowan’s world weeks ago bringing back everything she thought she’d left behind. Pushing that aside, she focused back on her son’s actions.

The way he handled the tongs reminded her of Dr. Harrison in the OR, that same fluid efficiency that came from... from what?

Training?

Experience?

When did he learn to move like that? She found herself cataloging the changes with the same attention she gave her elderly patients in the long-term care ward, the same focus she brought to those precious moments in pediatrics when a small blonde head would peek up from beneath hospital blankets, bringing with it that familiar ache of what-ifs...

Stop it, Suzy.

The crystal stemware caught the light, and she remembered similar glasses, different liquid, different promises. Three years next month. The number felt simultaneously massive and fragile, like a patient's stabilizing vitals—victory tempered by the knowledge that things could always change. Her fingers tightened around the cider, each sip a quiet affirmation.

The dining room table sat beneath the warm light of the chandelier—the one real remnant of her previous life she'd insisted on keeping. Her fingers found the watermark—the same table where she'd once hosted Rowan's colleagues, each place setting a battlefield of proper fork placement and calculated conversation. She remembered standing in Bloomingdale's, testing edge patterns against her palm while the sales associate assured her that yes, this was what the right sort of people used. Now the wood bore Greg's overenthusiastic cleaning marks, and somehow that felt more honest than all her careful polishing ever had.

Susan's hand trembled slightly as she smoothed the tablecloth—the good one, she realized with a jolt. The one she'd bought during that desperate phase of trying to impress Rowan's colleagues, right before everything fell apart.

When did Greg even find this? She couldn't remember the last time she'd touched it herself, couldn't bear to think about those dinner parties where she'd smiled through clenched teeth while the other wives compared summer homes and private schools. Her fingers traced the fabric's edge, medical instincts noting the slight tremor. Should have eaten something before this. Blood sugar's probably...

The garlic and basil hung heavy in the air, professional-grade cooking aromas that reminded her of the upscale restaurants she still frequented when she still wanted to spoil herself between shifts. When had he learned to cook like this?

She'd taught him the basics—not because they needed to economize, but because every child should know how to care for themselves. This was different, though. This was talent.

The kind that didn't appear overnight, except…

She found herself categorizing Greg's behavior like patient symptoms—new mannerisms in one column, old habits in another, changes highlighted in red like warning signs on a chart. She watched Greg's movements with the same careful attention she gave to post-op patients, noting his gait (too smooth), his posture (too controlled), his reflexes (too sharp). Her trained eye caught the changes: deltoid definition suggesting regular exercise, fine motor control indicating improved proprioception, pupils responding to light changes with unusual precision.

Each observation filed in her mind with unprofessional yet perfectly motherly attachment, trying to ignore the implications that made her pulse quicken. The assessment was instinctive—mother and nurse warring for dominance in her observations. Stop it, Susan. Not everything needs a diagnosis. But the medical charts in her mind filled themselves out anyway, mother's intuition written in perfect nursing shorthand.

"So," Greg's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, carrying that new edge of confidence that kept catching her off guard, "you're telling me you wouldn't pay actual money for this spaghetti?" His eyes caught the light, reflecting a self-assurance that seemed to flicker in and out—there one moment, carefully dimmed the next, like he was remembering to act more... normal.

She raised an eyebrow, fighting back the urge to check his pupils—equal? reactive? normal-shaped? The pasta was good, restaurant quality even, but she knew her role—keep him grounded, normal, safe. "I said it was good, Greg. I didn't say I'd open my checkbook for it."

"Wow, harsh," he replied with that new grin, the one that seemed to carry secrets. There was something knowing in his expression, like he was sharing a private joke with himself. "You're lucky I'm not charging you. Do you even know how much garlic bread goes for on the black market? They call it liquid gold."

She forced her focus back on his voice, to the familiar way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. This is Greg, she reminded herself. Just Greg. Your little boy.

"It's not even liquid," she pointed out, watching as he tore off a piece of garlic bread with careful restraint. Gone was the boy who'd devour entire loaves, scattering crumbs like evidence of his enthusiasm, a blond hurricane in human form. Now each movement was measured, controlled, as if he was monitoring his own strength, even unconsciously.

"Semantics, Mom." He leaned back slightly, his grin softening into something more genuine. The motion was smooth, catlike—then, as if catching himself, he added a slight wobble, a manufactured touch of clumsiness that made her throat tight. "But really, I nailed it tonight, right?"

She nodded, twirling her fork elegantly through the spaghetti. The sauce was perfect, the pasta al dente. When did my boy learn to cook like a chef? Her mind flashed to the PRT brochure hidden in her bedside drawer, edges worn from constant handling and stained with tears. "You did. Seriously, this is... really good, sweetheart. Better than last time."

Greg's smirk grew wider, almost cocky, before he quickly reined it in, ducking his head in an approximation of his old shyness. "I'm getting better," he said, voice quieter but still thrumming with pride. "Figured I should... you know, help out more."

Her chest tightened at that, mother's instinct warring with professional assessment. "You already help plenty," she said softly, light blue eyes watching his every movement for... for what?

Signs? God, listen to yourself, Susan.

"Nah," he replied, swallowing a bite of pasta and gesturing casually with his fork. "I mean, yeah, I help, but I could be better. Like, more consistent, you know? Plus, it's fun. Cooking's like... chemistry, but you get to eat it after."

How many family dinners had she spent reminding him to slow down, to chew with his mouth closed? Now here he sat, each movement deliberate, choreographed, wrong.

"A budding chef and a scientist," she teased, raising her glass of cider. The ice cubes clinked against the glass, the sound sharp and intrusive in the careful quiet between them. "My overachiever."

Greg chuckled, the sound both familiar and strange at the same time, like a remixed version of the laugh she was used to. "Overachiever?" His eyes sparkled with that new pride he tried so hard to hide, barely masked behind his usual playful look. "Nah, I'm just a guy who likes his garlic bread crispy." He smirked, taking a bite of the bread with exaggerated satisfaction that didn't quite mask the precision of his movements. "But what can I say? The culinary arts call to me."

Mmmm. "They call loud enough for you to actually listen." she found herself saying, the words coming automatically as she sampled another piece of the garlic bread.

Fresh thyme, she realized—the kind she used to have imported from specialty grocers, not the dried herbs from their local market. How? Her mind flashed to the untouched garden space behind their house, the plots she'd once planned to fill with herbs like her mother always wanted. "You're spoiling me tonight."

Greg's responding smile carried that new grace she kept noticing, his posture perfect as he leaned back, so different from the way he used to sprawl across her imported furniture, all gangly limbs and boundless energy. "Well, someone's gotta keep you from surviving on cafeteria jell-o and questionable lasagna."

A laugh escaped her, memories of shared break room meals with the other nurses flooding back. Her fingertips found the chip in her plate, one of the few sets she'd kept after the divorce, now bearing the scars of Greg's childhood. "It's not all too bad. The jell-o's pretty decent these days. I think they upgraded from 'rubber tire' to 'edible.'"

Their shared laughter filled the dining room, echoing off walls that had seen far too little joy lately. For a moment, she could almost forget her worries, could almost ignore the way his laugh seemed more calculated now, like he was measuring each note.

She set her fork down, sterling silver that matched nothing else they used anymore, and studied him with patient, careful attention. His cheekbones seemed sharper, more defined, with the slightest bit less youth to them. "So," she began, using the gentle tone she reserved for anxious patients, "How are your friends? You've been hanging out with Axel a lot lately, haven't you?"

"Yeah, Sparky's good." The casual shrug he gave was too perfect, too rehearsed. "We've been, uh, gaming. You know, killing time. Hanging with Wesley and the others too."

"The others?" She kept her voice steady, the way she did when checking suspicious bruises on elderly patients. Her grip tightened on her mother's silver, knuckles whitening slightly. "You mean Seo and... who's the new one? Jonouchi?"

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Greg's fork paused mid-motion, a micro-expression of surprise crossing his face before smoothing out with unnatural speed. "Yep, good ol' Joey. Funny guy. Kind of serious, though. Like, guy never cracks a smile, even when Seo's jumping around laughing like an idiot, doing parkour? It's weird."

"Parkour." The word tasted wrong, like medication on an empty stomach. Images flashed through her mind: trauma cases from her ER rotation, teenagers with shattered bones and grieving mothers. Her heart monitor would be spiking if she were wearing one. "And you're doing this... parkour?"

"Me?" His laugh was crystal perfect, practiced? "Nah, I'm too cool for that. I just watch and judge. Playing games, all that."

"Games," she repeated, barely able to keep the slight tremor from her voice.

Greg leaned forward, almost but not quite breaking her old but simple rule about elbows on tables. His eyes met hers with that new confidence that reminded her, with a jolt, of the way Rowan used to command attention every single day. "You know me, Mom. Games are life."

She smiled despite herself, even as her instincts screamed at her. But she'd learned long ago when to press and when to wait—triage wasn't just for the ER, after all. The warm light from her crystal chandelier (a wedding gift from Rowan's grandmother, worth more than most cars) softened the scene, letting her pretend, just for a moment, that everything was normal.

She glanced down at the table again. Her little boy had arranged everything with the same precision as an operating theater: the pasta, the artisanal bread on her grandmother's serving dish, fresh greens in Waterford crystal. His plating showed the same attention to detail she saw in the hospital's top surgeons, everything positioned just so, each element balanced. The pepper flakes scattered through the oil carried more heat than strictly necessary, but the technique was flawless. Nothing like the boy who used to drown everything in store-brand sauce, who needed constant reminders about simple table manners.

She watched him twirl another perfect forkful, his father's charm written in every gesture.

His hair flopped over his forehead, the only part of him that still seemed genuinely teenage, still purely her Greggie. Everything else had shifted, changed, like watching a wound heal on fast forwarded video. He smiled, and for a moment she saw Rowan again, the brilliant boy who dropped from private school into Winslow and swept her off her feet with that same magnetic energy, before getting pregnant had changed everything.

His face was animated, his movements relaxed in a way that seemed almost rehearsed—a careful performance beneath the animation. He'd grown so much recently, not just taller, though that was undeniable—she still wasn't used to craning her neck slightly to look him in the eye, not in the slightest.

But it was more than that.

The confidence, the way he held himself, the subtle grace that appeared between his carefully maintained moments of teenage awkwardness. He wasn't the same boy who used to stumble over his words or retreat into video games she bought him to keep him inside.

The overhead light caught the steam rising from their plates as the conversation shifted, Greg beginning to recount his "adventures." She watched the way his hands moved as he talked about his friends—Seo, Wesley, Joon, and Joey—throwing in vague, rapid-fire anecdotes that left Susan mildly amused and slightly dizzy. His stories had a practiced quality to them, but she chose not to pry.

"So, yeah, Joon trips this digital alarm," Greg said, his hands gesturing wildly, though she noticed how carefully those gestures avoided the glasses, the sauce boat, anything breakable. "And we're all scrambling to figure out how to fix it. I mean, it was just a simulation, but come on. Digital, Mom. How do you trip a digital alarm?"

She arched an eyebrow, her fork paused halfway to her mouth, marinade from the perfectly dressed salad greens threatening to drip onto the tablecloth. "A simulation, huh? Was this 'online' or in person?"

"Uh, both," he replied after the slightest hesitation, his voice carrying that artificial lightness she recognized from her own society days, when maintaining appearances meant everything. His fingers tapped the antique oak before freezing mid-motion, caught in a tell. "It's... hybrid gaming. Cutting-edge stuff."

"Uh-huh," she said, unable to suppress the twitch of her lips into a small smile. "And where exactly does one 'hybrid game' in Brockton Bay?"

Greg paused, just for a second, before leaning forward with an easy grin. “It’s top secret. can’t tell you, mom, I’d be breaking the rules.”

Susan rolled her eyes, but the warmth of the conversation was too familiar for her to pry. I’ve missed this, she thought to herself through another bite of the delicious pasta. It had been quite some time since things were both this comfortable and easy with her son… at least since that day with the PRT. The guilt crept in unbidden, memories of that day rising like bile. She'd done exactly what she'd sworn never to do after watching Rowan's family manipulate and control him: she'd chosen authority over trust, institution over love. I reported my son… I thought he had powers and I reported him… I didn’t talk to him. I just tossed him to the government to control.

All because she couldn't bring herself to simply talk to him.

The thought still stung as much as anything else did and Susan found herself tossing and turning many a night since then, since that argument, since her boy had thrown in her face that he knew his dad would never have done that. Somehow, that was the most traumatic thing about the last few months… which was terrifying in its own way.

The truth in them had cut deeper than any scalpel—Rowan, for all his faults, would have protected their son from that kind of scrutiny.

There had been some distance from that day till the day she came home from the hospital, after being gone for days, her son having thought she was dead in the bombings that had struck the city. They had both cried into each other’s arms and she had never felt so happy to be with her son. Their tearful reunion had begun to heal the wound, but she still felt the scar tissue of mistrust between them, tender and new.

Now, though…

"You've been spending a lot of time with Axel lately," she said casually, watching his reaction the way she monitored patients for adverse reactions; careful, clinical, searching for the smallest tell. The dining room light caught the slight tension in his shoulders, there and gone like an irregular heartbeat on a monitor.

His practiced smirk melted into something real, the performance dropping away like a patient finally letting their guard down. "Sparky's got good ideas. Keeps me on my toes. Theo on his too." Long fingers—pianist's fingers, like his father's—traced invisible patterns on her heirloom tablecloth.

Susan couldn't help but smile, even as her mind cataloged the changes in her son's social circle like symptoms in a patient file. Axel—or Sparky, as Greg insisted on calling him—was an odd one, with his grunge aesthetic, perpetual smirk, and that strange combination of sharp sarcasm and disarming politeness that only occasionally rang false. Greg had met him two years ago at school, and though she hadn't been sure about him at first—too mature, too much attitude, too different from the safe, predictable friends she'd imagined for her son if Arcadia hadn’t been so stingy with admissions—Sparky had proven himself a loyal friend.

"Theo, huh?" she said aloud, thinking of Greg's godbrother. Anders. Of course Anders' blood ran through her son’s veins, however distant the connection. The name carried weight, like her mother-in-law's silver that still lived in the back of her cabinet, too precious to use but too loaded with memory to give away. She remembered Marjorie Veder at her wedding, lips pursed with slight distaste as she adjusted Susan's wedding gown to hide her bump with precise, manicured fingers. I wonder if seeing her grandson grow up would have put a smile on that dry face.

Susan fought the urge to let out a sigh. Don’t speak ill of the dead.

Even despite the family ties, the name felt unfamiliar, three years of carefully maintained distance stretching between her and the Anders family ever since Rowan had gallivanted off to Florida with his secretary. The chandelier light caught on her crystal glass, sending fractured shadows across the tablecloth. Theo's sudden appearance in Greg's life as a friend carried weight, a significance she couldn't ignore. At least I've met this one, she thought, though the comfort felt hollow, like so many other reassurances she gave herself these days. The Anders name still carried weight in Brockton Bay, even if she'd chosen to step away from that world.

Worry settled in her chest, as familiar as her morning routine of checking her appearance in the hallway mirror, touching up her lipstick before facing the world. She was a mother—the role had become her anchor after everything else had drifted away. "He's a good kid," she said carefully, each word measured against memories of his father's family. "A little... intense, maybe, but good." Steam no longer rose from her pasta, time slipping away unnoticed while she focused on her son.

"Intense is putting it lightly." Greg's laugh carried echoes of Rowan's charm, but something else flickered in his eyes—was that pride? The kind of confidence she remembered from her own society days, when every gesture carried meaning. "He's got this energy, you know? Like he's always thinking three steps ahead."

"That sounds... exhausting." Her fingers found the edge of her napkin, smoothing away invisible imperfections with practiced movements. Old habits died hard, even years after leaving that world of constant scrutiny and perfect table settings.

Greg's shrug carried that new grace that still startled her, so different from his childhood clumsiness. "Nah. Keeps things interesting."

She opened her mouth, questions forming...

His phone buzzed against the antique oak, the harsh sound interrupting their careful dance of conversation. The name "Sparky" flashed across the screen, and she caught the moment of tension in Greg's shoulders before he masterfully suppressed it, just as she used to hide her own reactions at society gatherings.

He lifted the phone, hesitated a fraction too long, then set it down slowly. "That's Axel," he said, his voice carrying the same artificial lightness she'd once used at charity galas. "He, uh, wants to show me something cool."

Her heart clenched. Sparky.

The boy who somehow balanced leather jackets with perfect manners, who seemed to ground Greg in ways she couldn't anymore. She did her best to push him away the first few times her son had brought him around, making excuses for why Greg couldn’t go outside or that the other boy couldn’t come in to play because Greg had to focus on his homework.

Even now she felt bad for that, for doing that to them both.

"Something cool," she echoed, the words tasting of doubt. The dining room's warmth seemed to fade, shadows lengthening across their half-finished meal. She appreciated that he didn’t pretend to be going to sleep, just to sneak out later like he usually always did. Asking her permission at least once in the last month was a courtesy she appreciated, for what little it was worth. "What kind of cool?"

His posture loosened deliberately as she stared at her son carefully, expression blank but waiting. "Dunno. He didn't say. Probably something dumb, like... I don't know, glow-in-the-dark frisbee."

"At night?" The porcelain clinked as she set down her fork, sound sharp against the growing tension. Outside, streetlights flickered on one by one.

"That's when it glows, Mom." His smirk didn't reach his eyes, which darted between phone, window, and door with barely concealed urgency. "C'mon, keep up."

She forced an eye roll, but unease settled in her chest like old perfume. "Is that all you're going to do?"

Greg was already rising, his chair already scraping back slowly. "No idea. Might grab some night ice cream or something."

Night ice cream. She mouthed the words slowly.

Her fork hesitated on the edge of her plate, leaving tiny scratches in the ceramic like track marks on a patient's arm. She wanted to say no. To tell him to stay here, where she could see him, where he was safe. But the look in his eyes—the barely restrained energy, the need to go—stopped her. It was the same look she'd seen in recovering patients, the ones who'd push themselves too hard, too fast, but couldn't be contained any longer.

He wasn't a little boy anymore. The thought hit her like a crash cart against her hip, sudden and bruising. The dining room light caught his profile, highlighting cheekbones that had sharpened overnight, casting shadows where baby fat used to be.

As much as she hated it, she had to let him go.

"...Okay," she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended, like whispered updates during midnight rounds. "Have fun." The words felt hollow, automatic.

Greg was up in an instant, his chair scraping against the floor as he rushed to her side. He leaned down, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. The gesture was warm but rushed, but she leaned in all the same. "Thanks, Mom. Love you."

"Love you too," she said, but the words barely left her lips before he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall with hurried energy. The front door clicked shut with finality, leaving her alone in the quiet dining room. The silence expanded, consuming everything.

Susan sat there, staring at his half-finished plate, the carefully arranged food now cold and abandoned. The house felt unbearably quiet, the warmth of their earlier conversation replaced by a gnawing sense of unease that spread through her chest.

She noticed the sauce congealing at the edge of her plate, the garlic bread cooling from crisp to chewy—small details marking the passage of time like a hospital clock ticking through night shift. The wine glass of cider had lost its condensation, beads of moisture pooling on the coaster like tears.

"Love you too, sweetie," she murmured again, the words lingering in the empty air.

She wouldn’t push.

She promised.