Here I am, after sooo much time! Awfully sorry for the delay: working on zillions of stories at the same time is not a good idea, I suppose. Anyhow, another bittersweet chap for you: since I have no time line it is set in Tim's college years. It's a reflection over time, aging, and how difficult is both passing and accepting the baton. Ehy, don't do those faces: it's still funny, I swear!

Dedicated to my own big, awesome, crazy family.

Skype is Bittersweet

The first Tim thought about when he got the message, were Dad and Uncle Carl. His father kept eating those greasy sugar monstrosities every time Mom wasn't around, his uncle had never stopped drinking coffee with half sugar packet in it, and he had said them that you can't have the cholesterol skyrocketing like that and go away with it and oh fuck. So as soon as he read Mina's text he was out of the library, dashing through the campus and risking a close encounter with three students and an hot dog stand.

Trouble at home. Call soon, M.

This time I'll kill my whole family, I swear.

When he got to his room the twilight was glowing on the trees' branches, so in Santa Barbara should be pretty late but guess what?, he didn't give a damn. Marcus was listening to some inane music while pretending to study Anthropology, so Tim nicely shouted him to turn down that crap and went to his laptop. Screensaver, Skype, login. His heart was pounding so hard he couldn't breathe. When it asked his password he nearly freaked out.

Dad contact, call. Wait.

He won't be there for my wedding. Uncle Carl would never help my kids with the History projects.

The webcam buzzed, connecting. The image of a dim-lit room flashed on the screen, oak chairs around a table, deco-style lamps scattered on every possible surface. The living room. A large hand blocked the view, two voices bickering unmistakably in the background.

Tim's heart flipped.

Dad and Uncle Shawn. Oh thanks.

-Is it on this thingy?-

-Shawn, yes, it's Skype. You use it all the time!-

-But not with the tiniest screen ever. Did you find it in a cereal box?-

-Don't tell Jules...-

-Dad?- Tim stepped in. They were okay, he could find them annoying again. -Do you hear me?-

-Oh, hey, Tim-man!- Uncle Shawn's smile filled the screen. -All peachy there? Any news?-

News?

-Mina texted me during classes.- He took a deep breath. -She told me something happened at home. Is, is Mom?- He swallowed, hard. Tears pounding behind his eyes. -Is Uncle Carl? He had a seizure? I knew he shouldn't have eating all that cinna-

A voice echoed out of the monitor. Pissed, surly and definitively alive. -Ehy, ehy, why should I have a seizure?-

-No worries, Timmy.- Uncle Shawn sighed. -He's still safe and partially sane. And your lovely mother too.-

He had surely added some joke about sanity and 80's movies, but Tim was too busy collapsing to appreciate.

Meantime Uncle Carl had reached the table, sitting carefully next to Uncle Shawn. He put on his glasses and stretched toward the notepad screen; he tried not to wear them even risking to bump in every billboard along the sidewalk, so Tim felt flattered.

-Hi Tim. How has gone the Political Science exam?-

-Ah, well. I mean, it went well, thanks.- He answered, mechanically. -So let me make it clear, no one of you is hurt or dying or...?-

-Baby boy!- A rush of fluffy pale hair bumped in the screen, and his Mom's eyes blinked at him. Yeah, at him, right through the screen and all the way from California. -How's hanging, cupcake? How's Ella? You still see her? I like her, no police records, she doesn't wear extensions, good girl.-

-Mom, please.- Tim breathed in. It didn't work, he breathed again. -Care to say me why my sister sent me a red alarm?-

-Red alarm? There's such an app for the phone? Gus, you have it?-

-It's metaphorical, Shawn.-

-It's called Metaphorical?-

-Shut up you two!-

Tim sank his face in his hands, growling. Witnessing to his family's quarrels had always been plain fun, but right now he was feeling a pang of sympathy for the Chief Vick. -Guys, please. Has. Happened. Something. Bad?-

His voice should be really troubled, because Uncle Shawn actually stopped pretending to be a five-years-old. -Timmy, I told you, it's all okay. We're all here, crappy and old and deaf, especially Gus, but we're all here. Chill out. You're at college, you should thinking about quitting lessons and sneaking into awkward parties, not checking your old men. And your old women. How do you say that Lassie?-

His uncle answered, the others snorted.

Tim leaned back against the chair. It was all okay. They were okay, right there in front of him, like the week before and the week before that and all his twenty years of life. They were there.

Still he had seen how stiffly was moving Uncle Carl, how gray were getting Mom's hair. And suddenly he realized that one day it wouldn't be okay. One day one of them would not be there waving to him, and home would be a little less home.

And you can't do a damn thing about it.

Before Tim could stop frowning at the screen, his phone began to buzz on the desk. A message, Mina. Oh crap, maybe she was in trouble. He quickly unfolded the cell, reading. And feeling like a total idiot.

Sneaked out from the rear door. Thanks for keeping them busy. M.

Oh, how he would so love to smash his little sister. With a press. Repeatedly.

Instead he sighed, turning back as a new argument fired on the screen. At least, all was well. Everyone was okay. He could go sleep with no fears.

Yet, he didn't turn off Skype until midnight.