A/N: A one-shot collection dedicated to the single thing dearest to me, that helped me shape my life and turned me into the (un)stable person I am today. (And it isn't the Internet.)

Mrs. DeGroot, as well as quite close to canon, is loosely based off my grandmother. And by loosely, I mean quoted almost verbatim.

The glass felt cold on her arthritis-ridden hands, occasionally jolting up as they reached the frame and returned to sliding down the surface. The fingertips explored the already too familiar glass, and were now aware of every small abrasion and groove made by her long, hard nails. If she were to trust the manicurist, they were painted purple.

It must have been around seven o'clock. It couldn't have been six in the morning; the sprinkler system has already shut down after it watered the home's pristine jade-green lawn, the only patch of green on that side of New Mexico. Then again, it couldn't have been eight o'clock. For one, her Tavish was still home. Also, the light that peered through the supposedly clear windows shone on her cold legs. Shards f ice flew through her feet, but the sunshine warmed up the surface. It was like blowing a frozen turkey with a hair-dryer set on low. It didn't do much, but something was indeed happening to the numb flesh, though it did not make that much of a difference.

Clang-clang!

Clink!

Srrrrrrrp…

She placed the framed photograph on her lap, covered with a thick tartan blanket. It was the only blanket she kept after her son and she moved into this vast estate, and the only blanket reminding her that these prime earning years of his were not going to last. She held tightly onto her long, smooth cane. A swish here and there, there was a coffee table right in front of her. It was two inches closer than yesterday. The maid must have moved it. She would have to fire her later on.

Clang-clang!

Ching!

"Damn," said her son, presumably stopping a spinning saucer. With a sigh of relief, he placed a small porcelain object on top of it. She moved her nose up and called out to him.

"Tavish?"

No response.

She felt her small, round sunglasses slipping off her arched nose. She propped it up, her acrylic nail poking her wrinkled forehead. She put her hand down on the tartan quilt once more.

"Tavish!"

"Yea mum?" He asked, pouring some liquid into the cup.

"What're you doing here this late, boy? Shouldn't ya be off workin'?" She spoke in a shrill tone, heavily accented thanks to the years spent in her homeland, the life she had as a Demowoman in the Highlands. Her son sighed.

"'T's Thursday, mum. I have a mornin' off."

"Funny, ya didn't have mornin's off yesterday?" She asked, her tone more skeptical than curious.

"Yesterday wa'nt Thursday."

"I recall you havin' several jobs Thursday…" She extended her aching hand, slowly folding one finger at a time as she ticked off the occupations. "That job at RED, the construction sites…"

"Yea, mum. Later in the day. I'm free until ten at least."

She furrowed her thick eyebrows, her mouth moving to the side. If she had any strength left in her, she would have taken that cane and smacked him over the head for being so rude to her.

"Oh dear me…" she began, ignoring her son's irritated sigh. "It starts that way… first the mornin', then the full day, then the pink slip…"

"Fer God's sake, mum! It's just me mornin' off!"

"Oh, don't tell me!" She yelped, her hand grabbing the cane and lifting it up over her head, where it hovered above her thin, black hair. She was told a couple of white streaks crossed it in parts, but she did not pay attention to those people. She continued; "Don't tell me, son! Yer fired! I knew it!"

"I'm not fired, mum-…"

"And where's that leave you? Jobless! Unable tae provide fer ya'self. For shame, for shame…"

"I am not jobless, mum! I'm managing three jobs!"

"Managin'? Ha!" She cackled, lowering the cane as she heard his footsteps. "Yer Da, God bless his soul,…"

"…had twenty-six jobs, yes, ya told me." He walked into the room, his footsteps louder and his voice seemingly cooler as he saw his mother.

"And he taught ya all the tricks of the trade! Nobody made bombs as well as he did, believe you me…"

Her walking aid made impact with the floor, the thud muffled by the thick, brown carpet. She lowered her head and ran her fingers across the picture frame. It had a small rough patch on the edge.

"I know where yer Da is now…" she said, staring blankly into the darkness around her. "Spinnin' in his grave."

"Mmm-hmm," Tavish responded, his attention detached. Work seemed easier than this, somehow. A couple of bombs here, a few grenades there, a sip of Scrumpy and he'd be done. This took concentration and dedication, surviving another one of these talks.

"Yer in ya prime, Tavish, 'member that, will you? Make lots of money an' manage it well. Don't forget, I'm the one who got you to-!"

"Buy this house, I know, mum." He placed the tray on the polished coffee table. She knew it was polished, because when she tried to put her sore feet on it, they slid right off. "Tea's up."

"And then there's the tea," she said, leaning over her picture and taking the saucer, the cup trembling on it. She sipped the liquid loudly.

"Wot about tha tea?!" Tavish asked, unable to control his tone. There was guilt in his voice, guilt that he spoke to her in such a manner. The newest workplace has taken a toll on him.

She finished sipping and smacked her lips twice, sighing with content. "Too expensive. I told ya not to spend cash on the good Earl Gray. Not yet, Tavish. I just worry about the money flow."

She could not see it, but a wry smile slid over her son's face as he put his large hand on her frail, narrow shoulder, that popped up like a bony bulge under her pink cardigan.

"I wouldnae worry 'bout the cash flow, mum. I've made five million."

"Dollars."

"…yes dollars. It isn't exactly bad, is it?"

His mother shook her head, mumbling under her breath.

"'S not exactly pounds, either. If yer gonna make money, make sure they give you real money!"

"Dollars are real mon-"

"REAL," she said sternly, sending shivers down his spine as the last word was said flatly; "MONEY."

He was silent for a couple of moments before reluctantly responding.

" I'll, uh… I'll see what I can do."

"No, ya won't. Yer not tha' persuasive. If they're paying ya in Monopoly money you'd gladly take it. Not like yer Da."

She leaned back into her chair, her face becoming softer with melancholy and regret. She ran her hand across the picture once more. Though her eyes couldn't make out the image, it imprinted itself in her mind. Not in a photographic form, but more like a memory. She was sitting with her husband and son, a prodigy amongst the Demochildren. Her husband stood there, commanding Tavish to stand up straight. She remembered the voice, the brooding tone her son would later pick up from him. She remembered the click of the camera, and her son complaining about the blinding flash. She remembered when the family was whole, poor as church mice and twice as hungry, but they were together. Under the cold, lifeless glass there was an imprint. A memory, frozen on a grainy piece of paper, possibly even torn and battered, stained with tears, she couldn't really know. And she clung onto it, like a drowning man clutched a straw.

"I miss him, Tavish," she said, softer this time. "I really do. And every day. It...doesn't really matter, though. We'll meet up soon."

Her son said nothing. She said that she would meet up with him soon for almost two years now. There was no point in arguing with her anymore.

Instead he nodded and walked up to his mother, sitting on the armrest of her blue corduroy-covered armchair. He placed his arm around her shoulders, noticing that she was getting thinner and thinner each day. Her shoulders were dropped and she slouched, even though she considered this position she was in quite normal. Looking at this woman now, he wouldn't have guessed that this was the same hardworking woman who kept the family together. His mother was slowly, steadily falling apart. He looked at the clock on the wall. He would spend his free morning comforting her, he was sure of it.

But then again, he did not mind it.

There was one thing worse than her nagging and constant criticizing. Her loving nature turned her into an observer who couldn't even see what life had become, the beauty of it. Her dissatisfaction showed with every quick remark she threw at him, and all those questions about his various occupations. Still, he could put up with all of that. It was the least he could do.

Because deep down, in the darkness of his soul, he knew that there was one thing that he couldn't stand seeing. The image he thought of started as a blurry memory, arriving on the day when she had spent an entire day in her armchair, unable to stand up. It was her chair, blue and covered with a tartan blanket. A white cane was leaned on it. A cup of cold tea was cooling further on the side. Nobody was sitting, and the ruffled tartan was covered with a thick line of dust.

The image was becoming clearer and clearer each day. He hated it.

With a serious expression, she ran her thin, body fingers across his firm jaw and over his thick beard and nose. She managed a smile.

"You look like him, ya know that?"

Tavish grazed the surface f the photograph with his eye before he planted a kiss on his mother's moist forehead.

"I know, mum. Thank you," he said with a nod.