A/N: HEY YOU. Good to be back!

Geez, there’s just too much to cover with this much timefuckery D: Just… bear with the last part. (It has no REAL relevance to what’s going on in the ‘real’ timeline, because time-travelling!Wilbur, lovable as he is, has screwed it up beyond recognition XD It’s just… what might have happened, if this story meant anything to the real MtR timeline.)

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Blue Sky Future

7

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“Yikes—woah, Dad! Dad--”

Atticus, jaw set, didn’t stop until he had marched his son to the brilliant, white stairs of the Robinson foyer and parked him there, pale and reeling. He clapped a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, rattling him briefly as he demanded:

“Wil, how could you do that?”

Wilbur’s bandy body wiggled out of the grip: he danced up a stair or two, back against the curly golden railing.

“What do you mean?” He squawked--then his eyes drifted upwards, as if searching the contents of his head from the last ten minutes. After a beat he shrugged sheepishly, admitting: “Okay, I get it. Maybe ‘Popsicle’ was a bit too much—but I didn’t have much else to go on, bonding-wise, since I don’t like sweater-vests--“

“Not—“

Atticus made a strangely tortured sound, ramming his hand through his untidy hair. When he had found the words, he turned to Wilbur, who had raised his hands defensively into the air, occasionally making miniscule judo-chopping motions. Atticus was too tired to even roll his eyes.

“You didn’t know. You’ve lived with this situation your entire life, Wilbur: but to him it’s probably the most shocking thing in the world!” His father exclaimed hoarsely. “You can’t just… say who we are. It’s too much information.”

“It’s because I said ‘Robinson’? Geez, I didn’t know a last name would—“

“He hasn’t… It isn’t, yet,” Atticus sighed thickly, tapping his temple: a nervous habit. “But… we have to delay it. He hasn’t figured out what happened, hopefully. We need to get him settled, get his health back, then… we’ll tell him.”

Wilbur watched uncomfortably as his dad gazed around the bright, strangely empty foyer, as though looking for a way out. In the end, he seemed to cave.

“I’ll tell him,” he amended quietly.

“What… happened?” Wilbur asked, tiptoeing mildly back down the stairs until he was level with his frazzled father. “… I mean, besides the obvious.”

Atticus almost smiled as Wilbur briefly feigned being frozen, shoulders jolting up to his ears, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Let me explain… Um,” he blustered softly, still searching for the words. His big hands kneaded his unshaven throat, testing it as he spoke and wandered. “You’re old enough to know, so….”

“No—wait. Wait, wait. You kept something from me? You, Dad?” Wilbur asked archly. This, indeed, was peculiar. The Robinsons had a pact of utter truthfulness with one another, and most life lessons were learned when and where they were stumbled upon: no one was denied a proper explanation, no matter their age. To have something sequestered away… was almost unheard of.

Wilbur peered at his father as Atticus nodded humorlessly, blue eyes sobering the boy. Wilbur ceased smiling.

“What was it?” He prompted after a moment. Atticus mused, obviously wondering where to start.

“It’s all about the… ‘Good Morning’ machine,” the scientist began, a stark bit of humor in his smile.

“Aw. Dad,” Wilbur grumbled, flopping back on the rail of the stairs. “I know what it is, now.”

“It’s what the machine did, Wilbur, and what’s happening now because of it. Sit down a little,” Atticus offered, lowering his bony body to the stairs with a squeezed noise. Wilbur, suddenly reluctant, took a long glance around at the empty Robinson house, lingering on smooth, creamy double doors, as though willing some beautiful, crazy and—above all—distracting member of their sprawling family to burst out and save him. No mistake, he was always comfortable with his dad, and he was interested, of course, but… maybe later.

Later, when the petrified face of th… Cornelius had faded a little, and he could pretend that he really was old enough to deal with this. Right now, it was still echoing in his head.

Wilbur slunk down to his knees, propping himself against a banister and nodding at his dad, who took a preparative breath.

“Picture this: you have parents. Before, you didn’t.”

“I know you were adopted,” Wilbur interrupted brightly, half in the doomed hope the conversation would cease there. Atticus shook his head.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about Cornelius.”

Wilbur blinked, hard. He had always thought that Cornelius had… been a Robinson forever. He didn’t know who he was, where he’d come from… but that saving him was a big deal because he was a Robinson. He just took it at face value. He scrubbed at his forehead, nodding absently. Both his dad and Cornelius had been adopted. Okay.

“So… you’re adopted. After the longest time, you finally belong in a family. You have a last name, and a place. Like you with us, except so much more important, because you know how it is to have nobody to come home to. You have a beautiful life; you’re revolutionizing the forefront of scientific progress. You’re helping people. Then, something happens to you, an… an accident, and you fall asleep.”

“The freezing machine.”

“Right. You fall in, and it just…” Atticus made a curt motion with his hands, closing his eyes in some re-opened wound of disappointment. Wilbur felt a small chill settle in his gut. “You’re trapped. Half the world thinks you’re dead, while the rest of it just hopes you’re not. People try to save you, but they don’t know how; and you don’t know it. You don’t know anything, and your family is just… falling apart because you’re gone.”

Atticus paused, swiftly clearing his throat before his voice broke.

Left swimming in this hypothetical life, worrying at why his strong, smiling Dad was pausing so often… Wilbur thought of what would happen if he disappeared; if everyone he had ever loved thought he was dead. He had an ego, true. He knew he was smart, handsome and basically an invaluable member (demi-god) of society, but when it came down to him and his family? He was utterly, magnificently invaluable to his family, and important because of their love: the grief that would follow his death—blank spot at the dinner table, room untouched, Mom and Dad, oh god, Mom--… would be horrifying. Just thinking about it made a tense nausea swell in his throat. It seemed egotistic to react so strongly to the idea of his own death, but… not when his family would just die without him.

The fear of leaving them like that… made him hurt. It became a spasm, and a two-letter word: no. They were so important. Everything. But… how would it be to not have anybody?

Wilbur looked up to find Atticus watching him carefully, one big hand pressed across his unshaven chin. He felt small again, being guided away from the Good Morning machine. Thinking too deeply on the blue man with the round glasses.

“But you saved him,” Wilbur said softly. “It took a long time, but you got it: right?”

“Yes. And it was the best that I could do, and the best that anyone could do. But… it goes beyond what I could do, because some things I just can’t help. You’re still Cornelius, alright?” Atticus continued gently; Wilbur nodded again. “Well… You’re alive.

“But when you wake up, everything is wrong. When you wake up, someone new—another person that your mother and father call their son and love dearly--has your last name. Everyone that you ever knew is at least thirty years older than you. Everyone you loved is… so much older, and even though they waited for you, it’s just not the same. Your world, for all effects and purposes, is shot. You are the most alone that anyone could ever be, because while you didn’t lose your life, there’s just enough of it there… to remind you that you’ll never, ever have what you did. That life went on without you.”

Wilbur looked down. Suddenly, everything Cornelius had done in those brief moments was echoing and unsettling and sad. It was… painful, and too much to grasp. He wouldn’t expect life to just stop if he disappeared—it was selfish—but to have that change paraded in front of him if he ever returned just like he left? Thinking everything was going to be the same…

He couldn’t stop thinking about the kid’s face. How hurt he was, at… everything. And he hadn’t even found out what really happened? Wilbur tucked his knees into his stomach, suddenly sick. It sounded like a self-contained apocalypse. And Dad: if they were both adopted by Grandpa and Gramma, and life continued on… what would this kid think his dad had done?

And Dad… knew. He spoke from personal experience, or something like it: all along, working on reviving the strange silent Robinson… he must have imagined this. His dad thought so far ahead, was so involved: how could he have not thought of the moments after his work was completed, and the real trouble started?

Atticus took a heavy breath as his son thought it over, fingers digging into his lab-coat and wrinkling the fabric piece by piece. He resettled his sharp glasses on his broad nose.

“He’s my brother. Technically. But he… Wilbur, he doesn’t have a place in this world. Not like he’ll expect or need, at first. And we don’t…” Atticus sighed, something catching in his chest. His voice was small when he found it again. “We don’t know if this is permanent. We don’t know if his health will hold, and I just—“

He pressed a hand to his face, and suddenly Wilbur saw how old his dad was. How much this kid had cost him, emotionally. Thirty years. Thirty years of imagining. Wilbur himself was half that old, plus a little more. It was inconceivable. And… the fact that it might not last…

“Oh. Geez,” Wilbur whispered. His father, lanky and messy and tired, stood up and cleared his throat again.

“Yes,” Atticus said softly, nodding. He thumbed off his glasses and wiped his eyes, voice crushed and wet. “Just… try to take it slow with him, alright? Don’t spook him. He’s waited a long time to wake up: let’s make his life as good as possible.”

“Alright. Thanks, Dad,” Wilbur said softly, getting to his feet. He reached out when his father’s mournful attention seemed to drift, strong brow knotting painfully: Atticus looked back to find Wilbur gripping his wrist, strong and boyish with a faint smile on his face. Some of the sadness in his body dissipated at that image, leaving him just… exhausted.

Cornelius was alive. For now, that was all that mattered.

“Sure thing, Wil,” Atticus murmured, and he scrubbed Wilbur’s back vigorously. His son’s lopsided smile grew. The youngest Robinson saluted him, and Atticus’ rich mouth quirked at the corner. He pulled the cantankerous boy in for a hug, then sent him down the stairs with a light shove. Wilbur made a show of tripping on the last step and scowling up at him, a trespass which he returned with a sunny smile. It made both of them feel better.

They split directions in the foyer, Wilbur jogging to his room for goodness-knows. Atticus intended to talk to Franny, if… she would let him. This had shaken her up: it had done the same to everyone, though everyone else seemed to want to talk about it. She was different. She… deserved to be different. Already brooding, he mired his hands safely in his pockets and strode toward the kitchen. He slowed slightly when he realized his son’s footsteps had ceased.

“Dad?” Wilbur called after a moment, colorful high ceiling adding a hint of an echo to his handsome voice. Atticus turned around, schooling his face into something welcoming again.

“Mm?”

Wilbur’s hands had wound their way around his sides again, imbedded in his black t-shirt. The young man fidgeted, face wan.

“Did you… hear what he—“ Wilbur began, stumbling. He bit his lip, looking twelve and in trouble again. “Did you hear it?”

Atticus looked down, thinking of those first few moments spent talking to the silent boy. Praying that he would open his eyes with the adrenaline hit his system, praying that his system would hold--

“Wilbur, g-god… Wilbur.”

He didn’t believe it at first, but Cornelius had said Wilbur’s name… and countless other uncomfortable things. Things that… really made no sense at all.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he said softly. He looked at his son across the foyer and smiled as best he could, lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug. “And I don’t know.”

Wilbur watched his troubled father leave and went back to sit on the staircase, thinking about death and adopted frozen kids and the concept of thirty years while his long-fingered hands twined around the curly golden rails. It was all troubling and made the normally perky Robinson feel grey and ill. But the thing that wouldn’t leave him alone?

It didn’t seem right that someone so smart could have just… fallen in.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

In another time-stream or universe, far in the future or so long ago in a memory, Lewis left the Robinson house full of dreams.

They held until he left. No sooner had the sound of popping bubbles ceased, Lucille shuddered, and Bud scooped her against his chest. Petunia went silent and limp and Fritz’s gnarled little knees clacked together as he studied the side of the house. Lazlo and Tallulah looked to one another, then away: Tallulah grabbed at Carl’s arm, cupid’s bow lips puckering, and her brother smeared something off of his goggles. They didn’t understand, in a way. They had been so young.

Franny gazed into the beautiful blue, cloud-studded sky where she had lost him again. Again.

The tears began softly. Atticus, now Atticus again with his dark hair and smart glossy glasses and no longer long-nosed and affable and godlike, slid around her before the deep sobs could start jerking at her tired, compact body: when they arrived, full and malignant and swollen with loss, he took some of them into himself, one hand curled around her hot neck while she swallowed howls. He kissed her slick cheek. Her fingers fastened around his tie, groping.

The garden was beautiful and green and full of family and Lefty had already gone inside.

“Can’t you stop it, Atticus?” She sobbed, choking and trying through lips pulled tight over her teeth. Grieving. “C-can’t you? If… if we could just… warn him—stop him from ever--“

Atticus closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her face, over and over again, throat taut. Lucille broke behind them, and the sound dwindled with distance as Bud tottered away with her. Franny looked up her husband, pleading.

“It has to happen, Fran. Had to,” he whispered thickly, thumbing sticky hair from her heart-shaped face. “Otherwise…”

And his hand encompassed the world around them and it was worthy of all of their dreams no matter the tragedy it had endured, because the garden was still beautiful and green and full of family and the house would never be empty. Last, it grasped Franny’s hand; he touched her wedding ring. She could still hear bubbles popping and see Wilbur’s face through the sweet noise. Then she sobbed like her life would end under the blue sky, but knew: they could not upset time.

Life would have been so different.