For
animotus , in thanks for the icons -- another visit to the Hope Verse, Christmas 2038 this time, to introduce someone new.
This is in memory of my great-uncle Willis (aka Uncle Son), who came upstairs one Christmas bearing a package, hoping to soothe my wounded spirits. He died just before Christmas a year or two later, but I still remember the sound of his voice, and the bright red and gold box his gift came in.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Campbell (his granddaughter)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1229 words
THE PEACEMAKER
By Carol Davis
"I don't!" she howls, and Dean sticks out a hand to stop the door from crashing shut, and man, is that the wrong move. She's got some power in her for a little kid, and the door hits his hand hard enough to send a jolt of pain up through his arm all the way to his shoulder.
That's just what he needed: something else that hurts.
"Cam," he says to the door. "Dude. Hey."
"Go AWAY."
There aren't any locks on the kids' doors - the Donahues learned the wisdom of that long before Dean moved in - so he turns the knob gently and eases the door open a couple of inches. He knows what he'll find, knows from the sound of it that she threw herself on the bed and is lying there with her face buried in the blue-and-pink striped comforter. He could certainly bail on the whole thing, leave her there to sort this out on her own, but he wouldn't be him if he did. Wouldn't be the go-to guy. The one who listens without judging. The one who goes on cookie raids at three a.m.
"Hey," he says softly.
This time he doesn't get an answer, so he pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps inside. Sure enough, she's face-down on the bed, still enough to be asleep.
His life's a whole other thing than it used to be, he thinks, because of women and their moods. Little women. Little midget women. The thought makes him smile as he sits down on the bed and rests a hand on his granddaughter's red-sweatered back. She jerks a little, like his hand delivered a few hundred volts, then lies still again.
"I hate them," she shrills into the comforter. "I hate all of them."
"On Christmas?"
"They don't care about anything but that stupid baby. We didn't need another baby. Why did they need four?"
"You didn't want a sister?"
She flips herself over onto her back and glares at him, her small face purpling with fury. "You don't get it!" she shrieks, exploding off the bed so she can storm back and forth on the braided rug that's been lying on that floor since her mother was this size. "I said I didn't want any baby and I didn't want to come here and I want everybody to leave me ALONE!"
Dean ponders that for a second, then shrugs an okay and picks up the package he brought up from the great room, where the big tree is. "I'll take this back, then."
"I don't want any stupid present anyway," she snarls.
It's all in the timing - that's the thing. He tucks the package under his arm and moves toward the door, head hanging a little as if she's ruined his entire day by rejecting his offering. And she might have, if he hadn't been down this road more times than he can count. Somehow (he's not sure of exactly when, or how) he became the peacemaker in a world of temperamental women, both large and small. The goodwill ambassador. The bearer of cookies and cups of tea and packages wrapped in green foil with red ribbons.
This wouldn't work with anybody much older than seven (or maybe it would; he hasn't tried for a while), but as he reaches the door he lets out a small, almost inaudible sigh.
"I hate my whole LIFE!" she rages.
He could tell her some stories that would defeat that claim pretty damn quick - but really, it's all a matter of perspective. From where she's sitting, being saddled with an unconventional name and brown eyes that need glasses and three younger siblings competing with her for Mommy and Daddy's attention - that's some serious crap. That's worth a good long wail at the unfairness of it all.
"I can see that," he says.
"See what?"
"Dude. You live in Binghamton. And you gotta put up with that diaper smell again."
"I hate it."
"Nothing on the planet worse than that diaper smell. And the screeching."
He dares a half-turn and gives her a look that's been carefully, painstakingly crafted over the years. He figures he's been doing this stuff since he was Cam's age, since he was responsible for maintaining a buffer between Dad and whatever fit Sam happened to be pitching, so that's - what? Half a century of this? I am, and always shall be, the guy in the friggin' middle, he thinks. But he's good at it, and there's no sense in wasting a God-given talent. With that small wiggle of a brow that says It's you and me against the world he holds out the green-foil-wrapped package and says, "Sure you don't want this?"
"What is it?" she scowls.
"A driver's license and a six of Pabst."
"What?"
She wants to be mad at him. Wants to be furious with him, because he's one of THEM. An adult. But Sam could tell her: he's as much a seven-year-old as she is. Always has been, and there's no point in wasting that, either. Life's a mine field, and nothing armors you against it quite as well as a good sense of humor.
Or a complete lack of common sense. That would be Sam's take.
Mad as she is, her need for some serious swag wins out. Still wearing her I Hate All Of You face, she seizes the package, flops down on the bed, and makes short work of the wrapping paper. "It's not beer," she announces. "It's a purse."
"It's a purse I bought."
And not a little kid thing, either. It's small, but it's leather. The real deal. She lifts it out of the box and considers it for a while, turning it over, opening it up, peering inside and then sniffing it. By the time she finishes inspecting it the storm clouds have started to break up. She doesn't quite look at him, and then she does.
"Yeah?" he prods.
She heaves a sigh that would put her mother to shame.
"You comin' back down?" he asks. "To Christmas?"
"No."
"Come on. There's pie. And chocolate cake."
"That baby's down there."
"So, we'll sit upwind."
Maybe she knows what he means and maybe she doesn't. Her face twitches a little, like she wants to smile but doesn't want to surrender the castle just yet.
"Huh?" he teases. "Come on, man. Chocolate cake."
"I'm not a man."
"Oh. Yeah, right. You got a purse."
Talents come in all sizes. Some shape the world. Some shape little pieces of it. He'd rather do that, he thinks: be the peacemaker here, in this house. Foster some goodwill in the hearts of angry little women. The rest of the world can fend for itself.
And he is awesomely good at this.
"Yeah," she concedes.
"Yeah?"
It takes a minute. He knew it would. Knows that from many, many years of practice. But the minute goes by, and all of a sudden the storm's ancient history. They leave the room together, hand in hand, and she's got his gift slung over her shoulder.
"Hey," he says softly, as they aim for the stairs. "Glad you're gonna come back to Christmas."
"Yeah," she murmurs, and leans against him, peering up at him with those big brown eyes that aren't much good without glasses. "I am too."
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