Fic: Mother
Title: Mother
Rating: PG
Fandom: Powerpuff Girls
She didn’t really care to know, Buttercup thought, what life would be like had they had a real mother, because you just couldn’t deny the facts.
Well, less the facts, and more the fact. But it was a sturdy fact, a strong one that always kind of snuck up on her when she found her thoughts drifting to the ever-lurking question of ‘what if’.
Because when it came right down to it, they didn’t have a mother. They had a professor who maybe was sort of a dad, and they had a whole town that hero worshiped them, but really…no mother.
But, you know, if they had had one, Buttercup would’ve thought her to be made of stern stuff. She’d be tall, with a scary, thin muscled strength. Red-hair, or maybe blonde…not black, Buttercup is sure.
Their mother would be a workingwoman, a bodyguard or a police officer. Her hair would be pulled tight off her face, and her set jaw would leave no room for arguments.
But she’d be good and kind and smart, she’d know when to dish out punishment and when to shower love. She’d coddle Bubbles, talk politics with Blossom and teach Buttercup how to protect their family.
They’d all love the woman, especially the professor. Every Wednesday night the couple would go out to dinner, leaving a babysitter to watch their girls. The sitter would fall asleep on the sofa whilst Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup would stay up late watching films, laughing and giggling and not worrying about saving the world.
Because saving the world, that was apart of a different life. A life without a real family, a life with a brilliant, but quite possibly mad scientist, and three sisters who were less sisters and more co-workers.
But, Buttercup thinks, it’s a good thing she doesn’t think about it much. She likes fighting bad guys, and she loves her unconventional family, and maybe things would be better with a mother, but maybe it wouldn’t be and really, when it comes right down to it, she wouldn’t want things any other way.
*
To Bubbles, mothers are all about soft curves and warm hugs, all love, and comfort, kind words and that special, gentle touch.
When she dreams, she dreams about a kind-of different family, only not too different. It’s still the professor (only they call him dad), still Buttercup and Blossom and Bubbles only there’s a lady at the dinner table, on the sofa, in the garden, on their bed.
This lady is all red curls, beautiful and plush and creeping halfway down her lean back. When Bubbles is good, the lady always let her braid it.
She was a very smart woman, a vet, a doctor, a teacher. She looked after everything, big and small, round and square. A busy woman, but she always seemed to be back in time for dinner, and was always there for Blossom’s recitals, Buttercup’s soccer matches, Bubbles’ games.
The lady was good and loyal and faithful, and saved the world before her girls could risk their own lives.
And oh, how the professor loved her! Their wedding was spectacular with lilies and roses and white and lace, Bubbles’ notices, as she eyes the photos in the hall.
This lady loved them, all four of them, and went out of her way to make them happy. She stayed up late talking about the world’s horrors with Blossom, did kickboxing with Buttercup and helped the professor (dad) with his experiments.
Every night, she’d sit at Bubbles bedside, slide onto the soft mattress and pull Bubbles close. All night the lady would whisper sweet nothings into Bubbles’ tiny ear, her arms would tighten, and her red lips would press firmly against her forehead.
Bubbles didn’t like to wake up on the nights she dreamed about their mother, the empty bed was cold and unpleasant, and the lack of warm arms and murmured words hurt more than Bubbles herself could comprehend.
*
Blossom’s too realistic to envision anything of the sort.
She knows their mother isn’t soft curves and stern jaw. She’s bubbling chemicals and a cold iron pot.
Their mother held them for not nine months, but nine hours and has never looked at them since. She’s sugar and spice, but she’s cold and inanimate. Everything nice, but…not really.
She thinks that maybe one day she’ll tell her sisters this, but for now she rather likes Bubbles’ stories of warm hugs and Buttercup’s of a stern protector.
*
People don’t always get what they deserve in this world.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Powerpuff Girls
She didn’t really care to know, Buttercup thought, what life would be like had they had a real mother, because you just couldn’t deny the facts.
Well, less the facts, and more the fact. But it was a sturdy fact, a strong one that always kind of snuck up on her when she found her thoughts drifting to the ever-lurking question of ‘what if’.
Because when it came right down to it, they didn’t have a mother. They had a professor who maybe was sort of a dad, and they had a whole town that hero worshiped them, but really…no mother.
But, you know, if they had had one, Buttercup would’ve thought her to be made of stern stuff. She’d be tall, with a scary, thin muscled strength. Red-hair, or maybe blonde…not black, Buttercup is sure.
Their mother would be a workingwoman, a bodyguard or a police officer. Her hair would be pulled tight off her face, and her set jaw would leave no room for arguments.
But she’d be good and kind and smart, she’d know when to dish out punishment and when to shower love. She’d coddle Bubbles, talk politics with Blossom and teach Buttercup how to protect their family.
They’d all love the woman, especially the professor. Every Wednesday night the couple would go out to dinner, leaving a babysitter to watch their girls. The sitter would fall asleep on the sofa whilst Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup would stay up late watching films, laughing and giggling and not worrying about saving the world.
Because saving the world, that was apart of a different life. A life without a real family, a life with a brilliant, but quite possibly mad scientist, and three sisters who were less sisters and more co-workers.
But, Buttercup thinks, it’s a good thing she doesn’t think about it much. She likes fighting bad guys, and she loves her unconventional family, and maybe things would be better with a mother, but maybe it wouldn’t be and really, when it comes right down to it, she wouldn’t want things any other way.
*
To Bubbles, mothers are all about soft curves and warm hugs, all love, and comfort, kind words and that special, gentle touch.
When she dreams, she dreams about a kind-of different family, only not too different. It’s still the professor (only they call him dad), still Buttercup and Blossom and Bubbles only there’s a lady at the dinner table, on the sofa, in the garden, on their bed.
This lady is all red curls, beautiful and plush and creeping halfway down her lean back. When Bubbles is good, the lady always let her braid it.
She was a very smart woman, a vet, a doctor, a teacher. She looked after everything, big and small, round and square. A busy woman, but she always seemed to be back in time for dinner, and was always there for Blossom’s recitals, Buttercup’s soccer matches, Bubbles’ games.
The lady was good and loyal and faithful, and saved the world before her girls could risk their own lives.
And oh, how the professor loved her! Their wedding was spectacular with lilies and roses and white and lace, Bubbles’ notices, as she eyes the photos in the hall.
This lady loved them, all four of them, and went out of her way to make them happy. She stayed up late talking about the world’s horrors with Blossom, did kickboxing with Buttercup and helped the professor (dad) with his experiments.
Every night, she’d sit at Bubbles bedside, slide onto the soft mattress and pull Bubbles close. All night the lady would whisper sweet nothings into Bubbles’ tiny ear, her arms would tighten, and her red lips would press firmly against her forehead.
Bubbles didn’t like to wake up on the nights she dreamed about their mother, the empty bed was cold and unpleasant, and the lack of warm arms and murmured words hurt more than Bubbles herself could comprehend.
*
Blossom’s too realistic to envision anything of the sort.
She knows their mother isn’t soft curves and stern jaw. She’s bubbling chemicals and a cold iron pot.
Their mother held them for not nine months, but nine hours and has never looked at them since. She’s sugar and spice, but she’s cold and inanimate. Everything nice, but…not really.
She thinks that maybe one day she’ll tell her sisters this, but for now she rather likes Bubbles’ stories of warm hugs and Buttercup’s of a stern protector.
*
People don’t always get what they deserve in this world.