Arc One [16] Final
Author: Homer
Title: Untitled
Rating: G
Word Count: 919
When Marco was born, Eva spent more time comforting him and directing him than he did her.
She even wrote him a list of what not to forget. It was soothing to vanish into instructions, as excited as he was. He wanted to make sure she and the baby had everything they needed.
Breaking it down into a ‘this, this, then this’ really helped.
Holding his son for the first time had him holding his breath for fear of accidently hurting the baby and Eva deciding she didn’t love him anymore because he was such a failure as a father.
Marco had been perfect, and amazing and wonderful and perfect. Peter was convinced he was the most amazing baby in the entire world, bar none. Holding him was one of the most uniquely gratifying experiences of his life.
Eva had made this. This beautiful, wonderful thing. He had helped in the tiniest way, but Eva had made this. Being a father was acutely terrifying, staring at the tiny bundle of baby grow into a toddler had been an experience somewhere between rapture and absolute terror.
It had been a comfort while she was dead, to still have her son. It was one of the few he’d had.
“Nora, she’s going to tell you.”
His wife and his son had spent so much time protecting him. Through the war, through the aftermath. He had become, in so many ways, the one thing they could protect. It irritated him sometimes, though he could never show it.
They were in their own ways so broken and fragile.
How could he protest their protection when he had already broken once already?
His focus had been on Eva, had been on comforting her. Thoughts for the second woman he’d married had been few and far between.
“There's no easy way to tell you this, Peter. So I’ll just come right out and say it.”
Coffee was Nora’s drug of choice, and a coffee shop was a nice, safe, public, normal place for revelations he supposed.
“Tell me what, Nora?”
“My daughter, she’s yours.”
And now here he was, feeling that same rush of terror and uncertainty with none of the joy to back him up. Staring at the little girl and trying to find traces of himself in her face.
He felt cheated, somehow, cheated out of missing every step of this child’s existence. All those moments that made Marco’s childhood so special. Watching him take his first steps, or shout his first words.
This child had accomplished all of those milestones without him.
He could almost be angry with Marco for this. For knowing and not telling him. For hiding this little girl from him.
How much more had been lies? Would his son every get out of the habit of lying to him? Would he need to spend the rest of his life watching Marco’s words for lies and falsehoods?
She was cute. He had thought that when he met her the first time, and now looking back he was resentful towards everyone; Marco had known, and Eva would have known just by looking at their son’s reaction, and Nora had known. None of them had said.
What a world they had built; Marco had saved it but none of them got a chance to enjoy it. Too many nightmares and lies and wine bottles on the balcony in the middle of the night and tears from a woman who could barely let herself feel anymore.
His daughter.
He had a daughter.
The most innocent person caught in this mess.
Her mother was holding her hand, white knuckled, lip caught between her teeth.
How often out very survival depends on our children.
It was a random thought, made up of his own experience, barely cognizant.
He tried his best to smile as he knelt, wishing that this little girl looked like Eva, and feeling disgusted with himself for wishing to take one more thing away from this woman in front of him. This woman who obviously loved her little girl, no matter how she had been created.
(And was that a lie too, Marco? Is anything true?)
“Hello, sweetie.” He swallowed, trying to keep the smile on his face, trying to force the words out of his throat.
“Hi.” She was smiling; innocent and unaware of the trouble her existence caused. Unaware of the nightmares she was causing a woman she should never meet.
What a mess, what a horrible, horrible mess. Could anyone win?
“May, baby. I’d like you to meet someone.” Nora’s voice was calm, controlled.
It was one of the things that had attracted him to her, that calm, unruffled look she could get.
He felt like he was being force-fed glass. Too many things, too much. Too much Nora and Eva and the conflict that existed between two women who had barely spoken.
Nobody wins.
“May, this is your daddy.”
He had cried when Marco was born, little awed tears as he stared at his wife cradling the tiny squalling thing.
He felt like crying now.
“Hello, May.”
If there was one thing this war had taught him, it was how to hide how he was really feeling.
His arms slid easily around the little girl, eyes closing tightly against the convoluted emotional reaction her being here and her being his caused.
Regret. He regretted so much.
I’m sorry, Eva. I’m sorry, Nora. I’m sorry, May. Please forgive me. Please give me the strength to forgive my son.
Previous | Masterpost
Title: Untitled
Rating: G
Word Count: 919
When Marco was born, Eva spent more time comforting him and directing him than he did her.
She even wrote him a list of what not to forget. It was soothing to vanish into instructions, as excited as he was. He wanted to make sure she and the baby had everything they needed.
Breaking it down into a ‘this, this, then this’ really helped.
Holding his son for the first time had him holding his breath for fear of accidently hurting the baby and Eva deciding she didn’t love him anymore because he was such a failure as a father.
Marco had been perfect, and amazing and wonderful and perfect. Peter was convinced he was the most amazing baby in the entire world, bar none. Holding him was one of the most uniquely gratifying experiences of his life.
Eva had made this. This beautiful, wonderful thing. He had helped in the tiniest way, but Eva had made this. Being a father was acutely terrifying, staring at the tiny bundle of baby grow into a toddler had been an experience somewhere between rapture and absolute terror.
It had been a comfort while she was dead, to still have her son. It was one of the few he’d had.
“Nora, she’s going to tell you.”
His wife and his son had spent so much time protecting him. Through the war, through the aftermath. He had become, in so many ways, the one thing they could protect. It irritated him sometimes, though he could never show it.
They were in their own ways so broken and fragile.
How could he protest their protection when he had already broken once already?
His focus had been on Eva, had been on comforting her. Thoughts for the second woman he’d married had been few and far between.
“There's no easy way to tell you this, Peter. So I’ll just come right out and say it.”
Coffee was Nora’s drug of choice, and a coffee shop was a nice, safe, public, normal place for revelations he supposed.
“Tell me what, Nora?”
“My daughter, she’s yours.”
And now here he was, feeling that same rush of terror and uncertainty with none of the joy to back him up. Staring at the little girl and trying to find traces of himself in her face.
He felt cheated, somehow, cheated out of missing every step of this child’s existence. All those moments that made Marco’s childhood so special. Watching him take his first steps, or shout his first words.
This child had accomplished all of those milestones without him.
He could almost be angry with Marco for this. For knowing and not telling him. For hiding this little girl from him.
How much more had been lies? Would his son every get out of the habit of lying to him? Would he need to spend the rest of his life watching Marco’s words for lies and falsehoods?
She was cute. He had thought that when he met her the first time, and now looking back he was resentful towards everyone; Marco had known, and Eva would have known just by looking at their son’s reaction, and Nora had known. None of them had said.
What a world they had built; Marco had saved it but none of them got a chance to enjoy it. Too many nightmares and lies and wine bottles on the balcony in the middle of the night and tears from a woman who could barely let herself feel anymore.
His daughter.
He had a daughter.
The most innocent person caught in this mess.
Her mother was holding her hand, white knuckled, lip caught between her teeth.
How often out very survival depends on our children.
It was a random thought, made up of his own experience, barely cognizant.
He tried his best to smile as he knelt, wishing that this little girl looked like Eva, and feeling disgusted with himself for wishing to take one more thing away from this woman in front of him. This woman who obviously loved her little girl, no matter how she had been created.
(And was that a lie too, Marco? Is anything true?)
“Hello, sweetie.” He swallowed, trying to keep the smile on his face, trying to force the words out of his throat.
“Hi.” She was smiling; innocent and unaware of the trouble her existence caused. Unaware of the nightmares she was causing a woman she should never meet.
What a mess, what a horrible, horrible mess. Could anyone win?
“May, baby. I’d like you to meet someone.” Nora’s voice was calm, controlled.
It was one of the things that had attracted him to her, that calm, unruffled look she could get.
He felt like he was being force-fed glass. Too many things, too much. Too much Nora and Eva and the conflict that existed between two women who had barely spoken.
Nobody wins.
“May, this is your daddy.”
He had cried when Marco was born, little awed tears as he stared at his wife cradling the tiny squalling thing.
He felt like crying now.
“Hello, May.”
If there was one thing this war had taught him, it was how to hide how he was really feeling.
His arms slid easily around the little girl, eyes closing tightly against the convoluted emotional reaction her being here and her being his caused.
Regret. He regretted so much.
I’m sorry, Eva. I’m sorry, Nora. I’m sorry, May. Please forgive me. Please give me the strength to forgive my son.
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