FIC: The Woman in the Room
Title: The Woman in the Room
Author: vissy
Fandom: Smallville
Characters: Lillian, Lex, Martha, Clark
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters remain the intellectual property of DC and the WB. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
Notes: Written for slodwick's Stephen King title challenge. Two mothers. Two beginnings.
The woman in the room stares down at her newborn son. She thinks he is asleep, but he may be faking it; she doesn't know him well enough to tell. Her breasts are swollen and sore, but she is not allowed to feed him yet. The nurse is bringing a special feeding device, with a plastic flap over the teat to cover his palate. She will have to express milk for him. Soon there will be stitches to worry about. Everything seems more complicated than it was supposed to be. The baby was not expected for two more weeks, and her husband is out of the country on business. She can't imagine what Lionel will make of his son.
Right now, it is just the two of them, mother and child. He looks so raw, and she is scared to touch him. The doctor said it was all right to hold him. He laughed when she asked about the possibility of infection, making her feel like an idiot. For a brief, vindictive moment, she thinks she may have a word to her husband about the doctor, but then a gleam of blue peeps up at her from between flaky, red eyelids, and the thought is forgotten. The baby is awake after all, and it makes her smile to imagine his subterfuge. He will be just like his father.
"Hello, little one," she whispers. Her voice is hoarse from yelling. It was the only thing she enjoyed about the labour. "Were you waiting for them all to go away? I know how you feel." She runs a fingertip across his cheek, feeling shy and awkward. His skin is like paper. "Such a lot of fuss. Were you listening to all that? What a lovely long list of worries they've given us to think about. You can cry if you like. I wouldn't mind a good cry myself."
The baby does not cry, however, and her own tears are checked. He makes hungry, snuffly noises instead, and she is tempted to raise him to her breast, despite her fear and the nurse's admonitions. The front of her hospital gown is getting wet. It seems a terrible waste, and she feels embarrassed about the mess. He is drooling. She knuckles his mouth carefully, not wanting to hurt him, and he follows her finger, trying to latch on. "You know what you want, don't you? Persistent little thing." With his shock of orange fuzz and his gulping, pinched mouth, he reminds her of a plump goldfish, snagged on a hook. There is a Polaroid camera in her overnight bag, but she thinks memory will suffice. "Such a funny little fishy you are. Where's my chocolate box, calendar gloss baby, huh? Where is he?" His twisted lip gives him a comically cynical expression, and her heart clutches with love. She wants Lionel here to see their child, but she also wishes him far, far away.
***
The woman in the room crouches over the alien in her bathtub. The wash of wild possessiveness she felt in the cornfield has deserted her, and now she is dizzy and exhausted and scared. Everything seems unreal. She is sorry she let her husband leave. Jonathan has taken his old dirtbike back into the township; the phone lines are down, and they suspect things are bad.
She thinks she might be in shock.
"What the hell," she says quietly, and strips off her filthy clothes. There are savage-looking stripes across her hips and thighs where the seatbelt bit in. She is surprised she didn't break her pelvis. The little one watches her with a curious expression as she picks several fragments of glass out of her face before sliding gingerly into the water behind him.
He smells a bit funky. She wonders how long he was cooped up in the space capsule. She scrubs his body and shampoos his hair, and he accepts her ministrations with apparent good nature. Turning him to face her, she finds that bubbles have run down into his eyes. "Baby, I'm sorry," she says, trying to rinse the suds away, but he makes no complaint. She feels clumsy and inadequate, but he makes her smile with his wide eyes and ridiculously long lashes.
"Who are you, baby? Do you have a name?" She guesses he might be around Lana's age, but unlike that chattery young lady, this little one is silent. "Do you have any words?" She strangles her instinct to teach him 'mama' and scoops up a handful of water instead, letting it stream between her fingers. "Water," she says. He copies her action, grinning at the sound of the falling water, and he - speaks? - like a torrent rushing between her ears. She is momentarily mesmerised by the liquid sensation that fills her head. "Water," she says again. He reaches out to touch her lips, his rosebud mouth moving in silent mimicry. "Water," she repeats, and his lips purse, pouting to form the first syllable and relaxing for the second. Still no sound emerges, but she is so close she can feel the small puff of breath that comes with the 'w'. His tongue is not moving, so she draws his finger very gently between her teeth. "Water," she says once more, letting him feel the dash of her tongue against his fingertip, and an expression of sweet toddler cunning crosses his face. "Wuh-tah," he whispers. Then he is crowing, his hand slipping from her face to slap at the bathwater between them. "Water, water, water."
She blinks, laughing as the water splashes her face, and he stops his game to lean in and lick at the drops on her chin. His touch is so tickly she gasps. She wonders if things will always be this easy and wonderful, and maybe they won't be, but somehow she just doesn't care. She gathers him up, cuddling his squirmy wet boyflesh close and pressing kiss after kiss into his damp curls. She will have this child for her own.
Author: vissy
Fandom: Smallville
Characters: Lillian, Lex, Martha, Clark
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters remain the intellectual property of DC and the WB. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
Notes: Written for slodwick's Stephen King title challenge. Two mothers. Two beginnings.
The woman in the room stares down at her newborn son. She thinks he is asleep, but he may be faking it; she doesn't know him well enough to tell. Her breasts are swollen and sore, but she is not allowed to feed him yet. The nurse is bringing a special feeding device, with a plastic flap over the teat to cover his palate. She will have to express milk for him. Soon there will be stitches to worry about. Everything seems more complicated than it was supposed to be. The baby was not expected for two more weeks, and her husband is out of the country on business. She can't imagine what Lionel will make of his son.
Right now, it is just the two of them, mother and child. He looks so raw, and she is scared to touch him. The doctor said it was all right to hold him. He laughed when she asked about the possibility of infection, making her feel like an idiot. For a brief, vindictive moment, she thinks she may have a word to her husband about the doctor, but then a gleam of blue peeps up at her from between flaky, red eyelids, and the thought is forgotten. The baby is awake after all, and it makes her smile to imagine his subterfuge. He will be just like his father.
"Hello, little one," she whispers. Her voice is hoarse from yelling. It was the only thing she enjoyed about the labour. "Were you waiting for them all to go away? I know how you feel." She runs a fingertip across his cheek, feeling shy and awkward. His skin is like paper. "Such a lot of fuss. Were you listening to all that? What a lovely long list of worries they've given us to think about. You can cry if you like. I wouldn't mind a good cry myself."
The baby does not cry, however, and her own tears are checked. He makes hungry, snuffly noises instead, and she is tempted to raise him to her breast, despite her fear and the nurse's admonitions. The front of her hospital gown is getting wet. It seems a terrible waste, and she feels embarrassed about the mess. He is drooling. She knuckles his mouth carefully, not wanting to hurt him, and he follows her finger, trying to latch on. "You know what you want, don't you? Persistent little thing." With his shock of orange fuzz and his gulping, pinched mouth, he reminds her of a plump goldfish, snagged on a hook. There is a Polaroid camera in her overnight bag, but she thinks memory will suffice. "Such a funny little fishy you are. Where's my chocolate box, calendar gloss baby, huh? Where is he?" His twisted lip gives him a comically cynical expression, and her heart clutches with love. She wants Lionel here to see their child, but she also wishes him far, far away.
***
The woman in the room crouches over the alien in her bathtub. The wash of wild possessiveness she felt in the cornfield has deserted her, and now she is dizzy and exhausted and scared. Everything seems unreal. She is sorry she let her husband leave. Jonathan has taken his old dirtbike back into the township; the phone lines are down, and they suspect things are bad.
She thinks she might be in shock.
"What the hell," she says quietly, and strips off her filthy clothes. There are savage-looking stripes across her hips and thighs where the seatbelt bit in. She is surprised she didn't break her pelvis. The little one watches her with a curious expression as she picks several fragments of glass out of her face before sliding gingerly into the water behind him.
He smells a bit funky. She wonders how long he was cooped up in the space capsule. She scrubs his body and shampoos his hair, and he accepts her ministrations with apparent good nature. Turning him to face her, she finds that bubbles have run down into his eyes. "Baby, I'm sorry," she says, trying to rinse the suds away, but he makes no complaint. She feels clumsy and inadequate, but he makes her smile with his wide eyes and ridiculously long lashes.
"Who are you, baby? Do you have a name?" She guesses he might be around Lana's age, but unlike that chattery young lady, this little one is silent. "Do you have any words?" She strangles her instinct to teach him 'mama' and scoops up a handful of water instead, letting it stream between her fingers. "Water," she says. He copies her action, grinning at the sound of the falling water, and he - speaks? - like a torrent rushing between her ears. She is momentarily mesmerised by the liquid sensation that fills her head. "Water," she says again. He reaches out to touch her lips, his rosebud mouth moving in silent mimicry. "Water," she repeats, and his lips purse, pouting to form the first syllable and relaxing for the second. Still no sound emerges, but she is so close she can feel the small puff of breath that comes with the 'w'. His tongue is not moving, so she draws his finger very gently between her teeth. "Water," she says once more, letting him feel the dash of her tongue against his fingertip, and an expression of sweet toddler cunning crosses his face. "Wuh-tah," he whispers. Then he is crowing, his hand slipping from her face to slap at the bathwater between them. "Water, water, water."
She blinks, laughing as the water splashes her face, and he stops his game to lean in and lick at the drops on her chin. His touch is so tickly she gasps. She wonders if things will always be this easy and wonderful, and maybe they won't be, but somehow she just doesn't care. She gathers him up, cuddling his squirmy wet boyflesh close and pressing kiss after kiss into his damp curls. She will have this child for her own.