Fic: Fathers' Day (Multi-fandom gen, PG)
Feb. 13th, 2009 11:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
st_aurafinaTitle: Fathers' Day
Fandoms: Lord John Grey, Chronicles of Narnia, Twilight , Daredevil, Iron Man, Supernatural
Words: 2200
Rating: PG
Summary: Fathers, children and difficult questions
Notes: Six very loosely connected ficlets written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
handyhunter, whose six things were from Lord John Grey to Dean Winchester. Thanks to lilacsigil for the beta.
1. Lord John Grey, 1736
John clasped his hands behind his back and craned his head upward obediently, but the mantelpiece was very tall. Behind him, the Duke of Pardloe cleared his throat, then pulled a footstool closer to the fire. He lifted his son around the middle, and placed John's feet on the brocade cover. Elevated to this lofty height, John could then lean closer to peer at the broken sword encased in glass. He was aware of his father standing close behind him, one hand at John's back to steady him as the two of them examined the ancient weapon. John cautioned himself to remain very still – a gentleman doesn't wriggle about, no matter how exciting it was to be invited into his father's study.
"The sword was discovered when the foundations were laid for the Great Hall."
John nodded, his nose as close to the glass as he could get without leaving a mark. The blade was oily green in colour, the surface pitted and scarred with age. "To whom did it belong?"
"A man of importance, I have no doubt, and one who fought hard." The Duke reached over John's shoulder to show where the blade had been notched in use. "It was most likely buried with him, and had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years."
"Why did he not leave it to his son?" John had lately developed a great interest in the labyrinthine system of inheritance.
The Duke let his hand rest briefly on John's shoulder. "Perhaps he was not blessed with sons."
***
2. Chronicles of Narnia, 1946
Long after the "Welcome Home" banner has been taken down and put away, Susan knows that her father's mind is still with the war. He takes care to hide this from his family, but Susan hears him in the early morning; shifting the furniture, checking the locks, touching the bedroom doors in sequence. By the time the rest of the household is awake, he is the father they knew before: eating toast and enquiring how his children will be spending the remains of their holiday time.
She wants to tell her father that a soldier need not feel shame for the desperate things seen and done on the battlefield. She wants to sit beside him, as soldiers do, and share the burden of the memories between them. But she is not Queen Susan with a ridge of callused skin on her bow hand; she is Susan Pevensie with ink-stained fingers and a graze on her knee. Such talk would frighten him.
Instead, she rises early, meets him in the hallway. "I can't sleep, Father. Will you come for a walk? I'd like to watch the sunrise over the hill."
Her father blinks at her, then nods and takes her arm. Together they go to welcome a new day.
***
3. Twilight, 1958
The sounds of Buddy Holly filtered from upstairs as Edward padded down the stairs. Alice had predicted a power outage with the oncoming storm and was making the most of her time with the record player. At the bottom of the stairs, he tapped softly on the lintel of Carlisle's door - largely a courtesy, as it was impossible to steal up on anyone in the Cullen household. Carlisle flipped closed the medical journal from which he was taking notes, and beckoned his son into the office with a tilt of his head. "Did I hear Alice say there's a storm coming?"
Edward nodded. "She says it will be over the field in an hour." He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "She also says there's something you want to talk to me about, if you're ready."
Carlisle shook his head with a smile. "Five years and I'm still unaccustomed to Alice knowing my thoughts before I do. Let's walk together to the field, and I'll try to put things in order in my mind." He gestured them towards the front door, and Edward followed, pausing while Carlisle shrugged into his woollen coat and put on his hat. Of all the Cullens, Carlisle most stringently maintained the illusion that he was as vulnerable to the elements as the humans they lived among, even this far away from prying eyes.
They took a gentle pace to the playing field, walking in comfortable silence. As the family had grown, there had been fewer opportunities such as these to be alone with his father. Edward laughed as a similar thought occurred to Carlisle. His father raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
"I agree; we should find a bigger house when it's time to move on. And no, not because I need to find a companion of my own." Edward turned to his father, "I'm sorry that I don't feel that way about Rosalie. Maybe one day, the right girl will show up. Right now, though, I just don't feel the need to seek her out."
"Maybe you're not considering every possibility." Carlisle's thoughts were uncharacteristically cryptic, and Edward frowned, trying to place the glimpses of memory he saw in his father's mind. He knew by the panelled wooden walls and lavish curtains of silk brocade that he saw Volterra in the eighteenth century. Fat yellow candles lit the room and the soft light lent colour to the pale hand that reached out to caress a man's face. Edward frowned – the hand was Carlisle's and the gesture was unambiguously intimate.
"Oh." It had been a long time since anyone's thoughts had surprised Edward. He drew his mind back as far as he could to avoid any further intrusion.
"We hold ourselves to a moral code like enough to the people amongst whom we live" Carlisle was practised at maintaining his privacy around Edward; his thoughts were carefully focused on stacks of books in the library. "But we need not hold to every social edict; it may be that Rosalie was wrong for you in ways that you had not considered."
Edward frowned. "You made me first – is this what you wanted me to be?"
Carlisle choked in shock. "No! Oh, Edward, no." He took his son by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. "You were a child! You're still a child, to me, anyway." He gave a half-smile that was a little sheepish. "I'm told that's always the way a father feels – he never wants his children to grow up. But I don't want you to be lonely. Neither would I want you to be ashamed of something that is not shameful."
"Well then, I'll amend my statement to say that I haven't met the right person yet, and I'll bear the idea with an open mind. " Edward took his father's arm and turned towards the field.
They walked on, arm in arm as the clouds gathered above them. As they neared the final rise to the playing field, Carlisle chuckled to himself, thinking of Edward's tentative question. "Good heavens, Edward. I'm a old married man. I don't think my heart can take such shocks."
"Be cool, Daddy-o," Edward slid a hand through his hair, suddenly the quintessential teenager. "It just so happens I can hook you up with a decent doctor."
***
4. Daredevil, 1984
For Matt, the start of school means stiff, oversized shoes that have to last all year, and a bloody nose every day for a week. When his dad comes in late, Matt ignores him to continue staring belligerently down at his homework on the kitchen table with Kleenex stuffed up his nose. His dad takes the scene in silently, then edges between Matt's chair and the wall to the stovetop where the potatoes are boiling dry.
"Tough day at school, Matty?" He lifts the saucepan off the heat and runs water into it. The kitchen fills with clouds of steam and the smell of scorched potatoes.
Matt scowls and scribbles viciously in the margin of his note book with stabbing gestures, muttering under his breath. "I bet your dad taught you to fight. I bet he didn't want people thinking you were a chicken." He squeezes his eyes closed fiercely until his bruised nose aches in protest. He will not cry in front of his father.
Jack sighs, and pulls his son into a rough hug. "Yeah, Matty. My dad taught me to fight. Turns out I was pretty good at it too. But you know what?" Matt, with his face pressed against his dad's belly, can only make a muffled sound as he shakes his head."Turns out, it ain't so brave to be better at hitting people than hitting a book. Wish my dad had told me that."
Jack picks Matt up, turns him around in his chair and puts the pencil back in his hand, pressing the tip onto the notebook. "This is how you're gonna fight 'em, Matty. And I think you're braver than me and my dad put together."
***
5. Iron Man 1985
Tony spun the helmet around in his hands, looking at it with a dubious eye. It seemed a perilously thin kind of protection – the plush velvet hinted that appearance was more important than safety. Behind the huge desk, Howard Stark put the phone receiver back on the cradle and looked at his son with narrowed eyes for a moment, then flipped a page in his schedule and ran his finger down a column. His face cleared. "Ah, riding lessons. Remember, equitation is a discipline. All the great generals of history learned mastery of the horse."
"Yes, sir." Tony would much rather stay at home. The weather was miserable, and it was the kind of day where Jarvis might be willing to drag out his old Meccano set. But the riding lesson was scheduled and in the Stark family home, schedules were iron-clad. His audience with his father was over when the phone rang again. Tony left quietly, treading carefully on the carpet. His new riding boots were very slippery.
At least Jarvis let him sit in the passenger side of the Rolls Royce rather than riding in the back. Tony balanced his helmet on his knees and wished he were old enough to drive.
"It's my understanding, though I am no expert," said Jarvis, changing gears smoothly, "that a horse is a horse, of course, of course."
Suddenly, with an ally, Tony's afternoon didn't seem so bleak.
***
6. Supernatural, 2009
It took Dean some time to realise that Castiel's casual references to a father were actually about God. It was the lack of formality that confused him – in Dean's mind, God was an upper-case F kind of father. Dean sat on the low wall outside the library and unwrapped his lunch. Castiel watched with bland curiosity, the way he did whenever Dean did something base and physical. Dean would have offered him a bite, just to see him blink in confusion, but this was a great sandwich and he didn't want to take a chance on having to share it. Sam would researching for a while yet – there was time for a little angel-baiting.
"So, God is like what? Your dad?" Dean spoke around a generous mouthful, chewing vigorously and unrepentantly because Castiel's wide, surprised eyes always inspired him to new heights of inelegance.
"God is father to us all. You know this; your faith is strong." Castiel furrowed his brow and Dean did too, because everything Castiel did and said was a fucking conundrum, like this statement that clearly masked a question.
"Yeah, sure. But you speak about him like he's really your father." Dean sucked ketchup from his teeth thoughtfully. "God's not your dad. Your dad teaches you how to strip a handgun, or skins you when you let the radiator run dry."
"A father can teach. A father can punish. And a father will love you without exception." Castiel's voice was certain. "He is my father. As much as your father was to you."
The sun slipped behind a cloud, leaving the park dingy with shadows. Dean looked at his sandwich with sudden distaste. "You know, I loved my dad, but that son of a bitch made some pretty major mistakes." He balled the remains of the sandwich up in the paper wrapper and pitched it into the trash. "Sometimes I wish I'd had the strength to admit that to myself before things went all to hell. You gonna be able to do the same with your father?"
Castiel looked at him, stricken, then down at his hands folded in his lap. They both sat together while the heat leached from the bricks, and Dean felt the question hanging between them, ready to tear the world apart.
Fandoms: Lord John Grey, Chronicles of Narnia, Twilight , Daredevil, Iron Man, Supernatural
Words: 2200
Rating: PG
Summary: Fathers, children and difficult questions
Notes: Six very loosely connected ficlets written for
handyhunter, whose six things were from Lord John Grey to Dean Winchester. Thanks to lilacsigil for the beta.1. Lord John Grey, 1736
John clasped his hands behind his back and craned his head upward obediently, but the mantelpiece was very tall. Behind him, the Duke of Pardloe cleared his throat, then pulled a footstool closer to the fire. He lifted his son around the middle, and placed John's feet on the brocade cover. Elevated to this lofty height, John could then lean closer to peer at the broken sword encased in glass. He was aware of his father standing close behind him, one hand at John's back to steady him as the two of them examined the ancient weapon. John cautioned himself to remain very still – a gentleman doesn't wriggle about, no matter how exciting it was to be invited into his father's study.
"The sword was discovered when the foundations were laid for the Great Hall."
John nodded, his nose as close to the glass as he could get without leaving a mark. The blade was oily green in colour, the surface pitted and scarred with age. "To whom did it belong?"
"A man of importance, I have no doubt, and one who fought hard." The Duke reached over John's shoulder to show where the blade had been notched in use. "It was most likely buried with him, and had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years."
"Why did he not leave it to his son?" John had lately developed a great interest in the labyrinthine system of inheritance.
The Duke let his hand rest briefly on John's shoulder. "Perhaps he was not blessed with sons."
***
2. Chronicles of Narnia, 1946
Long after the "Welcome Home" banner has been taken down and put away, Susan knows that her father's mind is still with the war. He takes care to hide this from his family, but Susan hears him in the early morning; shifting the furniture, checking the locks, touching the bedroom doors in sequence. By the time the rest of the household is awake, he is the father they knew before: eating toast and enquiring how his children will be spending the remains of their holiday time.
She wants to tell her father that a soldier need not feel shame for the desperate things seen and done on the battlefield. She wants to sit beside him, as soldiers do, and share the burden of the memories between them. But she is not Queen Susan with a ridge of callused skin on her bow hand; she is Susan Pevensie with ink-stained fingers and a graze on her knee. Such talk would frighten him.
Instead, she rises early, meets him in the hallway. "I can't sleep, Father. Will you come for a walk? I'd like to watch the sunrise over the hill."
Her father blinks at her, then nods and takes her arm. Together they go to welcome a new day.
***
3. Twilight, 1958
The sounds of Buddy Holly filtered from upstairs as Edward padded down the stairs. Alice had predicted a power outage with the oncoming storm and was making the most of her time with the record player. At the bottom of the stairs, he tapped softly on the lintel of Carlisle's door - largely a courtesy, as it was impossible to steal up on anyone in the Cullen household. Carlisle flipped closed the medical journal from which he was taking notes, and beckoned his son into the office with a tilt of his head. "Did I hear Alice say there's a storm coming?"
Edward nodded. "She says it will be over the field in an hour." He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "She also says there's something you want to talk to me about, if you're ready."
Carlisle shook his head with a smile. "Five years and I'm still unaccustomed to Alice knowing my thoughts before I do. Let's walk together to the field, and I'll try to put things in order in my mind." He gestured them towards the front door, and Edward followed, pausing while Carlisle shrugged into his woollen coat and put on his hat. Of all the Cullens, Carlisle most stringently maintained the illusion that he was as vulnerable to the elements as the humans they lived among, even this far away from prying eyes.
They took a gentle pace to the playing field, walking in comfortable silence. As the family had grown, there had been fewer opportunities such as these to be alone with his father. Edward laughed as a similar thought occurred to Carlisle. His father raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
"I agree; we should find a bigger house when it's time to move on. And no, not because I need to find a companion of my own." Edward turned to his father, "I'm sorry that I don't feel that way about Rosalie. Maybe one day, the right girl will show up. Right now, though, I just don't feel the need to seek her out."
"Maybe you're not considering every possibility." Carlisle's thoughts were uncharacteristically cryptic, and Edward frowned, trying to place the glimpses of memory he saw in his father's mind. He knew by the panelled wooden walls and lavish curtains of silk brocade that he saw Volterra in the eighteenth century. Fat yellow candles lit the room and the soft light lent colour to the pale hand that reached out to caress a man's face. Edward frowned – the hand was Carlisle's and the gesture was unambiguously intimate.
"Oh." It had been a long time since anyone's thoughts had surprised Edward. He drew his mind back as far as he could to avoid any further intrusion.
"We hold ourselves to a moral code like enough to the people amongst whom we live" Carlisle was practised at maintaining his privacy around Edward; his thoughts were carefully focused on stacks of books in the library. "But we need not hold to every social edict; it may be that Rosalie was wrong for you in ways that you had not considered."
Edward frowned. "You made me first – is this what you wanted me to be?"
Carlisle choked in shock. "No! Oh, Edward, no." He took his son by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. "You were a child! You're still a child, to me, anyway." He gave a half-smile that was a little sheepish. "I'm told that's always the way a father feels – he never wants his children to grow up. But I don't want you to be lonely. Neither would I want you to be ashamed of something that is not shameful."
"Well then, I'll amend my statement to say that I haven't met the right person yet, and I'll bear the idea with an open mind. " Edward took his father's arm and turned towards the field.
They walked on, arm in arm as the clouds gathered above them. As they neared the final rise to the playing field, Carlisle chuckled to himself, thinking of Edward's tentative question. "Good heavens, Edward. I'm a old married man. I don't think my heart can take such shocks."
"Be cool, Daddy-o," Edward slid a hand through his hair, suddenly the quintessential teenager. "It just so happens I can hook you up with a decent doctor."
***
4. Daredevil, 1984
For Matt, the start of school means stiff, oversized shoes that have to last all year, and a bloody nose every day for a week. When his dad comes in late, Matt ignores him to continue staring belligerently down at his homework on the kitchen table with Kleenex stuffed up his nose. His dad takes the scene in silently, then edges between Matt's chair and the wall to the stovetop where the potatoes are boiling dry.
"Tough day at school, Matty?" He lifts the saucepan off the heat and runs water into it. The kitchen fills with clouds of steam and the smell of scorched potatoes.
Matt scowls and scribbles viciously in the margin of his note book with stabbing gestures, muttering under his breath. "I bet your dad taught you to fight. I bet he didn't want people thinking you were a chicken." He squeezes his eyes closed fiercely until his bruised nose aches in protest. He will not cry in front of his father.
Jack sighs, and pulls his son into a rough hug. "Yeah, Matty. My dad taught me to fight. Turns out I was pretty good at it too. But you know what?" Matt, with his face pressed against his dad's belly, can only make a muffled sound as he shakes his head."Turns out, it ain't so brave to be better at hitting people than hitting a book. Wish my dad had told me that."
Jack picks Matt up, turns him around in his chair and puts the pencil back in his hand, pressing the tip onto the notebook. "This is how you're gonna fight 'em, Matty. And I think you're braver than me and my dad put together."
***
5. Iron Man 1985
Tony spun the helmet around in his hands, looking at it with a dubious eye. It seemed a perilously thin kind of protection – the plush velvet hinted that appearance was more important than safety. Behind the huge desk, Howard Stark put the phone receiver back on the cradle and looked at his son with narrowed eyes for a moment, then flipped a page in his schedule and ran his finger down a column. His face cleared. "Ah, riding lessons. Remember, equitation is a discipline. All the great generals of history learned mastery of the horse."
"Yes, sir." Tony would much rather stay at home. The weather was miserable, and it was the kind of day where Jarvis might be willing to drag out his old Meccano set. But the riding lesson was scheduled and in the Stark family home, schedules were iron-clad. His audience with his father was over when the phone rang again. Tony left quietly, treading carefully on the carpet. His new riding boots were very slippery.
At least Jarvis let him sit in the passenger side of the Rolls Royce rather than riding in the back. Tony balanced his helmet on his knees and wished he were old enough to drive.
"It's my understanding, though I am no expert," said Jarvis, changing gears smoothly, "that a horse is a horse, of course, of course."
Suddenly, with an ally, Tony's afternoon didn't seem so bleak.
***
6. Supernatural, 2009
It took Dean some time to realise that Castiel's casual references to a father were actually about God. It was the lack of formality that confused him – in Dean's mind, God was an upper-case F kind of father. Dean sat on the low wall outside the library and unwrapped his lunch. Castiel watched with bland curiosity, the way he did whenever Dean did something base and physical. Dean would have offered him a bite, just to see him blink in confusion, but this was a great sandwich and he didn't want to take a chance on having to share it. Sam would researching for a while yet – there was time for a little angel-baiting.
"So, God is like what? Your dad?" Dean spoke around a generous mouthful, chewing vigorously and unrepentantly because Castiel's wide, surprised eyes always inspired him to new heights of inelegance.
"God is father to us all. You know this; your faith is strong." Castiel furrowed his brow and Dean did too, because everything Castiel did and said was a fucking conundrum, like this statement that clearly masked a question.
"Yeah, sure. But you speak about him like he's really your father." Dean sucked ketchup from his teeth thoughtfully. "God's not your dad. Your dad teaches you how to strip a handgun, or skins you when you let the radiator run dry."
"A father can teach. A father can punish. And a father will love you without exception." Castiel's voice was certain. "He is my father. As much as your father was to you."
The sun slipped behind a cloud, leaving the park dingy with shadows. Dean looked at his sandwich with sudden distaste. "You know, I loved my dad, but that son of a bitch made some pretty major mistakes." He balled the remains of the sandwich up in the paper wrapper and pitched it into the trash. "Sometimes I wish I'd had the strength to admit that to myself before things went all to hell. You gonna be able to do the same with your father?"
Castiel looked at him, stricken, then down at his hands folded in his lap. They both sat together while the heat leached from the bricks, and Dean felt the question hanging between them, ready to tear the world apart.