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31_days2012-10-04 05:38 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-10-04 05:38 pm
[Oct. 4] [Fullmetal Alchemist] What Was Silent in the Father
Title: What Was Silent in the Father (Part 1)
Day/Theme: Oct. 4, 2012 "friends or strangers - all must meet"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee, OC
Rating: PG
Author's comment: Self-indulgent AU nonsense that might be continued later this month...?
Don't some workplaces occasionally encourage this sort of activity? Bring your child to work day? That concept is a poor fit for the work I am contracted to, but at the same time I'm not the sort who can stand to leave him. It was something I attended to sooner than anything else my employers did not immediately demand of me. It was my decision to be fickle.
My son passed, on a quiet train platform, from my mother's hands to me. My mother smiled when he faced her, but as I took relieved him of his small suitcase and grasped his tiny hand to lead him away, she fell to tears. Didn't she believe that I would deliver him from all harm? It was foolish possessiveness to want him with me in the first place, but who would wish to deny me what is mine? Who would say I am not entitled to raise my own child?
At the entrance to the train station, we catch a cab.
My son is diminutive, aside from his eyes. "He has my eyes," I can say. They're bigger than mine, but pale and gold-ish and similarly shaped by heavily drooping lids. Is he smaller than the average boy his age, or are they usually this size? I've been away from children for such a stretch of time that I no longer know, not that children were ever a topic of much interest to me. I didn't plan on spending time with them. I didn't plan on having any.
I don't know many things about my son specifically either. Who named him, for instance? It wasn't me. It's easy enough to guess that my mother and father gave him his middle name though. That's another thing that's shared between us. Keep on passing down my father's name and eventually someone will wear it properly?
"Where do you live now, Dad?" Daniel asks me, breaking our poised and perfect silence in the back of the taxi. He knows that before this, I "lived in" prison, for all that years of solitary confinement can be considered living.
"I don't have a home. Not now, at least. But that's not to say we have nowhere to go. I have a very nice room reserved already at a hotel."
"Oh, okay." He's a polite boy. The sort who knows not to ask too many questions. I wonder if he's always been like that on his own. If not, who taught him?
"Grandmom reads to me before bed," says Daniel. The sheets are turned back. He sits on the bed in his pajamas. When we talk he looks at me just long enough for our eyes to meet. For him to be sure I'm listening. That's what I think this means. Then he looks away. Down usually. Does he lack confidence? I think he must be shy. In this sense, he isn't much like me. Remaining together he might learn some of my ways, but he wasn't born a heretic like I was. He's just a little boy. "Do you know any stories?" he worries verbally at some thread of thought.
I know plenty, but I'm not a story teller. And coming up with an honest tale to present to my child is no simple thing. "A detective story?" I offer. Is he young for this story? How much does it matter?
"From a book?"
"A true story."
"Okay." He lays back. The nearer half of the pillow dents in around his head.
"In South City, a famous alchemist died a suspicious death. The police thought his wife was involved. The wife didn't think the police would give her a fair chance at justice, so she hired a private detective to find evidence that would show the police she couldn't have had anything to do with her husband's death."
Daniel doesn't appear engrossed by this, but he waits for me to continue. "It was a tough case. …I was the detective."
"You were a detective?"
"Yes, I was. And in some capacities, I still act as one." Should I try and continue the story or allow it to be derailed there? I pause.
"Is it fun?" Daniel asks. He's interested, but growing tired now. I can see it in his eyes.
"To me? Very much."
"Did you find lost stuff?"
"Sometimes."
"Did you have a sidekick?"
Kids. "Like on a radio program?" I want to be clear on this. Miss Curry comes to mind (both as a sidekick and someone who'd ask if I had one).
"Like that," he agrees.
"Sometimes."
He wears a tentative smile. "But you don't have one now."
I have an inkling of the direction this is headed. "No."
"I could be your sidekick."
There's no reason to tell him what unfortunate fate befell the last person who wanted to play that role. "Yes," I say. He could.
"I promise to try very hard." The fervor with which he tells me this illustrates his conviction. This wouldn't strike me any special way coming from an adult, but perhaps it's endearing from the lips of a child.
"Get some sleep then." I pull the blanket up past his waist. "You start tomorrow."
Day/Theme: Oct. 4, 2012 "friends or strangers - all must meet"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee, OC
Rating: PG
Author's comment: Self-indulgent AU nonsense that might be continued later this month...?
Don't some workplaces occasionally encourage this sort of activity? Bring your child to work day? That concept is a poor fit for the work I am contracted to, but at the same time I'm not the sort who can stand to leave him. It was something I attended to sooner than anything else my employers did not immediately demand of me. It was my decision to be fickle.
My son passed, on a quiet train platform, from my mother's hands to me. My mother smiled when he faced her, but as I took relieved him of his small suitcase and grasped his tiny hand to lead him away, she fell to tears. Didn't she believe that I would deliver him from all harm? It was foolish possessiveness to want him with me in the first place, but who would wish to deny me what is mine? Who would say I am not entitled to raise my own child?
At the entrance to the train station, we catch a cab.
My son is diminutive, aside from his eyes. "He has my eyes," I can say. They're bigger than mine, but pale and gold-ish and similarly shaped by heavily drooping lids. Is he smaller than the average boy his age, or are they usually this size? I've been away from children for such a stretch of time that I no longer know, not that children were ever a topic of much interest to me. I didn't plan on spending time with them. I didn't plan on having any.
I don't know many things about my son specifically either. Who named him, for instance? It wasn't me. It's easy enough to guess that my mother and father gave him his middle name though. That's another thing that's shared between us. Keep on passing down my father's name and eventually someone will wear it properly?
"Where do you live now, Dad?" Daniel asks me, breaking our poised and perfect silence in the back of the taxi. He knows that before this, I "lived in" prison, for all that years of solitary confinement can be considered living.
"I don't have a home. Not now, at least. But that's not to say we have nowhere to go. I have a very nice room reserved already at a hotel."
"Oh, okay." He's a polite boy. The sort who knows not to ask too many questions. I wonder if he's always been like that on his own. If not, who taught him?
"Grandmom reads to me before bed," says Daniel. The sheets are turned back. He sits on the bed in his pajamas. When we talk he looks at me just long enough for our eyes to meet. For him to be sure I'm listening. That's what I think this means. Then he looks away. Down usually. Does he lack confidence? I think he must be shy. In this sense, he isn't much like me. Remaining together he might learn some of my ways, but he wasn't born a heretic like I was. He's just a little boy. "Do you know any stories?" he worries verbally at some thread of thought.
I know plenty, but I'm not a story teller. And coming up with an honest tale to present to my child is no simple thing. "A detective story?" I offer. Is he young for this story? How much does it matter?
"From a book?"
"A true story."
"Okay." He lays back. The nearer half of the pillow dents in around his head.
"In South City, a famous alchemist died a suspicious death. The police thought his wife was involved. The wife didn't think the police would give her a fair chance at justice, so she hired a private detective to find evidence that would show the police she couldn't have had anything to do with her husband's death."
Daniel doesn't appear engrossed by this, but he waits for me to continue. "It was a tough case. …I was the detective."
"You were a detective?"
"Yes, I was. And in some capacities, I still act as one." Should I try and continue the story or allow it to be derailed there? I pause.
"Is it fun?" Daniel asks. He's interested, but growing tired now. I can see it in his eyes.
"To me? Very much."
"Did you find lost stuff?"
"Sometimes."
"Did you have a sidekick?"
Kids. "Like on a radio program?" I want to be clear on this. Miss Curry comes to mind (both as a sidekick and someone who'd ask if I had one).
"Like that," he agrees.
"Sometimes."
He wears a tentative smile. "But you don't have one now."
I have an inkling of the direction this is headed. "No."
"I could be your sidekick."
There's no reason to tell him what unfortunate fate befell the last person who wanted to play that role. "Yes," I say. He could.
"I promise to try very hard." The fervor with which he tells me this illustrates his conviction. This wouldn't strike me any special way coming from an adult, but perhaps it's endearing from the lips of a child.
"Get some sleep then." I pull the blanket up past his waist. "You start tomorrow."