[original: rainy city] Another Galaxy
Apr. 24th, 2013 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perfectworrytitle: Another Galaxy
verse: rainy city
community:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
writerverse
prompt: Phase #06: Challenge #16: Weekly Quick Fic #5
word count: 763
rating: G
summary: Glory's mind wanders, but his son brings him back.
Kristopher stood on the train platform beside his father. Although the trains no longer ran in either directions, the stations were still useful gathering places: central locations, dry and out of the rain, easily connected to outside worlds, they had become little markets, and this was where they went to do their weekly shopping. He slipped his hand into his father's and followed along beside him, careful not to tumble off the platform. Probably the third rail didn't run any more, but Glory warned him away from the edges, haunted by half-formed nightmares about his son's demise.
"Glory," asked Kristopher, after awhile of wandering in wide-eyed, interested silence, "do you think I was a cute baby?"
He didn't look at Glory when he spoke, but instead kept his eyes on a chubby infant not far away, watching as she tugged spiritedly on her lace edged socks. Kristopher laughed when she appeared to give up and instead stuck her toes in her mouth. The infant girl looked up, and Kristopher gave her a smile and a wave.
"I imagine so," said Glory, although he tried to be a practical man of little imagination. Glory met Kristopher when he was seven years old, and adopted him at nine, but Kristopher was a handsome child and it didn't stretch Glory's willfully limited imagination to believe that he had been a beautiful baby.
"Would you have wanted me when I was a baby?" continued Kristopher. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked up to his father. "If you met me when I was a baby and I cried a lot, would you have kept me?"
"Of course," said Glory, without hesitation. "Kristopher, you are my son. If you were born of my blood or not, if I found you as a colicky baby or an old man -" at this, Kristopher smiled despite himself and wrinkled his nose - "I would want you."
"Even if there were two babies?" Kristopher asked and he eyed Glory suspiciously. He tried to tug his hand away to cross his arms, but Glory held firm. "Would you want both babies?"
"Kristopher," said Glory, crouching to be closer to eye-level with his son. "You are my son. I know that I can't have you without Jude," he held a hand up for quiet before Kristopher could interrupt, "and I wouldn't want to."
Kristopher considered this for a moment, and nodded.
"You can't want me and not want Jude," he had explained to Glory once. "If you don't want Jude, you don't want me, either. Not really."
Jude, the poltergeist of a boy who lived in Mariel's house and made himself known with creaking floorboards and snatches of songs, died in early infancy; failure to thrive. Jude, unable to move on alone, followed Kristopher and kept him company through foster homes and orphanages. Kristopher loved him desperately; Glory saw it in his eyes, the way he narrowed them when he spoke of his brother, and set his feet wider apart, as though preparing to defend him.
With that settled, Kristopher returned his attention to the market around them with a child's suddenness, the baby and her mother gone. Although Kristopher, now content, cheerfully watched the people around him and wandered through the makeshift market in the train station, Glory's attention remained elsewhere. He couldn't shake Kristopher's questions.
Once, Glory had the gift of prophecy. Now, he had only his own treacherous imagination and it plagued him with the possibilities of lives that might have been. Images of Kristopher as an infant, chubby and flushed; as a toddler, taking his first ungainly steps; these were mere phantasms and would never be anything else, but Glory could no more close his mind's eye to these dreams than he could get the rusted-out trains running through the city once more.
While Glory's mind wandered through doors and down tracks, Kristopher tugged on his hand. Glory shook himself and allowed Kristopher to pull him over to the strawberries, in season in some other, warmer world. "Can we get some?" asked Kristopher, looking up at his father, full of love and happiness, and the simple but hard-won trust of a child who knows he won't go hungry. "We can eat them for breakfast tomorrow!"
"Of course," said Glory, and he smiled as his son went about the business of finding the perfect strawberries to bring home for Sunday brunch.
He would never have guessed at this, to be here smiling at his own son carefully choosing strawberries, but Glory was a man of limited imagination.
verse: rainy city
community:
writerverse prompt: Phase #06: Challenge #16: Weekly Quick Fic #5
word count: 763
rating: G
summary: Glory's mind wanders, but his son brings him back.
Kristopher stood on the train platform beside his father. Although the trains no longer ran in either directions, the stations were still useful gathering places: central locations, dry and out of the rain, easily connected to outside worlds, they had become little markets, and this was where they went to do their weekly shopping. He slipped his hand into his father's and followed along beside him, careful not to tumble off the platform. Probably the third rail didn't run any more, but Glory warned him away from the edges, haunted by half-formed nightmares about his son's demise.
"Glory," asked Kristopher, after awhile of wandering in wide-eyed, interested silence, "do you think I was a cute baby?"
He didn't look at Glory when he spoke, but instead kept his eyes on a chubby infant not far away, watching as she tugged spiritedly on her lace edged socks. Kristopher laughed when she appeared to give up and instead stuck her toes in her mouth. The infant girl looked up, and Kristopher gave her a smile and a wave.
"I imagine so," said Glory, although he tried to be a practical man of little imagination. Glory met Kristopher when he was seven years old, and adopted him at nine, but Kristopher was a handsome child and it didn't stretch Glory's willfully limited imagination to believe that he had been a beautiful baby.
"Would you have wanted me when I was a baby?" continued Kristopher. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked up to his father. "If you met me when I was a baby and I cried a lot, would you have kept me?"
"Of course," said Glory, without hesitation. "Kristopher, you are my son. If you were born of my blood or not, if I found you as a colicky baby or an old man -" at this, Kristopher smiled despite himself and wrinkled his nose - "I would want you."
"Even if there were two babies?" Kristopher asked and he eyed Glory suspiciously. He tried to tug his hand away to cross his arms, but Glory held firm. "Would you want both babies?"
"Kristopher," said Glory, crouching to be closer to eye-level with his son. "You are my son. I know that I can't have you without Jude," he held a hand up for quiet before Kristopher could interrupt, "and I wouldn't want to."
Kristopher considered this for a moment, and nodded.
"You can't want me and not want Jude," he had explained to Glory once. "If you don't want Jude, you don't want me, either. Not really."
Jude, the poltergeist of a boy who lived in Mariel's house and made himself known with creaking floorboards and snatches of songs, died in early infancy; failure to thrive. Jude, unable to move on alone, followed Kristopher and kept him company through foster homes and orphanages. Kristopher loved him desperately; Glory saw it in his eyes, the way he narrowed them when he spoke of his brother, and set his feet wider apart, as though preparing to defend him.
With that settled, Kristopher returned his attention to the market around them with a child's suddenness, the baby and her mother gone. Although Kristopher, now content, cheerfully watched the people around him and wandered through the makeshift market in the train station, Glory's attention remained elsewhere. He couldn't shake Kristopher's questions.
Once, Glory had the gift of prophecy. Now, he had only his own treacherous imagination and it plagued him with the possibilities of lives that might have been. Images of Kristopher as an infant, chubby and flushed; as a toddler, taking his first ungainly steps; these were mere phantasms and would never be anything else, but Glory could no more close his mind's eye to these dreams than he could get the rusted-out trains running through the city once more.
While Glory's mind wandered through doors and down tracks, Kristopher tugged on his hand. Glory shook himself and allowed Kristopher to pull him over to the strawberries, in season in some other, warmer world. "Can we get some?" asked Kristopher, looking up at his father, full of love and happiness, and the simple but hard-won trust of a child who knows he won't go hungry. "We can eat them for breakfast tomorrow!"
"Of course," said Glory, and he smiled as his son went about the business of finding the perfect strawberries to bring home for Sunday brunch.
He would never have guessed at this, to be here smiling at his own son carefully choosing strawberries, but Glory was a man of limited imagination.
