Okay, so yeah, this'll only be ten chapters or so. Just a random idea I had...Thought I should start a short one to get me into the swing of fanfiction again. It's going to be an unusual story, I'm sorry if you don't like it.


Chapter One.

It was odd that the soft sprinkling of rain that misted down over their small garden was similar to the one that three years ago had welcomed his newborn son. Erik looked out the window now at the bluebells, lilies and other flowers that seemed to gaze upwards to swallow the welcomed water. Cuttings of those very same blooms had decorated the room that his wife was in now. He had wanted her to feel as if she were in a garden, wrapped in the soothing scents of Lavender amongst the other flowers. He didn't want her to feel the same panic he was enduring.

Well the flowers idea had been a lovely thought, the young midwife had tried to comfort him as she took all of them from the room and placed them on the kitchen table – now a jumble of pinks and mauves and blues and yellows lay in a disarray, in a beautiful mess. But it's the Doctor you see – they irritate his allergies. But perhaps while the Madame is being tended to, you and the little one could create a nice bouquet to welcome the infant? Yes, that would be nice now, wouldn't it?

He had waved her away distractedly, knowing that the clueless chit meant well but her patronising amiability put him in a bad humour. She had stood for a few awkward seconds waiting for a reply, but had then shuffled back in when she heard the Madame cry out sharply.

He had been forbidden to enter the room where the birth was to take place. Word had spread after his son had been born that for the Doctor's safety he should remain in another room. He swirled the amber coloured liquid in his glass absentmindedly, but looked down when he felt his trousers being tugged. A temporary salve curled around his contained silent hysteria when his son's golden eyes met his own.

"Up, up!" little Gabriel bleated, waving his arms about.

He bent down and with his one free arm he scooped his son up and balanced him on his hip. Then he took another sip of his drink and comforted his little boy when the sound of his Mother crying in pain flared up again, the child hiding his face in his Father's waistcoat.

He supposed it was suitable that the same weather accompanied both births, for it was the same dread, the same terror that bubbled within him about the possibilities…His face twitched, thinking of what lay beneath his mask that covered half of his face. He placed down his glass and held his son properly, wrapping his arms around his tiny body tightly. Lord, the utter relief he had felt first holding his son, his fingers tracing his perfect and unblemished face, his shock of dark curls, his full nose, his chubby cheeks, his mouth…He had started crying, the tears pouring freely as the baby suckled his finger. He had a child, a son, an heir. His monstrosity had not passed down, he was beautiful and flawless.

But his wife had wanted another child, a sibling, and to his disgruntlement and her excitement she fell with child again. Why tempt fate again? Why ask for more when they had perfection as it was? There is an old Greek term – hubris. In ancient literature the characters were often punished by the Gods for having too much of it. It means excessive pride or self-confidence…Why did he have this word etched into him whenever he heard his wife's cries?

He decided to take the midwife's advice and he moved over to the table with his son to create a bouquet for his wife. He sorted through the flowers and his son helped him pick out the wild heather and sprigs of baby's breath, her favourite combination.

"Bijou," he said patiently (calling his beloved son by one of his many pet names of endearment he bestowed on him), "We do not eat the flowers…" and he gently tapped the toddler's hand and retrieved the flowers from his mouth.

The child gurgled and clapped his hands and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought that maybe this would all turn out adequately. He had done countless research and he could not find any definite proof from the medical text books he procured that physical disfigurement necessarily passes from one generation to the other. Yes…Perhaps his wife's God would have mercy. A touch of excitement fluttered through him. He would be content with another son of course, but oh how he would love a daughter…Gabriel was all rough and tumble, mischievous, loud, curious to a falt which caused him to fall into countless amounts of trouble…How pleasing it would be to have a gentle little girl…

His wife. He thought of his good and obedient wife who spent her days when she was free of her duties tending to her garden, her fingers creating a secret world where plants of all colours entwined throughout their little plot of land, with vines of strawberries climbing the wooden archway, and around the back door chickens would happily peck at the seed she would scatter over the ground before the little terror of the house would chase them back into their coop, laughing and falling into the dust like the terrible imp he was. He was an odd one, he was – he took great joy in intimidating his Mother's chickens and hugging the cat too tightly yet he would often be found staring in complete awe at peculiarly everyday things such as a small ladybug crawling up an Autumn leaf, the tiniest mysteries of the universe rendering him immobile.

Sometimes when he thought about his life and ignored the fact that she was not in love with him and he was not in love with her and that their marriage was just one of convenience - for her it provided a roof over her head with pretty gowns and food to eat and for him he was able to pretend he had the devoted family he had always dreamed of and forget his past - he felt he could almost remain happy. This must be what normal people take for granted, he thought whenever he helped cook meals with his wife, whenever he threw his boisterous son in the air and caught him, whenever he bought a trinket home from the shops and made his wife gasp and peck his cheek with a kiss of gratitude…

This must be what normal people take for granted.

His ears caught the first sign of this life of contentment crumbling after the last cry of pain from his wife in the closed room. There was that moment of silence, a low mumbling from the doctor, he heard the midwife murmur soothing words to his wife.

The baby was born.

He was walking towards the door when he distinctly heard a terrified, "No, no, please don't let him in. Please Doctor, just for the moment!"

He heard the lock begin to turn but he caught the doorknob in time and twisted it open roughly, thrusting it forward. He shoved the doctor aside as he stepped forward to explain and saw his wife covered in sweat and tears propped up by pillows in the bed, cradling her newborn child as tightly as she could in her exhausted state.

The stupid little midwife bent down, holding the woman's arm protectively and he gazed at her, staring at the sharp look in her youthful eyes.

"Sir, your wife –" she began.

But he interrupted her, just as his son tottered in the room behind him and ran past, clinging to the sheets to pull himself up to his beloved Mother.

"Give me the child," he said coldly, moving forward just a few steps, "Chara, we had an agreement. Let me see the child."