Happy Endings
The sound wasn't coming from the TV on low in the corner. No, there was an escalating murmur of child stirring you into consciousness. You'd zoned out of the Denzel Washington movie repeated thousands of times before and the loudest snore's ripping sound jerked you awake. Steven still wasn't back from the Chinese and you wondered how long it took to pick up a few tinfoil trays and some cans from the off license. They'd be closing soon.
"Daddy…?" came the cries from down the corridor. And you mumbled back a reply she couldn't hear. She did this sometimes for attention – usually, you thought, when you were just about to suck Steven off – and her dad's new technique was to leave her a little while hoping she'd fall back off to sleep.
You pressed a hand over your crinkled face: it'd been a hellish night at Chez Chez. A brawl, a hen do and a call to the paramedics – your average night out in Chester. When you got through that door at ten, you'd pressed your cold suited body into Steven's warmth, a coffee waiting on the side for you. He skimmed his hands over your chest and lips gnawed softly at yours. You were getting used to this sort of welcome home.
His hair was still damp along his neckline, throat humming with soap-freshness.
"You've had a bath without me?" you said, teasing his ear lobe with your teeth.
"Just a quick one," he said.
"Bubbles?"
Steven rolled his eyes, huffing with embarrassment. "Yeah."
"Your little girl know you been stealing her princess bubble bath, does she?"
"Shu'up," he said, knotting his eyebrows in the middle with a sulk. "Makes me skin soft, dunnit?"
You dragged nose and lips up his cheek. "Hmm. I'll test it out later."
You'd begun to unzip his tracksuit when he offered to pick up a takeaway and despite your other desires, hunger struck.
There was a shuffle of feet on the carpet and you looked up from your nap to find Leah, in her pjammas, clutching Britney in one hand and the tiara-wearing polar bear in the other.
"What's wrong sweetheart?" you asked, straightening up on the sofa and combing her hair from her eyes.
Her big eyes glossed over. "I called you," she said.
Guilt panged you and you reached forward, picking her up under her arms and squeezed her beside you. She snuffled against you, head buried into your chest just like her father.
"I thought you wanted Daddy," you said, stroking her head.
She shook her head, hair fluffing up against your shirt. "I had a nightmare." She squeezed her tiny arms around your body.
You kissed the top of her head. Your nightmares as a child had been safer than reality. You had welcomed the monsters eating you alive if it meant you could escape the man who was there when you woke.
"I'm here. Nothing's gonna hurt you," you said, tucking the doll and the bear into your tight embrace. Steven had told her you would keep the monsters away: that you were like the almighty powerful king that everyone was afraid of and who looked after Sir Steven and the prince and princess and who he loved very much.
"Daddy says you protect us."
You smiled. "Always."
"Even in bad dreams?"
"Even in bad dreams. All you gotta do is just imagine me in your dream coming to rescue you and I'll be there, straight away."
She seemed satisfied enough at this, loosening her grip on you and making her toys hug.
"You want a story to send you back to sleep?"
Leah nodded, grabbing her pink fairytales book from under the sofa. She loved you reading the stories best and you reluctantly spent every night you weren't working doing all the voices and wishing you could change the endings of the stories, but she caught you out every time.
She turned the pages with you trying to find the one she wanted to hear tonight but reached the end of the book disappointed.
"Can't find it," she said, mouth squishy and downturned.
"What? You want Cinderella? You like that one."
"I want a story about Sir Stephen," she said, reaching the last page and becoming grouchy with tiredness.
You weren't sure you were feeling up for the challenge of making up a story in her father's shadow: Steven wove stories of snot-monsters and grub-stealers and sluggy-witches. He had the beautiful awe and vivid mind of a child and you adored him for it. He had told you stories of teaching himself to read, pouring over words that meant nothing and lying in bed telling himself stories because his mum was too drunk to care.
You closed the book, letting her get comfy against you, her hand curled around your knee. You told her about this story coming from a special book – the one in your mind – and told her to close her eyes.
You told her about an old king, locked and lonely in a tower for many years, cruel to everyone around him. You told her about a brave and handsome knight climbed the tower trying to free the king and be kind to him. The old king loved Sir Steven but years of being cruel made him forget how to show love and he was afraid, so he became wicked to Sir Steven too. You told her about Sir Steven's resilience, how he never gave up, no matter all the horrible things the king did to him for many years. Then, you told her, that Sir Steven stopped trying and the king realised his mistake: that he was all alone and miserable. The king missed Sir Steven desperately and escaped the tower, facing his fears so he could make it up to him. You told her that the king found Sir Steven and said what a great man he was and that he loved him. You gave her the happy ending of the king and Sir Steven looking after Princess Leah and Prince Lucas.
She grinned up at you after, not sleepy at all. "King Brendan," she said triumphantly.
You picked her up in your arms and carried her to bed, tucking the duvet snug to her chin.
"Daddy Brendan," she said, just as you were about to turn off the light.
"Yup?"
"The King and Sir Steven," – she had the face of pure concentration - "when they lived happily ever after, did the King ask Sir Steven to get married?"
Your cheeks lifted, a humming laughter on your lips. "I've not read that far ahead, yet."
"I think they should," she said, turning over in her bed and snuggling up to the polar bear. "Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams."
You flicked out the light just as Steven's key opened the door. The cold air wafted in with the smell of Chow Mein.
"Sorry sorry," he said, kicking the door shut, "Queue was mental."
You pressed a finger to your lips. "Just got your little one off to sleep."
Steven rustled through the bags unpacking your takeaway. "Aww," he said, "She alright?"
You slid your hand around his waist, pinching a prawn cracker from the bag. "Once I told her a story, yeah."
"Not the Three Little Pigs, again?" he asked, slapping your hand away from the food and pouring on the radioactive sweet and sour sauce. "You do the voices too good you know, put me to shame. They're almost having a right face on 'em if Daddy Brendan's at work and is away for bedtime."
You spread your oily lips on the nape of his neck. "Just like the daddy, sulking when I'm not here at bedtime."
He snorted with laughter, carrying the plates over to the sofa. "What'd you read her?"
"Sir Steven," you said, throwing the chopsticks behind the telly because you couldn't be arsed tonight.
Steven tutted. "That's my story, that."
"Not the way I tell it," you said, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. "You always leave out the part about the evil king he falls in love with."
"Ain't no evil king."
"No?"
"No," Ste said, pressing his mucky lips to your cheek. "She likes that one."
"Cos of the happy ending," you said, looking up at him and smiling tenderly.
It grew in his eyes first, that affection. "Yeah," he said, "That's my favourite bit too."