This is hopefully going to be quite a short fic - and the idea came to me randomly before Holby and unusually for me I've planned out a lot of it though I'm not 100% sure where this is going to go. Hopefully it's ok :)
Set around 6 years from the present day
"Can you tell me a story mama?" The little girl snuggled beneath the blanket on her bed and pulled her teddy bear close to her chest, as she watched her mum with wide eyes so reminiscent of her father's. They were eyes that seemed to switch colour depending on the child's mood.
"It's getting late" the mother responds shifting to the edge of the bed. She isn't sure why but tonight she doesn't feel like telling her daughter a fairy-tale. Most nights she struggles to read them with conviction, to give the words a truth that will instil a belief and hope in her young daughter's heart; when they are two things that she herself hasn't felt for a long time. She has finally started to feel a modicum of happiness again but still she finds it difficult to read these old stories, but her daughter loves them; tales of handsome princes and girls destined to be beautiful princesses.
"Please" the child pleads and for a moment, the mother sees not her baby but the girl's father. It strikes her occasionally the resemblance between the man and the girl. Most of the time she pushes it from her head, she sees the parts of herself in the child; the red hair so like her own and the bone structure she sees reflected back at her in the mirror. But the girl's hair falls in curls so like her father's and even within that face so like her own, there are traces of him beyond the eyes. On night's like tonight it becomes all the harder to ignore.
"Just one" she relents, watching as a smile lights up the child's face. She is sleepy, and her mum is almost certain she won't be awake for the entirety of the story, that perhaps she can avoid having to tell of the happily ever after instead leaving that up to the child's imagination; her dream world. "Which story do you want then – Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty?" she names her daughter's favourites first and watches as the little girl twists her lips together before she gives her mum a smile.
"No mama, I want a different story" she answers, not even glancing in the direction of her book shelf. Instead she fixes her mum, with a firm look; one much more grown up than her five and a half years. "I want my story" she tells her.
"Your story?" the mum asks with a feeling of trepidation and confusion mixed together. She watches as the little girl nods, rocking her bear gently.
"I want to know about my daddy" she says softly, her expression hopeful. The mum sighs. She has spoken so little of her child's father, pushing away the questions that she has asked, diverting the conversation. She has become a master at it, and her daughter had learned from a much younger age not to ask.
"You know about your father" the mum responds, hoping the child will stop. This conversation isn't what she wants, she doesn't want to tell her daughter her story because it is a story that will break the mother's heart once again. She forces the memories away; to the back of her mind. That place where her darkest thoughts reside, where they exist to torment and tease her in the quiet moments.
"At school, everyone was talking about their daddies" the child speaks sadly, thinking of the stories she had heard that day, of men who did different jobs, who took children to the park, who played with them and read stories – even if they only did so on some weekends. Some of her friends had two daddies, and step daddies and one had two mummies but she had been left out. She had stumbled as she tried to recall words that she had been told as a toddler, before the conversation had been halted. She had thought of mummy's boyfriend but he didn't count as a daddy. "I didn't get to talk" she adds sadly.
"Baby" she starts to speak softly and watches as her daughter's face falls as she predicts the inevitable end to this conversation.
"I only want to know little things – like what daddy looked like" she speaks softly and the mum sighs, her mind instantly recalling the man who had given her the most precious gift of her daughter. She smiles a little at the image of him frozen in her mind before she pushes it away, reminded of the hurt and anguish.
"He had hair which was curly like yours, only it was brown" she speaks slowly and cautiously watching as her daughter laps up even the smallest of details, "and he had eyes just like yours, and he spoke with a funny accent that got stronger when he was shouting; and he liked to do silly voices"
"So he would have done voices when he read me stories?" the child asks innocently interrupting her mother, "You're not good at the voices but daddy would have been right mummy?" she adds, in a tumbled rush and the mum has to swallow the lump in her throat. The child frowns for a moment after he speaks, suddenly sheepish.
"Yes, he would have" she responds, "and he was a nurse and we worked together" she finishes and the child nods slightly, recovering herself. She knew that part; that mummy and daddy used to work together. There is still something that confuses her though, the part that bugged her the most in class and the part that mummy never spoke of before.
"How come daddy doesn't come to see me?" She asks finally when she notices her mum shifting again, getting ready to leave the room. The mother freezes, her mind a whirl as she considers the answer to give her daughter. Finally she turns and kisses her daughter gently on the forehead and guides her head down on to the pillow.
"Daddy lives in heaven" she answers, swallowing hard and wondering if she is doing the right thing in telling her daughter this. She watches as tears fill the little girl's eyes, eyes that look so very like his. She recalls seeing his eyes glisten in much the same way so many years previously.
"Why?" the child questions, saddened at the loss of someone she has never known. She watches her mum closely.
"It's time to sleep baby girl" her mum whispers rather than answering to question. She kisses her daughter once more, "we'll talk about this another day" she states as she walks from the room, trying to push away the lump in her throat. She needs to think this through. She needs time.
She walks away from the child's bedroom and down the stairs to the front room where he sits waiting. The man who she thinks she loves. The man she has allowed to move in with her and her daughter. She thinks he loves her too, that he loves them.
"Is she asleep?" He asks her and she gives him a small nod though she is certain her daughter is far from the land of nod.
"Hopefully" she says quietly, hoping he doesn't catch her out in the lie. He hands her a glass of wine and she smiles grateful. She settles down next to him on the couch and feels his arm come around her shoulder and strokes her hair.
"my beautiful Jackie" he whispers in her ear, and for a moment she tenses at the sound of the nickname but she doesn't correct him. She doesn't bother now.