Little Man
Eastenders Fanfic
Veronica Mitchell & Tommy Moon/James Branning
WARNING: Written 14/Apr/2011. May not be 100% accurate!
Disclaimer: I don't 'ave 'em, innit?
A/N: Just a little fic about Ronnie confessing to the baby. Written before that dramatic Friday episode, so if it's wrong, deal with it.
What do you want me to read to you, my little man? What story would you like tonight? You have so many, from everyone who loves you: me, your daddy, Uncle Max, Auntie Vanessa; those big, bright, bold-print books full of pictures. Everyone says your going to be so clever, a proper little businessman like your dad; just as well, you don't want the brains of ditzy old mummy. I wish I knew what you want, what you need. Right now, I'd do anything to stop you crying. I wish I knew what I was doing wrong - but that's not your problem, is it, Jamie? It's what I am that's wrong - because, you see, my little man, no matter how much I pretend, there's no way you'll have my blue eyes or grow up to have Jack's dark grin. In fact, it's a wonder you weren't born tango orange in a leopard print shawl. They all say I'm a lovely mummy, but I'm not. I'm bad, so bad, and even though dear old Dot says all sins can be forgiven, I know this one's getting me the first one-way ticket to hell. But you probably don't know what I mean, do you, Jamie? How could you? You don't understand, you'll never understand. I really hope you don't. It was the worst thing, the very worst thing I have ever done, and I need to tell somebody. So, little man, it's about time you heard your story.
You weren't always called James. You were Tommy, Tommy Moon. Silly name, common name. You lived with your old mum and dad on the other side of the square, not far from me and my beautiful baby boy, my little James, the original James. He was so beautiful, but always cried, sobbing something chronic. I just couldn't handle him, but I was determined, certain I was going to try. I didn't want him to end up like my Ami, or Danielle, that's what she called herself - poor girl, standing before me, not recognised by her own mother. By the time I knew the truth, time was too short. And now, with James, for the second time, the crying stopped and mine began.
I didn't plan to take you. I just panicked, really. Don't hate me, little man; don't frown at me like that. Do you have any idea what it feels like to hold your dying child, your dead child, in your arms and watch them slip away? Of course you don't. I just thought, that maybe, if I ran far enough, ran fast enough, wished hard enough, that I wouldn't be standing in the street holding my dead child for the second time. I needed help, confirmation he would make it, instead of comforting words and piteous glances and market-stall bouquets on the pavement outside my home. In the end, you were the only comfort I had. You were crying, you see. They didn't hear you, but I did: a shrill, high wail that echoed out in the desolate square. You needed to be held, almost as much as I did. I slipped in there, leant over your Moses basket and stoked your pink, crumpled face. "Sshhh, little man" I whispered. "Mummy's here."
Kat was destroyed. I saw her stumble out onto the street, a human colour for the first time since she was probably ten, and simply cried. Who knew the tough East-end bird was capable of such a weak emotion? Sometimes I wondered how she didn't know, know it was you, but I think she did. Deep down, she did. I held you, my new baby, there in my arms, and left Kat to think you had gone.
For weeks, I kept pretending, leading everyone to believe you were mine, but at last, it began to fall apart. At the R&R, Tanya's hen party, Kat was dancing alone, swaying, stumbling; singing softly as her tears mixed with her vodka. She saw me watching from behind the bar, fixed me with a look of sheer hatred. "You have no idea how lucky you are!" She spat, her face contorted with rage. "You know that? And you know what I used to do? I used to wish it was your baby that died!" My heart sank to the bottom of my six-inch stilettos. If only she knew.
The next day, Tanya's wedding, Kat apologised, said she would never soberly wish such a thing on another woman. I tried to tell her, my little man, I tried to explain, but before I could, Jack came out. I realised couldn't explain, not properly, not to him, not to anyone. Not to anyone but you.
I needed to confess, sweetie. I needed to tell. One day I will tell them the truth, before they start to notice that you have Michael's shining eyes and Kat's crooked smile instead of the soft, slanted looks you should really have. But there will be time, time for us before that day has to come. Until then, just rest, just sleep. Don't you fret, my little man. Don't you fuss. Everything will be just fine, and like your stories, it'll all be a fairytale ending for you.
Crap, random, but heartfelt. R&R or get outta my pub! Love ya, peeps. Greetings from Newquay, and AmiliaPadfoot - HI! XD PS - just seen the new episode, I do love a happy ending! *sob*! Lol : )